Sometimes writes, mainly here to read

Jack had collapsed against the wall, his face entirely drained of colour and slick with a sudden, cold sweat. His eyes were clamped shut, and his right hand was wrapped desperately around his left forearm. Dark, thick blood was already spilling through his fingers, pooling rapidly on the pale timber he had just been prying up.

"Fuck, Jack," you breathed, dropping to your knees beside him. The sheer volume of blood made your stomach drop, your hands hovering over him, trembling violently. You had seen him in his hospital scrubs a thousand times, completely unshakable in the face of trauma, but seeing him as the patient completely paralysed you.

Jack opened his eyes, the pupils blown wide with shock and pain. Even as his breathing hitched, the seasoned emergency doctor in him fought through the agony. He looked at your shaking hands and forced his voice to remain steady, though it came out as a strained, gravelly rasp.

"Hey, hey, look at me, sweetheart," Jack whispered, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as a fresh wave of pain hit him. "Don't look at the floor. Look at me. I need you to be my hands right now, okay? I slipped with the chisel. It’s deep."

"What do I do? Tell me what to do," you pleaded, your voice cracking as you tried to anchor yourself to his gaze.

"Go to the bathroom. Grab the first aid kit from the cabinet, and grab a clean towel," he instructed, his breath hitching as he shifted his weight. "Move fast, honey. Go on."

You scrambled to your feet, your socks skidding on the hallway runner as you burst into the bathroom. You grabbed the heavy medical kit and yanked a towel off the shelf, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Within seconds, you were back on the floor beside him, unfolding the towel with trembling fingers.

"Okay, I'm here. I have it," you said, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Good girl," Jack murmured, his head leaning back against the wallpaper. "I need you to open the kit and get the thickest trauma dressing in there. If not, the towel will do. You need to apply direct pressure right over my hand. Don't be gentle, sweetheart. You have to push down hard."

You nodded, swallowing down the rising panic. You folded the towel into a thick pad and placed it directly over his bleeding arm. As Jack slowly pulled his own crimson-stained hand away, the sight of the jagged, deep laceration made your vision swim, but you didn't hesitate. You placed both hands on the towel and leaned your entire body weight into his arm.

Jack let out a sharp, agonised groan, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans as his body went rigid.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you sobbed, tears finally blurring your vision.

"Don't be sorry," he panted, his forehead resting against your shoulder now, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "You're doing perfectly. Keep holding it like that. We need to stem the flow before I can try to stand up."

For a few minutes, the landing was silent save for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. You kept every ounce of your weight pressed onto his arm, feeling the warm pulse of his blood beneath the heavy fabric. Slowly, the bright red seeping through the white towel seemed to slow down, the direct pressure doing its job.

"Is it stopping?" you whispered, looking down at his pale face.

"It's slowing," Jack managed, offering a weak, strained version of his usual reassuring smile. "You're amazing, you know that? My brilliant girl. Now, we need to tie it off tight. Use the roller bandage from the kit. Wrap it over the towel, as tight as you can manage."

Working with one hand while keeping pressure with the other, you managed to fish out the heavy bandage. Under his quiet, patient whispers, you wrapped the fabric securely around his arm, pulling it taut until Jack gave a tight nod of approval.

"That’s it. That’s got it for now," Jack breathed, leaning back against the wall with a sigh of sheer exhaustion. His face was still ghostly pale, but the immediate, terrifying torrent of blood had been contained. "Now, can you grab your phone? We need to get the crew out here."

"It's on the top step," you said, turning your head to look at the mobile device resting just a few feet away near the banister.

You started to shift your weight to stand up, your muscles stiff from the tension. But as you moved, your foot found the slick, wet patch of blood that had splattered onto the edge of the exposed, loose floorboards. Before you could even register the lack of friction, your foot shot out from under you.

"Whoa—!" you cried out, your hands flailing for a grip that wasn't there.

Your momentum carried you sideways, right over the lip of the top step. With a sharp gasp of terror, you tumbled awkwardly down the first half-flight of stairs, your body bouncing painfully against the carpeted steps before you landed with a dull, heavy thud against the wall of the half-landing.

A searing, white-hot pain immediately exploded in your left ankle, so intense that it stole the air right out of your lungs. You lay there on your side, pinned to the floor by the sudden, throbbing agony, clutching your leg as tears stung your eyes.

"Honey? Sweetheart, talk to me!" Jack’s voice echoed down the stairwell, completely stripped of its professional calm. It was pure, unadulterated panic. "Are you alright? Answer me!"

"My ankle," you gasped out, your voice small and choked with pain. "Jack, I can't move it. It hurts so bad."

From the top of the stairs, you heard a heavy drag and a grunt of pain as Jack, completely disregarding his own severe injury, began crawling toward the edge of the landing. He looked down at you, his eyes wide with horror as he saw you curled into a ball on the landing below.

"Don't move, honey. Just stay completely still," Jack commanded, his voice thick with emotion as he held his bandaged arm tightly against his chest. "I'm coming down to you."

"Stay there, Jack, don't move!" you cried out, looking up at him through a blur of tears. The sight of him dragging himself toward the edge of the stairs, his face entirely grey and his newly wrapped bandage already showing a fresh blossom of crimson, was almost worse than the white-hot agony radiating from your ankle.

"I'm not leaving you down there, sweetheart," Jack panted, his voice strained as he carefully manoeuvred his weight onto his good arm, slowly lowering himself down the first step. Every movement was a battle against shock, his breath catching sharply in his throat with each hitch of his body. "Just keep breathing. Nice, deep breaths for me."

It took him what felt like an eternity, but Jack finally managed to slide down the half-flight of stairs, collapsing heavily onto the landing beside you. He let out a ragged groan, leaning his back against the wall and immediately reaching out with his uninjured right hand to cup your face. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, his touch warm and desperate.

"Look at me, honey. Let me see you," he murmured, his eyes scanning your face, looking for any signs of a head injury before his gaze drifted down to your left leg. "Where does it hurt the most? Is it just the ankle?"

"Yeah," you choked out, squeezing his hand tightly. "I just slipped on the... on the blood, Jack. I tried to grab the phone and my foot just went. It snapped so loud."

"Okay, okay, let me have a look. I'm going to be very gentle, I promise," he whispered, leaning forward slightly. With practiced, tender precision, his steady fingers gently hovered over your ankle, barely brushing the skin. Even that tiny movement made you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulder.

"I know, I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said softly, his brow furrowed in deep concern as he assessed the rapidly swelling, distorted joint. "It’s a nasty sprain, possibly a fracture. We need to get that elevated and iced, but first, we need to actually call the ambulance. Where's the phone?"

You pointed a shaking finger up toward the top step where your mobile was still resting, completely out of reach for both of you.

Jack let out a dry, breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Plan B. My phone is in my back pocket. Do you think you can reach it? My left arm is completely useless right now."

Carefully shifting your weight while trying not to jar your leg, you slid your hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone. Your fingers were still trembling so hard you almost dropped it, but you managed to unlock the screen and hand it over to him.

Jack didn't dial the standard emergency number; instead, he tapped in a direct line straight to the local ambulance dispatch handling the Pitt’s intake area. He pressed the speaker button, setting the phone down on the carpet between you. Within two rings, a familiar, crisp voice boomed through the speaker.

"Ambulance dispatch, what is the nature of the emergency?"

"Hey, it's Jack Abbot," Jack said, leaning his head back against the wall, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative tone he used when directing a chaotic trauma bay. "Listen, I need a crew at my house. We've got a bit of a situation here."

There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by the sound of furious typing. "Jack? Dude, what’s gone on? You’re supposed to be off until Monday."

"Yeah, well, the world had other plans," Jack grunted, wincing as he shifted his bandaged arm. "I've managed to put a chisel through my left forearm. Deep laceration, heavy bleeding, but we've got a pressure dressing on it now. My wife just slipped on the landing trying to help me and has taken a tumble down the stairs. Suspected fractured left ankle, severe pain, non-weight bearing."

"Jesus, Jack, you don't do things by halves, do you?" he replied, his voice a mix of professional urgency and fond disbelief. "Alright, I’ve got a unit just three minutes away from your street. It’s Mac and Sally. They're en route now. Keep that pressure on your arm, and keep your wife still."

"Thanks. Tell them the front door is unlocked," Jack said before hanging up. He turned his attention back to you, his expression softening instantly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Hear that? Three minutes, honey. You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you."

"I was trying to help you, and I just made it worse," you whispered, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes. "Now you're stuck on the floor because of me."

"Don't you dare worry about that," Jack chided gently, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled you as close to his side as he could manage without hurting either of your injuries. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "You stopped the bleeding, sweetheart. You saved me from a massive haemorrhage. If anyone is to blame, it’s me and my DIY projects."

A few minutes later, the heavy thud of the front door swinging open echoed from downstairs, followed by the hurried footsteps of two paramedics moving into the hallway.

"Jack? Where are you, buddy?" a loud, cheerful voice called out from the bottom of the stairs.

"Up on the half-landing, Mac!" Jack shouted back, his voice cracking slightly with the effort. "Mind your step as you come up, it’s a bit of a disaster."

Two paramedics, loaded down with trauma bags and an extraction chair, rounded the corner and stopped dead in their tracks. Mac, a burly man with a thick beard, stared at the two of you huddled together on the small landing. Jack pale and blood-stained, and you clutching a ballooning ankle.

Sally, his partner, let out a loud, astonished bark of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh, you have got to be joking. Jack, what on earth have you done to your poor wife?"

"I didn't do anything to her, she was trying to rescue me!" Jack protested, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way he winced as Mac knelt down beside him.

"Hm, likely story, doc," Mac teased, his hands already moving efficiently to check the pulse in Jack’s wrist below the bloody bandage. "Honestly, Jack, we leave you unsupervised for one weekend."

While Mac focused on Jack, Sally slid gracefully onto the floor next to you, opening her kit with a reassuring smile. "Alright, let's have a look at this leg. Jack’s a terrible patient, so you're my priority right now."

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of efficient, careful movement. Sally administered a dose of medication for your pain, which finally took the sharp, agonizing edge off your ankle, while Mac reinforced Jack’s dressing and got him a dose of something strong.

Despite their teasing, the paramedics were incredibly gentle, carefully loading you both onto separate carrying chairs to navigate the rest of the stairs. Jack refused to be loaded into the ambulance first, stubbornly waiting until you were securely inside so he could have his stretcher positioned right next to yours. The entire drive to the hospital, his hand never left yours, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your knuckles as he murmured sweet, groggy assurances that everything was going to be fine.

The moment the ambulance doors burst open at the Pitt, the familiar, sterile smell of antiseptic and the hum of bleeping monitors washed over you. But the usual professional quiet of the admissions bay was shattered the instant Mac and Sally wheeled your matching gurneys through the automatic sliding doors.

"Heads up, team, we've got a double intake!" Mac called out at the top of his lungs, a massive, mischievous grin on his face. "Your best doctor has managed to incapacitate the entire Abbot household."

The reaction was instantaneous. Langdon, who had been charting at the central desk, dropped his pen entirely, his jaw hitting the floor. "What the... Dr Abbot?"

Dana emerged from Bay 4, a clipboard tucked under her arm, but stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes darting from Jack’s heavily bandaged, blood-stained arm to your elevated, ballooning ankle. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. The hell did you do to this lovely lady, Jack?"

Within seconds, a small crowd of familiar faces converged on the two stretchers. Mel hurried over from the staff room, a half-eaten sandwich still in her hand, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and absolute amusement. "Oh my… are you okay? Well clearly not but… what happened?”

"I slipped on his blood!" you called out, the pain medication making you laugh weakly as the stretchers were wheeled side-by-side into the major trauma bays.

Robby walked out of the resuscitation unit, snapping off a pair of surgical gloves, his expression instantly melting into a look of profound, theatrical despair. He walked over to the foot of Jack’s bed, crossing his arms. "Abbot. I leave you in charge of your own home for twenty-four hours, and you bring your lovely wife into my ER on a stretcher? Explain yourself."

"It was a loose floorboard, Robby," Jack groaned, the morphine making his voice deep and slightly slurred, though he still managed to shoot a mean glare. "The chisel slipped. She was brilliant, actually. Total natural."

"And then she fell down the stairs because you're a terrible husband," Trinity chimed in, leaning against the doorframe of the bay with a massive smirk on her face. She looked over at you, giving you a sympathetic wink. "Don't worry, beautiful, we'll make sure his stitches hurt extra bad for making you go through this."

Samira pushed through the crowd, carrying a fresh bag of IV fluids and a splinting kit. She looked at the two of you, shaking her head in fond disbelief as she began setting up near your bed. "Right, let's get a look at this ankle, shall we?"

Despite the relentless teasing and the chorus of laughter echoing through the department, the underlying warmth and care from the staff were palpable. The curtains between your bays were pulled completely back, creating one large room so Jack could keep his eyes on you. Even as Samira gently examined your leg and Langdon began prepping Jack’s arm for a neat row of sutures, Jack kept his right hand stretched across the gap between the gurneys, his fingers hooked securely around yours.

"You're in good hands, sweetheart," Jack whispered, completely ignoring Trinity and Robby, who were currently debating which one of them got to write ‘DIY FAIL’ on his medical chart. He squeezed your hand tightly, his eyes soft with devotion. "They're going to fix us both up, and I promise you, I am never touching a tool again."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Abbot," Langdon chuckled, pouring sterile saline over Jack’s forearm to clear away the dried blood. He winced on Jack's behalf as the true depth of the laceration was revealed. "Though looking at this, you won't be holding a chisel or a scalpel for at least a few weeks. You've sliced right down. You're lucky you missed the important stuff."

"I told you, she stopped the bleeding," Jack said, his voice thick with pride despite the sharp intake of breath he let out as Langdon administered the local anaesthetic around the edges of the wound. He kept his eyes locked onto yours, his grip on your fingers tightening as the needle did its work. "She was incredible, Langdon. Didn't even faint."

Over on your side of the bay, Samira was carefully wrapping a temporary fiberglass splint around your rapidly bruising ankle, having just come back from reviewing the digital X-rays that Robby had rushed through the scanner. "Well, your brilliant wife has a nasty grade-three sprain and a tiny fracture. No surgery needed, thank goodness, but you're going to be on crutches and a boot for a while."

"Hear that, honey?" Jack murmured, a look of profound relief washing over his pale features as the morphine and the local numbing agent finally took the edge off his pain. "No surgery. You're going to be just fine."

"I'm more worried about you," you admitted, your voice still a little breathless from the lingering adrenaline and the effects of the medication. "You look like you've been through hell."

Dana walked back into the bay, holding a selection of takeaway menus, placing them on the bedside table between your gurneys. "Right, since you two managed to completely ruin your Saturday, the department is buying dinner. Santos wants pizza, Mel wants Thai, so you two get the deciding vote. Consider it a consolation prize for having the most embarrassing admissions of the year."

"Pizza," Jack grunted without hesitation, earning a loud cheer from Santos, who was still lingering near the desk. Jack looked back at you, his thumb smoothing over your knuckles. "We'll get the one you like, sweetheart."

As Langdon methodically began placing neat sutures into Jack’s arm, the initial chaotic energy of the department began to settle back into its usual professional rhythm. Robby and Dana headed back to the central desk to handle a new influx of patients from the waiting room, leaving the curtains open just enough for the staff to keep an eye on their favorite patient duo.

By the time Jack’s arm was neatly bandaged and your leg was securely immobilized in a heavy boot, the evening sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, warm shadows across the trauma bay. A delivery driver had dropped off three massive boxes of pizza, and Samira had kindly brought over two cups of tea, served in the mismatched mugs from the staff room.

Jack managed to shift his gurney a fraction closer to yours, his right arm slung comfortably over the metal guardrail so he could remain completely connected to you. The exhaustion of the day was finally catching up to both of you, the quiet hum of the hospital a strangely comforting background noise compared to the terror on the stairs just hours earlier.

"I really am sorry, honey," Jack whispered, his voice soft and entirely devoid of the bravado he had shown in front of his colleagues. He leaned his head against the side of his pillow, looking at you with an expression of pure, unfiltered devotion. "I wanted to fix that stupid floorboard so you wouldn't trip on it, and I ended up putting you in a cast instead."

"We're a matching set now," you teased gently, reaching over to squeeze his uninjured hand, gesturing to his heavily wrapped arm and your massive black boot. "Besides, you heard the crew. We really don't do things by halves."

Jack let out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound warm and familiar as he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your skin. "No, I suppose we don't. But from now on, we are hiring a professional for absolutely everything. Next weekend, you and I are staying on the couch."

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Today was an absolute mess. One of the most hectic mornings to date, in fact.

Your 5 year olds, the twins, refused to let you dress them in matching outfits but also vetoed different ones. After you begged on your hands and knees for them to just put some clothing on, they landed on the same shirt but different colored bottoms.

Then your middle child, the 3 year old, who was usually quiet and sleepy in the mornings, decided to splash your husband with so much water in the tub that he had to change. Twice. Screaming from bath times' start to finish.

Thankfully, they have daycare five days a week, and because it's a weekday, you got to ship the crazy trio off to school. Getting to spend the second half of your unbelievably early morning with your one year old.

Pope shrugs off his jacket, leaving him in a tight black t-shirt and jeans. He's already dropped the car keys in their dedicated tray by the time he presses a soft kiss to your temple. Before you can formally greet each other, his gaze snags onto the mess his son is making, whose chubby little cheeks are coated in mushy carrots and peas, onesie stained so aggressively you can barely see the yellow lions on it.

“Food is ‘sposed to go in your mouth, grumpy,” Pope takes a thick thumb and carefully wipes off a big glob of mush from your sons button nose.

'Grumpy' is the nickname one of the twins gave their new baby brother when he came out of the womb having the exact same twisted scowl as their daddy.

You nudge your shoulder into Popes side with a small huff, “He’s trying his best.” You then turn your attention back to the angel in the high chair, "Aren’t you sweet boy? Yes you are! Yes you-"

Your baby talk effectively dies in your throat when you feel bile replacing it suddenly. Your stomach lurches at the same time you do, slapping a palm over your mouth, dropping the tiny spoon you were mid airplaning and diving for the sink.

Once you’re done vomiting up the half cup of coffee and the single blueberry that fell off your middle child's plate that you’ve eaten since 5 am, you sag against the sink.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?" Pope steps behind you to grip your forearms, keeping you upright, immediately concerned and wanting to fix the problem.

You lean back against his body and breathe for a second. Letting his strong chest and warmth flood your senses enough to quell the uneasiness in your belly.

"No, I don't think so," You answer truthfully. "I've just been super nauseous the past few…"

You trail off as the familiar puzzle pieces fall into place as they have done many times before since you've been married to Pope Cody.

You slowly turn around to face him, your features morph into a wide eyed, horrified gape.

"Oh my god..." You breathe and thats all you can manage.

Pope's hazel eyes literally light up, but his face stays in its usual tight expression. You can tell it's because he doesn't want to speak to soon.

You had never believed your husband to be a superstitious man, but before you had even had kids, you once you thought you were pregnant, and he got so excited that he bought you a big ass SUV so you could- in his own words- 'drive all his kids around when he's not there to'.

You hadn't been pregnant, though. You found Pope crying in the shower after you told him it was a false positive. You made him and yourself feel better by having a whole lot of shower sex that did irreparable damage to your water bill that month. But the two of didn't even end up caring, because three weeks later, a real positive showed up on a pregnancy test.

Grumpy babbles from his high chair and you realize you and Pope are still just staring at each other wordlessly. After another beat, he blinks and his jaw works just once, “Go take one right now.”

You know what he's referring to. One of the many pregnancy tests you have lying around the house due to the literal sports team you have been popping out.

Going to the bathroom, finding a test and taking it is all a blur. It all becomes clear again when you shuffle back into the kitchen.

"Oh my god!" You shriek in disbelief and utter exhaustion when you flash him the test with two lines so dark you feel another wave of nausea threaten to spill over.

"How could you do this to me again!”

A smile finally breaks onto Pope's face. A big goofy one that shows off the crooked teeth and crinkling eyes that you love so much that got you into this mess in the first place.

This particular smile he's sporting is one that you’ve only seen a few times with him. The first was when you said you would go out with him, the second was when you told him you loved him back, and then it appeared every single time you found out you were pregnant.

You knew what day this pregnancy came from. It was the last time you had sex, which was three weeks ago. A quickie in the laundry room during everyones nap time.

You squint at him. Throwing up an accusing finger and taking a step back when he reaches for you.

“I told you you should’ve worn a condom!” You practically hiss.

Not that you really care your pregnant again.

You’re truly always excited to have kids with Pope. Obviously... because you have so many. But right now, it’s barely 8 am and you’re pretty sure that your throw up further clogged the garbage disposal that one of the twins shoved blocks down this morning.

Pope blinks at you, scrunching his handsome face up as if he genuinely doesn't understand the notion, “You’re my wife. ‘m not using a fucking condom.”

"Andrew!" You gasp as he finally closes in on you. "Grumpy is right there!”

You let him tightly wrap his arms around you. Because you're tired, nauseous and now a type a nervous that you haven't felt in over a year. His hold is the only thing that keeps you sane in this moment.

He presses his face into your neck, “ ’S fine.”

Your hands encircle his tree trunk waist, grip probably too tight and exposing your worry, but Pope doesn't say anything.

You glance to your youngest son who is your husbands pocket sized version, then whisper into Pope's chest, "No cursing. He’s old enough to hear words and repeat them.”

Pope presses his body further into yours as if trying to meld the two of you together. Your cheeks heat as you feel the hardness of him that's now standing at full attention against you. The heavy weight of his bulge brings pressure on the outside of your belly and pools warmth inside of it.

Pope's breath tickles your neck, “You think he’s old enough to look after himself while mommy and daddy go cuddle?”

Cuddle.

The word the two of you started using when the twins started catching onto to when their parents started kissing and pawing at each other in the kitchen and then abruptly called for everyone’s bed time at 7:30 pm.

You pull back and swat at his shoulder, “Andrew!” feigning incredulity even though you have to discreetly squeeze your thighs together.

“Cmon, I’ll be quick,” he says through the kisses he starts leaving on your neck.

You snort, “Romantic.” You manage to steel your mind just enough to push Pope off and the thought of getting to mount him as you cross the kitchen to your baby boy. “You better not’ve been serious about leaving our one year old unattended, or mommy will never cuddle with you ever again.”

Despite your threat, you see Pope bite his lip when you call yourself mommy.

He slowly looks you up and down. Even with your hair slightly wet from your first shower in days, baby food accompanying the throw up on your face, and one of his giant t-shirts hanging off your shoulder, the heat still simmers in his eyes. Needy and hot. It makes your face grow warm and you have to turn away from him.

After a beat of him silent behind you, you hear him grunt dramatically.

He mutters, “Fine. I guess can wait until Friday.”

Which is when you’ll drop the kids off at your parents house. It’s your designated date night (even though you never even leave the bedroom). But you’ve missed almost a whole months worth because one of the twins having a fever one night and then there was a toddler ballet recital the next and all that other wonderful parenting crap. So you’re both… pent up, to say the least.

His footsteps sulk out of the kitchen and stalk upstairs behind you, huffing and puffing as he goes.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as all the heated anticipation leaves your body. You glance at the calendar covered in parent teacher conference sand sports events that hangs on the fridge.

Okay, it's Monday. You can wait four days. Right??

Your focus lands on Grumpy, you then realize that Andrew had finished feeding him while you were upstairs peeing on a stick. The familiar steady ease of Pope being your rock in this marriage has some of the anxiety about being pregnant again fade away.

"Da," Grumpy chirps.

You pick him up and nuzzle his nose with yours, “I know. Daddy is so dramatic, isn’t he?”

Your one year old giggles as if he agrees with you.

About a half an hour later, Pope is upstairs changing Grumpy as you empty the dishwasher. Your husband held onto his scowl he passed onto your youngest the whole time, throwing a fit that he can't have sex with his wife after finding out she's pregnant with his kid.

You had rolled your eyes and given him a quick kiss on the cheek after you brushed your teeth, then came downstairs to tidy up the mess that your children left in the living room and kitchen this morning.

Your brow furrows as an unexpected knock comes from the font door, and that furrow deepens when your neighbor, who you ask to babysit sometimes when no one else is around, is on the other side of it.

"Oh, Hi Bertha," You can't hide the confusion in your tone. "Can I help you?"

She nods once, big framed silver glasses that match her hair slide down her long nose, "I'm here for baby Cody."

You open your mouth to tell her you have no idea what she's talking about, but are interrupted by Pope appearing from behind you. He has Grumpy and a diaper bag in hand.

"Thanks," He says curtly as he hands off your baby boy. "The family matter isn't too serious, so we should we only be two-” then his gaze flicks to yours and his mouth quirks sideways to hold back his smirk and he corrects himself, “-maybe three hours.”

Your jaw drops. Not entirely believing that your husband lied about a family emergency just so he can get some alone time with you. But before you can say anything, Pope plants a kiss to Grumpy's cheek, mutters a goodbye to Bertha, and slams the door.

After a single blink of gawking at him, you throw your hands up.

You absentmindedly take a few steps backwards as you shriek, “Oh my god!" You continue to wave your hands around until your opposite him, the coffee table sitting in between you. "You’re unbelievable, Andrew!”

Your husband simply shrugs, “Decided I couldn’t wait.”

You scoff, the delirium of being a mother of four and the apprehension coming from the prospect of a fifth already starting a tiring mental battle in your mind.

“I am not having sex with you! It’s barely 9am and you just-" pregnancy brain kicks into overdrive and frustration bubbles up as you fight to string a sentence together- "You just carted off our youngest son to our neighbor!”

Pope scoffs in response, as if you would ever actually deny him. Annoyance prickles up your spine, adding to your already formed aggravation.

This man has the nerve to get you pregnant again and be all smug about it?

When he tries to round the coffee table to reach you, you step away, crossing your arms and basically glaring at him.

Pope raises a brow. He takes another step forward, you take another step back. After a second of confusion, a mischievous glint darkens his eyes.

He licks his lips, “Hmmm you haven’t played hard to get in a long while sweetheart.”

Your breath catches.

This is... not where you were expecting this to go.

You manage to fake an eye roll, trying to act as if his words didn't make your stomach tighten, “I’m not playing hard to get. It’s not happening.”

The words don’t fall as stern as you’d like them to, because you feel a dull throbbing sensation starting to build up in between your legs.

Damn your husband and his sexy face, voice and body.

A sly smile overtakes his face as the two of you start to slowly circle the coffee table. Pope's voice morphs into a taunt that send goosebumps across the back of your neck. “Wanna make me work for it? Okay honey, I’ll work for it. Don't gotta worry 'bout that.”

Nervous laughter bubbles out of you as you try to fend off the flush of arousal that he’s probably already spotting from a mile away.

A tense game of cat and mouse ensues as you round a corner and he rounds the opposite one. Over and over and over.

“You don’t need to work for anything. We’re not having sex.” You get even more irritated when your voice waivers embarrassingly on the last three words. Your husband tracks the sound and hunches over slightly, as if he is literally trying to snatch you up you like a hunter catches an animal.

You don't really want to think about why it sends a rush of dampness to the boxers- his boxers- that you're wearing.

You have to stay strong. Follow through with your scolding. Why can't you ever deny him? Probably because he has the biggest-

Pope dawns a casual look. Nonchalant almost. But his eyes stay blazed as they take in your skittish steps and uneven breathes.

A shrug accompanies his next wide stalk around the corner of the wooden table, “Alright. Stop walkin' away from me then.”

You feel your body betray you, growing all hot and fuzzy in wicked anticipation as you try to steady your voice, “I will. Once you stop following me.”

His movements falter for a second, thinking about it. He looks at you, then the remaining space between you, and opens his mouth.

“Nah.”

He lunges for you.

Reacting instinctively, you yelp and jump sideways out of his reach that grazes your waist. You land parallel to him across the table once again.

He groans as if this is the sexiest foreplay he could ever ask for, “Fuck sweetheart. You want me to chase you?”

How did you end up here? Weren't you just throwing up in the sink??

Damn these pregnancy and postpartum hormones that make Pope Cody even more irresistible.

While you are very flustered by the ridiculousness of the whole scenario, you are also, very turned on.

You've completely forgotten why you said no to sex in the first place at this point. The only notion that rings clear in your mind is that you really, really want him to chase you.

“N-no.” A lie.

Your hesitation has him chuckle darkly, “My day just keeps gettin’ better.” It’s spoken quiet, meant for his inner thoughts but slips through the cracks in the heat of the moment.

Pope slowly eyes you up like you’re his prey and then he cocks his chin up once. A vague gesture to the rest of the house that sits behind you.

His already deep voice drops an impossible amount of octaves as he rasps, “Better get movin’ sweetheart.”

Your eyes widen. Heart dropping all the way into the basement where only Pope goes because theres crickets down there.

You turn and bolt through the living room before he can make his next move.

A disbelieving gasp-shriek sounds from you as you run as fast as you can through the first floor of the house he bought you.

The exhilarating rush you get at the though of him chasing you has your heartbeat thump in your ears and somewhere else you don't need to dignify with naming. You haven't looked back once as you reach the bottom of the stairs.

Your racing mind has half a thought that you've gained some distance, but then you hear Pope's heavy footsteps thud behind you in the hallway.

Then up the stairs.

Then into your bedroom.

You squeal like a school girl when he finally gets his hands on you.

Pope- gently because he would never actually hurt you- throws you onto the bed, easily pinning you under him within seconds.

He has one large hand holding both of your own over your head. The rest of his body is pressed on top of you, faces inches apart. You feel your hearts rapidly beat against each other as you're chest to chest.

“You can never outrun me,” His rough whisper ghosts your lips, making you realize you haven't kissed all morning.

You close the gap and place featherlight kiss to his mouth. Your voice is delicate despite what you just did and the position he now has you in, “I never want to.”

All the buzz starts to settle in your body. Melting into a safe and glowy feeling that engulfs you and your soulmate.

He stares at you for a second when you pull back. The heat in his gaze melts into something different. Something softer.

He exhales through his nose, gulping audibly as he mumbles what he always does when he finds out you're pregnant.

“Thanks for givin' me another one.”

You smirk at him, wrapping your legs around his thick waist tightly, “Could be two again.”

You giggle at the pleasure coated groan that sounds from him at the thought.

Pope presses his face into your neck, pressing his hips into you. When you feel the large bulge that has made it's way back into his jeans, you know just how much he liked that thought.

He places hot kisses up your neck until you’re squirming beneath him. He says lowly into through kisses, “I love you so much.”

You whisper back, “I love you too, Andrew.”

“So much," he continues. "Too much. I wish there was a way I could show you how much.” His breath is warm on your skin, the affection only you see from him sends your heart fluttering.

Pope means it sweetly. A true testament to romance.

But there’s still some adrenaline coursing through you from the chase, so you can’t help but tease, “You could give me an orgasm for each kid?”

He exhales a sharp laugh against your collarbone then drops his hand, releasing both of yours. Your fingers automatically shoot up into his auburn curls with their newfound freedom.

His lips twitch upwards when he pulls back to meet your eyes. He softly presses his lips to yours, murmuring, “Sounds like a good start.”

“Start?” you raise a brow at him.

Pope grinds his hips firmly into yours, drawing a soft moan from you. His tone gets serious. Determined.

"Honey, I bought us over two hours of alone time. I plan on giving you three times the amount of our kids.”

"This is the alarm code-”

"Jesus, what neighbourhood do you live in again?"

"You don't have to use it, but a young woman staying alone? I want you to feel safe."

He handed you the note. That felt sweet.

You weren't entirely sure how you'd ended up being the one house-sitting for Robby while he disappeared on a three month sabbatical. You were the newest resident, barely eight months into your time at PTMC, but for whatever reason he seemed to trust you. He liked the way you taught, how patient you were with the med students, how you somehow managed to balance nurturing them without letting them walk all over you.

You'd been a little intimidated by him when you first arrived. Robby didn't take mistakes lightly. If you fucked up, you fucked up. There was no sugar coating it.

But he'd turned out to be a better teacher than you'd expected, taking you under his wing and dragging you into procedures most residents would have had to fight to get near. Sometimes you wanted to call it favouritism but it was probably just him doing his job. Probably.

"Anything else I need to know?" you asked. "Weird neighbours, paranormal activity, stalker exes?"

You tried to keep a straight face, only for the corners of your mouth to betray you.

He shook his head, laughing. "You sure you're okay doing this?"

"Are you kidding? This is gonna be like a vacation for me."

Robby nodded once, seemingly satisfied, and dropped the keys into your palm.

"Good. Call me if you need anything."

He started backing away towards the chaos of the ER. "Hey, remember. No parties, no pets, no boyfriends. Yours or anybody else's."

You scoffed, not quite loud enough for him to hear. Party? Required more than three friends. Pets? Required energy. And boyfriend? Don't even go there.

You didn't see Robby again before he left. Maybe the apartment handover had counted as a goodbye, or maybe the ER had simply done what it always did and swallowed every spare second before anyone got the chance to wave him off into the sunset.

Either way, all you could really focus on right now was three whole months without roommates and a bed bigger than a single. Happy days.

-

You managed to slip off shift without attracting any attention from the nurses or the night shift. Robby had said the only person he'd told about the house-sitting arrangement was Abbot. If you wanted to tell people, you could, but he didn't particularly care either way.

You decided to keep it quiet.

Work wasn't really where you made friends. You had three good ones on the outside but that was mostly it. Everyone was nice enough in the ER, and there had been the occasional invitation for drinks after a shift, but by seven o'clock you were usually too exhausted to be anything but horizontal.

Your circle stayed small, mainly Mckay and Ellis within the hospital.

You worked with Cassie every day and had become close over the months, and Parker had been your person during those brutal night shift rotations when you first arrived in Pittsburgh.

Either way, you made it to Robby's building without interception. Silver key for the lobby and brass for the apartment. Just like he'd said.

The building itself was nice. Clean hallways, warm lighting, planters hanging in the windows. The kind of place that felt looked after without trying too hard about it. The apartment was even nicer. Or maybe it just felt huge compared to the place you shared with four other girls.

"Well, fuck." The words slipped out before you could stop them as you flicked on the light switch.

The front door opened into a small hallway that led into a spacious living room, all exposed brick and worn hardwood floors. A brown leather sofa sat opposite a huge TV, surrounded by shelves packed with books and an almost concerning number of CDs.

You drifted towards them automatically, scanning album titles as you went. Pearl Jam, R.E.M., Jeff Buckley. A laugh escaped you.

"Checks out."

Your finger brushed across the collection before you moved on, abandoning your investigation in favour of something far more important.

Bed.

The guest room had already been made up for you, fresh sheets stretched neatly across the mattress and extra towels folded at the end like you were checking into a hotel instead of crashing in your attending's spare room. It made you smile.

Maybe your standards for grand gestures were embarrassingly low, but between that and the hundred dollars waiting on the kitchen counter with a note that read for anything you need, you couldn't help it.

There was still plenty left to explore. The contents of his fridge, the bookshelves, photo albums (or lack thereof) and most definitely the bedside drawers. But not tonight.

You peeled off your scrubs, barely managing to change before exhaustion caught up with you. Within minutes you were under the covers, eyes heavy, asleep before your head had properly settled into the pillow.

-

Turns out this house-sitting gig was absolute heaven.

Two days in and it was already starting to feel less like a favour and more like a reward.

Today was your day off. You'd actually eaten breakfast instead of inhaling a protein bar, spent the afternoon doing absolutely nothing productive and met up with a couple of friends for drinks that evening. The friends who weren't doctors, nurses or in any way connected to the hospital.

Then you'd come home, changed into something comfortable and settled onto Robby's sofa with your book.

Life was good.

So far, the hundred dollars he'd left behind had contributed to a half-full fridge and a bottle of wine, which felt perfectly reasonable considering Robby had specifically said it was for anything you needed. It was somewhere around chapter twenty-three of your hot romance fantasy novel (not one of Robby's) when your phone buzzed beside you.

Robby:

Hey, hope you're good. Just checking in to make sure everything's okay?

You smiled before you could stop yourself. He was so proper. So formal. Even his texts somehow read like work emails. Still, you appreciated him checking since you honestly hadn't expected to hear from him at all.

The whole point of this trip was supposed to be getting away. You'd heard him say more than once that he wanted to leave Pittsburgh and everyone in it behind for a while. No calls. No emails. As close to no contact as he could realistically get. According to Robby, that was the only way to properly clear your head.

The one exception had always been Abbot, maybe even Dana. Apparently now it was the three of you.

You:

all good! your apartment is insane by the way

and thank u for the money, u didn't have to!

You took a sip of wine as you hit send. A reply came almost immediately.

Robby:

You're doing me a huge favour!

Spend wisely…

A laugh escaped you. You were a little tipsy by now. Not drunk, just pleasantly warm from the two glasses of pinot you'd had at the bar combined with the one currently sitting beside you. Which, admittedly, was a lot considering you barely drank.

Without thinking too hard about it, you snapped a picture of the glass balanced on the coffee table. Then you zoomed in slightly. Mostly to crop out the fact you weren't using a coaster.

You:

wise you say???

The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. You frowned at the screen.

For some reason, a flicker of self-consciousness crept in. Maybe the photo was weird. Maybe the lipstick mark on the rim was weird. Maybe it was weird to be sitting in your attending's apartment drinking wine and texting him on a Friday night.

Before you could overthink it further, another message appeared.

Robby:

Naughty!

Your stomach flipped. It was ridiculous. The word itself wasn't even remotely suggestive. If anything, it was probably about the coaster.

But between the wine and the book currently sitting open beside you, the message seemed to land somewhere deep in your belly. You stared at it for a second longer than necessary.

"Time for bed." You said it out loud, as though hearing it might make it true.

Leaving the glass on the coffee table with a single sip left, you gathered your book and headed for the guest room.

-

Robby stared at the photo for longer than he meant to. Not at the wine or the coffee table and certainly not at the missing coaster.

His attention had landed on the faint lipstick mark circling the rim of the glass and stayed there for a second too long before he caught himself. He sat back against the headboard of the hotel bed, somewhere around Chicago, after a long day on the road.

The room was forgettable. Beige walls. Generic artwork. The low hum of an air conditioner fighting for its life in the corner. Exactly the kind of place he'd expected to find himself in.

He'd only been checking in. That was all.

You were doing him a favour and it seemed polite to make sure everything was going smoothly.

Except now he found himself picturing you in his apartment. Curled up on the couch, feet tucked beneath you. A glass of wine in one hand and whatever book had managed to distract you from answering his text in the other.

His apartment. His couch. His glass.

He exhaled through his nose. It was ridiculous. Of course you were there, that was the entire point. For the next three months you were going to be using his mugs, watching his TV, standing under his shower and sleeping in the guest room.

None of that should have felt strange. And it didn't. Not really. It had just been that split second when the photograph appeared on his screen and his brain had connected the image to a real person rather than the vague idea of someone looking after his place.

Someone he'd see almost every day at work. Someone currently sitting exactly where he usually sat. Robby shook his head once, more at himself than anything else.

Then he typed out the reply.

Naughty!

The second it was sent, he dropped the phone onto the bedside table and turned off the lamp. Tomorrow he'd have another few hours of driving ahead of him. That was what he should be thinking about.

Not a lipstick stain on a wine glass.

-

It was strange how different work felt when you had somewhere peaceful to come home to.

The shifts were still long and the patients exhausting. None of that changed. But when there were no roommate arguments waiting for you at the end of the day, no mountain of dishes that didn't belong to you and no obnoxiously loud sex through the wall at midnight, everything felt a little more manageable.

You had energy again. Energy to come home and shower. Energy to cook. Energy to actually enjoy your evenings instead of collapsing face-first into bed.

You'd always been a good cook. Your mom had made sure of that. While other kids were watching TV, you'd been standing beside her in the kitchen learning how to chop onions without crying and season food without measuring every ingredient.

Your family tree contained exactly zero Italians, but your signature dish was carbonara. Real carbonara. The proper kind. The kind that required ingredients expensive enough to make you wince in the grocery aisle.

Which was exactly why you rarely made it. But with Robby's hundred dollars quietly subsidising your lifestyle, you figured you deserved a treat.

The plan was going perfectly until you tried to turn on the hob.

"Come on."

You twisted the dial until it clicked. Nothing. You tried again.

Another click. Still nothing.

By the fourth attempt, you were staring at the appliance like it had personally offended you.

"Am I losing my mind?"

Getting a burner lit should not have been this difficult. You glanced at your phone sitting on the counter.

No. Absolutely not.

You were not texting Robby because you couldn't operate a stove. You were a doctor, a functioning adult. You could figure this out.

Another click. Nothing. "For fuck's sake." The curse echoed around the kitchen. A few seconds later, you picked up your phone.

You:

i don't want you to think i'm completely incompetent but i cannot work your hob…

Three states away, Robby's phone lit up. He'd spent most of the day hiking through some forest outside Rockford before ending the evening under a shower hot enough to steam up the entire bathroom.

He walked over to the phone, towel slung low around his waist, hair still damp. The text made him laugh.

Robby:

You have to turn and press. It's more of a button than a switch!

Also don't worry, I couldn't work it for the first six months I lived there because of that…

It was strangely comforting to know a physician widely regarded as one of the smartest people in Pittsburgh had also been defeated by a kitchen appliance.

Following his instructions, you pushed the dial inward and a blue flame immediately burst to life.

"Oh thank god."

You set a pot of water on one burner and poured oil into a pan on the other before reaching for your phone again.

You:

life saver. i was about to starve

and the great robby also not knowing how to operate a stove makes me feel better so thank u

Back in his hotel room, Robby laughed quietly at the screen. A small smile lingered as he reread your message.

He'd answered your question, technically the conversation could end there and it probably should. Instead, his thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a second.

Robby:

What are you cooking anyway?

You saw the message while stirring egg and cheese into freshly drained pasta. Not now. Carbonara required concentration and you weren't risking scrambled eggs for anybody.

Five minutes later, when the sauce was silky and clinging perfectly to the noodles, you twisted a generous serving onto a plate and admired your handiwork.

Then you grabbed your phone.

You:

carbonara!

You attached the picture before hitting send.

The photo sat open on his screen for a moment. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected, certainly not that. It looked better than anything he'd eaten in the last week.

After a moment he tapped the heart reaction and tossed the phone onto the mattress beside him. He ignored the part of himself that wanted to ask for the recipe.

-

The next two days brought two hellish shifts.

First a mass casualty then a stomach bug that seemed determined to take down half the ER.

Dana did her best to pull people in for extra coverage, Abbot came in early and somehow ended up working a double, but even that barely kept things afloat. It was chaos. The kind that left you running entirely on adrenaline until your body remembered it was human.

You finally made it home just before eleven: a personal record. The worst part was that when you dragged yourself up the stairs, peeled off your scrubs and collapsed into bed, you couldn't sleep.

You were trapped in that miserable state of overtiredness where your body was begging for rest while your brain stubbornly refused to switch off.

You hadn't looked at your phone once during the shift. Not during the mass casualty or the endless stream of patients. Not even while inhaling a granola bar somewhere around hour twelve. It stayed buried in your pocket until you stepped through the apartment door.

It wasn't until you were under the covers that you finally saw the notification waiting for you.

Robby:

I had diner food for the third night in a row tonight, your carbonara is making me look bad…

He'd given you a rough outline of his route before he left and, if you remembered correctly, he should be somewhere near Minneapolis by now. An hour behind. Not too late.

You:

trust me, my carbonara is the least impressive thing about my week

i just survived a mass casualty and half the department trying to die from a stomach bug

diner food sounds peaceful honestly

Robby:

Mass casualty?

You:

three car pile up

and before you ask everyone survived

mostly because abbot worked about seventeen hours straight

Robby:

I leave for one week…

You:

i was waiting for someone to blame

Robby:

Blame Dana…

You:

do you think i have a death wish???

that's not the attending wisdom i was hoping for

Robby:

🤷🏻‍♂️ ️

You stare at the screen. He's using emojis now? Something about that feels strangely significant.

The conversation probably should have ended three messages ago. Instead, another text appears a few seconds later.

Robby:

You okay?

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's particularly personal, just because he seems to actually mean it. You stare at the message for a moment before replying.

You:

yeah

just tired

too tired to sleep which is apparently a thing

Robby:

Been there. Your body's exhausted but the brain's stress response overrides it

Makes for a very restless night

You:

oh good

thought i was dying

Robby:

You're a doctor..

You always think you're dying

A quiet laugh escapes you. You weren't entirely sure why any of this felt comforting.

After one of the worst shifts you'd worked in months, you were lying awake in your attending's apartment, texting your boss from beneath the covers.

On paper, it sounded ridiculous but the knot that had been sitting between your shoulders since this morning was slowly beginning to loosen.

Your eyes felt heavier, your body sank deeper into the mattress and the first time all night, sleep actually seemed possible.

You:

night robby x

You hit send before thinking too hard about it. A second passed. Then two. Then your phone lit up.

Robby:

Sleep well!

You smiled at the screen. By the time you set your phone on the bedside table, your eyes were already closing.

Robby didn't go to sleep straight away.

Instead he sat against the headboard, phone still in his hand, staring at the open conversation. The room was quiet. Outside, somewhere beyond the hotel curtains, a truck rumbled along the interstate.

His thumb drifted across the screen and paused, hovering over the last message.

night robby x

Just one stupid little letter. It probably meant absolutely nothing. For all he knew, you signed every text that way. You were exhausted when you'd sent it, practically half asleep and already drifting off. He knew that. So why was he still looking at it?

With a quiet huff of amusement at himself, Robby locked the screen.

Tomorrow he'd drive another few hundred miles, stay at another hotel, eat another mediocre meal. Continue doing exactly what he'd left Pittsburgh to do.

And yet, as he finally switched off the lamp and settled back against the pillows, he found himself wondering whether you'd text him tomorrow.

The thought stayed with him longer than it should have. Long enough that sleep didn't come quite as quickly as usual.

-

The next few days settled into something that almost resembled normality (or at least as normal as life in the ER ever got).

The stomach bug finally burned its way through the department, leaving a trail of exhaustion and empty electrolyte bottles in its wake. Everyone looked tired and complained constantly. You included.

It was nearing the end of another shift when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You ignored it only for it to buzz again.

And because every doctor secretly believed they were the most important person in the building, your brain immediately convinced itself it could be an emergency.

You pulled it out while waiting for the elevator.

Robby:

Rode twenty minutes off route for this

You opened it. Then frowned. Then laughed.

You:

what the fuck is that

Robby:

The world's largest prairie chicken

You:

of course it is

you rode twenty minutes out of your way to see a giant chicken?

Robby:

Yes.

You:

no further questions your honour

The elevator doors opened. You stepped inside, still smiling at your phone. Another message appeared.

Robby:

Thought you'd appreciate it!

Your lips curled at the suggestion he had taken the picture with you in mind.

You:

i'm genuinely concerned about how you're spending this sabbatical

Robby:

That's fair

For the record I did also spend six hours riding through some very beautiful countryside today

You:

and yet it was the giant chicken you sent

Robby:

Correct.

You laughed, probably too loud for the setting as others in the lift glanced over before you quickly looked away.

You:

well i'm glad my attending is making good use of his time

Robby:

You laughed didn't you?

You:

immediately

The elevator dinged and people shuffled out around you while you lingered behind, looking down at the conversation. At the completely pointless exchange.

The kind of conversation that served no purpose whatsoever and yet somehow it had made the end of a miserable shift feel lighter.

Robby:

Worth the detour then

You shook your head but the smile wouldn't disappear. It stayed with you all the way to the parking lot.

Across the county, Robby sat on the edge of his hotel bed with the television murmuring quietly in the background.

The hotels he was staying in were nice, he had the money to stay in much nicer but there wasn't much point when only passing through.

The final destination was a cabin in Alberta. That's where he'd spend the rest of the sabbatical when he got there, that he had spared no expense on.

But he didn't find himself thinking of his trip. The conversation still sat open on his phone. Nothing important, just the giant chicken staring back at him amongst a handful of messages and a stupid amount of amusement considering the subject matter.

After a minute, he locked the screen and set the phone aside. Then despite himself, he found his gaze drifting back towards it as though another message might somehow appear.

He'd be crossing into North Dakota soon and if he happened to see anything ridiculous along the way…

Well he knew exactly who he'd send it to.

-

The next few days followed suit. You and Robby started speaking like it was part of your routines without ever actually agreeing to it.

Nothing constant or heavy, just small check-ins threaded through the day. Snapshots from the road. Snapshots from the ER.

Things you'd caught out of the corner of your eye like the giant pigeon on a fire escape outside the hospital that made you stop mid-conversation just to take a picture.

Food also became a kind of currency between you. The home-cooked meals you'd send, still steaming on the plate whilst he'd drop his roadside breakfasts, gas station coffee, or whatever local specialty he'd found himself staring at that day.

You started waiting for the messages without really meaning to. Both of you did.

Robby:

This morning's view

You:

versus my morning's view

—

You:

i'm going old school and listening to your CDs

you have good taste old man

Robby:

I'll ignore those last two words and take it as a compliment...

—

Robby:

Got caught in a thunderstorm on the road today

You:

😭😭😭 😭 😭 omg

just know i'd be laughing if i were there

—

You:

robby

a guy came in today with an action figure up his ass

and dana made whitaker deal with it

Robby:

Nothing says good evening quite like a HIPAA violation

You:

i know you won't tell x

—

Somewhere between shifts and miles, the apartment stopped being the reason you spoke. It just became something that existed in the background, as if you'd both forgotten the house-sitting gig and this was all normal.

An excuse that had quietly turned into a habit. You didn't really notice the shift until one night you didn't text him at all.

Not on purpose, because of pure exhaustion. A shift that ran too long, a body too tired to think in sentences.

And on his end, Robby found himself checking his phone more than he liked to admit. Each time with a little more irritation than the last.

"Stupid." He muttered under his breath, tossing the phone face-down on the bed.

It didn't stay there long since he picked it back up a minute later.

His trip was still everything it was supposed to be. Long stretches of highway and peaceful mornings. Mountains, towns, weather that changed without warning.

It was all the kind of distance he'd been looking for and for the most part, the noise in his head had settled. It wasn't gone, he needed more than a solo road trip to fix that but it was quieter.

It was at its quietest when you text. Or when he took a picture and thought, without really meaning to, that you'd probably laugh at it.

Then his phone buzzed.

You:

sorry

today's been awful

The irritation disappeared immediately and he sat down properly on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, he stared at the message longer than he needed to. His first instinct was practical, to ask what happened and if you were okay. But it was nearly midnight your time and he knew, instinctively, that whatever you needed wasn't a barrage of questions.

Robby:

Do you want to talk about it?

You:

think i just need bed

speak tomorrow

He stared at the screen a moment longer than he meant to, leaving the chat open, your name sitting at the top of it. He didn't reply.

There wasn't anything else to say that wouldn't feel like too much.

-

The next day didn't actually bring a text. Or the day after that.

Shift patterns blurred together in the ER anyway, time measured in admissions and discharge paperwork rather than hours. You were exhausted, that was your excuse for not texting Robby. But by the second night, you were wondering what his excuse was.

It wasn't anything dramatic, just… absent.

No photos from the road or pointless updates about whatever strange thing he'd stopped to look at. There'd been no diner food commentary that made you roll your eyes while smiling at your phone.

You told yourself it made sense. Robby was on a bike somewhere between states and you were drowning in back-to-back shifts. There wasn't always going to be time.

Still, your phone felt heavier in your pocket than usual.

On his end, Robby told himself the same thing.

He'd spent most of the day on the road, miles of open highway stretching out ahead of him, the kind of silence he'd gone looking for. It should have felt good and it did, mostly. But every time he stopped for fuel, or pulled off to check a map, his hand drifted to his phone out of habit.

There he would find no new messages and he told himself that was normal.

It was normal. Until it wasn't.

-

It happened on a night that started like any other.

You'd left the hospital later than you meant to, fatigue settling into your bones in that familiar way that made everything feel slightly delayed.

The apartment was quiet when you got back.

You climbed the stairs and only realised something was wrong when your keys didn't turn properly in the lock. You tried it once, twice, three times and nothing. You paused then tried again but the lock didn't budge.

"Oh come on," you muttered under your breath.

You stared at the door for a second, exhaustion making it harder to think than it should have.

Of course this was happening now.

You pulled your phone out, looking who to burden with your troubles and force to come to your rescue. For a second, you considered calling Mckay but her shift had been just as rough as yours and Ellis' night was only just starting in the ER, suddenly you were out of options.

Your thumb hovered. Then moved.

In some hotel in one of the Dakotas, Robby's phone lit up on the bedside. His brow furrowed slightly, not expecting to see your name across the screen.

"Hello?"

Your voice came through slightly breathless and oh so tired.

"Hi," you said. "I have a problem."

He sat up a little straighter without thinking. "Are you okay?"

You let out a short laugh that didn't quite sound amused. "Your lock hates me." There was a pause.

Then, quieter, "Which one?"

"Front door."

"Right," he said. "Stay there."

"I am there."

"No," he corrected. "I mean don't try anything else. Just- stay."

You leaned back against the wall, sliding down slightly until you were sitting on the floor outside his apartment door.

"Robby," you said, "I am physically incapable of breaking your door at this point. I'm too tired to commit crimes."

That earned a small exhale of something that might have been a laugh.

"Good," he said. "I prefer it that way."

There was movement on his end. Fabric shifting, something being set down.

"Okay," he added. "Walk me through what happened."

-

The locksmith said he'd be there in twenty minutes which, judging by his tone, probably meant thirty. You thanked him anyway before ending the call and letting your head fall back against the apartment door.

"Well," you sighed, stretching your legs out in front of you. "Guess I live here now."

The laugh that came through the speaker was soft. You'd heard Robby laugh a hundred times at work, usually in passing conversations or when Dana pulled it out of him, but hearing it through the phone felt strangely personal.

"Could be worse."

"How?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"I'll let you know when I think of something."

You smiled. For a while, neither of you said anything.

The silence wasn't awkward, which surprised you. You could hear faint traffic somewhere on his end of the line, the distant sound of a television through a hotel wall perhaps.

"Where are you?" you asked eventually.

“Just outside Sioux Falls."

"Fancy..." You shifted against the wall, tucking one knee up towards your chest. "How's the trip?"

There was a pause. Not because he wasn't going to answer, but because he seemed to actually think about it.

"Good." You waited. "Actually, really good."

"Wow."

"What?"

"I don't think I've ever heard you sound that enthusiastic about anything."

"That's not true."

"Robby, I've worked with you for eight months."

"And?"

"The highlight of your emotional range is usually a nod."

That earned a proper laugh. The kind that made you grin before you'd even realised you were doing it. Why were your cheeks getting hot at the idea of making him laugh?

"That's harsh."

"I think you mean accurate."

"I'll have you know I've been having a great time."

“The giant chicken gave it away."

"Don't mock the chicken."

"I'll mock the chicken all I want."

He sighed dramatically. "This is exactly why I send you things."

Your smile lingered, you weren't entirely sure why. Like even if you wanted to get rid of it you couldn't. Maybe because it was nice knowing someone saw something during their day and thought to share it with you. Or maybe because lately, you'd been doing the same thing.

"Seriously though," you said. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

The teasing slipped away a little and you could hear it in his voice when he answered.

"Yeah. I think I needed it more than I realised."

You looked down at the floor. You'd thought that yourself. The difference in him was obvious, even through a screen. The texts were lighter. There was an ease to him that hadn't existed back in Pittsburgh.

"You sound happier."

He didn't answer immediately.

"Maybe."

It wasn't much of a response. Coming from Robby, it felt like a confession.

The conversation drifted after that. Work came up eventually, because it always did. You told him about the latest departmental disaster and he laughed harder than he probably should have at Whitaker's expense. Then somehow you ended up talking about music, and when you admitted you'd been making your way through his CD collection, he spent five minutes defending an album you'd called objectively terrible.

Before either of you realised it, headlights swept across the apartment parking lot. You glanced through the stairwell window to see a white van pulling in.

"Oh."

"What?"

"That's him." You pushed yourself to your feet, brushing imaginary dust from your scrubs. "The locksmith."

"Right."

You checked the time. Nearly forty minutes since you'd spoken to him on the phone.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then you laughed softly.

"I don't think we've ever actually spoken like this before."

"Spoken like what?"

"Just…" You searched for the right words. "Talked."

He huffed a laugh. "We talk all the time."

"About work."

"Hmm. True."

You shook your head. "I know more about a giant prairie chicken than I do about you."

"Now that's probably not true."

"It definitely is."

The locksmith was already making his way towards the building entrance. You tightened your grip on the phone.

"Thanks for staying on the phone with me."

The words slipped out before you could think too hard about them and for a second, there was only the sound of his breathing on the other end.

"Of course." Robby said it with such ease, as if there'd never been any question about it. Something in your chest warmed at that.

"I should go."

"Yeah. You should."

Neither of you hung up immediately. You smiled even though he couldn't see.

"Night, Robby."

"Night."

-

Robby eventually made it to Alberta, trading motels and roadside diners for a cabin tucked between trees and more open sky than you'd ever seen in one place. The photos changed after that. It was less giant roadside attractions and more mountains, lakes so still they looked painted. Sunrises taken from a porch with a mug of coffee balanced somewhere just out of frame.

Your own contributions remained considerably less scenic.

You:

this mornings view

Robby:

Stunning!

You:

i know

thinking of getting it framed

Robby:

You should. Really ties a room together

The conversations drifted in and out of your days. Sometimes twenty messages. Sometimes two.

But there was rarely a day that passed without hearing from him. It had become your normal and that probably should have concerned you more than it did.

One afternoon you were halfway through a grocery shop when your phone buzzed.

Robby:

What's for dinner?

You snorted. Most days he was interested in what you were cooking, never quite getting over how good that carbonara looked weeks ago.

You:

demanding aren't we?

Robby:

I've been living off campfire food

Let me live vicariously

You balanced the basket awkwardly on your hip. Typing with one hand was becoming increasingly impossible so after a moment you sighed and held down the microphone button.

"Okay, so technically I haven't decided yet," you said, navigating around a woman studying avocados with suspicious intensity. "But I was thinking maybe chicken, potatoes, something easy because I had a twelve hour shift and Mckay spent most of it arguing with a guy who was convinced Red Bull counts as water."

You stopped recording and sent it, immediately forgetting about it as you continued to shop.

Robby was sitting on the cabin porch when the notification appeared. A voice note.

For a second he just looked at it before pressing play. Your voice spilled through the speaker, lighter than he was used to hearing at work, less hurried.

He could hear the wheels of a shopping cart somewhere in the background, people talking. The automatic doors opening and closing. It felt strangely intimate. Like being invited into a moment he wasn't supposed to be part of.

Before he knew it, the recording had ended and he found himself smiling Then replaying the first few seconds just to hear it again.

Robby:

Red bull absolutely counts as water

You:

you're part of the problem

-

A few days later you sent him a photo of a coffee shop you'd stumbled into before work. The picture was supposed to be of the ridiculous chalkboard menu, pretentious and completely overpriced.

Unfortunately, the reflection in the window caught most of your face and you didn't even notice before pressing send.

But Robby did.

He was halfway through replying when he stopped and stared at the photo. Then stared a little longer.

It wasn't as though he'd forgotten what you looked like, he'd worked beside you for months, seen you almost every day and yet somehow seeing your face appear unexpectedly on his screen felt different. Like it was more personal than bumping into you across an ER.

He zoomed in without meaning to then immediately felt ridiculous.

Robby:

That coffee costs more than my first apartment

You:

i knew you'd focus on the important issue

He didn't mention the photo but it stayed open on his screen longer than necessary.

The next Saturday night, you went out with friends.

The three you socialised with maybe once a month, the ones you'd gone out with on your first week at Robby's.

The evening disappeared beneath cocktails, bad music and stories that got funnier with every retelling. By the time you got home, your shoes were in one hand and your keys were in the other.

Your phone buzzed before you'd even made it upstairs.

Robby:

Survived?

You:

barely

my feet are filing formal complaints

Robby:

Worth it?

You:

yeah

free drinks always help

There was a pause before the typing bubbles appeared then they seemed to disappear before appearing once more.

Robby:

Free drinks?

You:

some guy at the bar bought them

either he was being nice or I looked desperately in need of a margarita

Robby stared at the screen. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, he found himself reading the message twice.

Some guy.

An entirely normal sentence since people bought drinks for each other every day. It meant absolutely nothing. Yet his thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Robby:

Which was it?

The message sent before he could overthink it and he immediately regretted it. Not because it was inappropriate, just because he sounded interested.

And he wasn't sure why he was interested.

You:

definitely the margarita

he started talking about crypto ten minutes in

That pulled a laugh out of him. An actual laugh.

Robby:

My condolences

You:

thank you

it was a difficult time

The conversation moved on after that. But later, after you'd gone to sleep and the cabin had settled into silence around him, Robby found himself thinking about the message again.

Not the drinks. Not the guy. But the fact that he'd wanted to know. And the fact he still wasn't entirely sure why.

-

You hadn't really talked about the house sitting arrangement to anyone at work.

It never seemed relevant and, if you were honest, you quite liked having something that belonged entirely to you. That was until Abbot casually asked how it was going in front of Parker and Shen. Both of them had turned so quickly you would have thought they'd rehearsed it.

John loudly slurped through his straw.

You immediately regretted coming into work.

You'd spent the next five minutes trying to explain that, yes, you were staying at Robby's apartment and no, it wasn't a big deal. At the same time, you were reassuring Abbot that everything was fine and that the place was still standing.

Parker wasn't convinced. She waited until the handover was done and everyone had started drifting away before falling into step beside you as you gathered your things from your locker.

You'd only just pulled your phone out when it buzzed. The smile arrived before you could stop it and Parker saw immediately.

"Message from your boyfriend?"

"Just Robby-”

You stopped and looked up to see her already grinning.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

"Haha. Very funny."

"I'm just saying," she replied, holding her hands up in mock surrender. "That man hasn't been here for nearly two months and I've heard his name more than I have some of the attendings who actually work here."

You rolled your eyes. Except the comment lingered because you didn't talk about him that much. Did you?

Sure, you texted most days, you snapped pictures when something made you laugh. You answered when he called and never made a secret of it because, in your mind, there was nothing to hide.

But maybe Parker had a point.

You were always quick to tell people where he was, what he'd been up to, what ridiculous thing he'd sent you that morning. You were also one of maybe three people who actually knew how his sabbatical was going and that felt strangely significant when you stopped to think about it.

Which was exactly why you decided not to think about it. Instead, you bumped your shoulder into Parker's arm.

"Leave me alone."

"Never."

You laughed despite yourself, waved goodbye to everyone and headed out through the main doors.

-

Even without a department full of doctors reminding him, Robby found himself thinking about you more often than he probably should.

Alberta was beautiful, exactly what he'd imagined.

The mountains seemed endless, the lakes impossibly clear and every evening the sky stretched so wide it barely looked real.

He'd come here to breathe. To remember what it felt like to wake up without immediately carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

For the first time in years, it was working and yet every time he stumbled across a view that took his breath away, he caught himself reaching for his phone.

The bear he'd spotted at the edge of a trail or the river he'd nearly slipped into while trying to take a photo. The sunset that turned the entire lake gold. All of it was filed away somewhere in the back of his mind. Something to show you, to tell you later.

He enjoyed those moments for himself, he really did, but there was always a second thought afterwards. A quiet one of she'd like this.

And that was dangerous territory for a man who had left Pittsburgh specifically to be alone.

-

Today had been a bad day for absolutely no reason. Work hadn't been worse than usual. There was no mass casualty or outbreak, no disaster waiting for you.

You'd left almost on time and the handover had been unusually smooth yet, somehow, by the time you found yourself curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine balanced on your knee, you felt like you might burst into tears.

You probably wouldn't but it was comforting to know you could if you wanted to.

The apartment was quiet. A CD hummed softly in the background while the evening light spilled through the windows. You'd been enjoying the solitude for weeks now.

Your phone lit up. A text from Robby. It was just a small update about his day, a picture of a lake with a note underneath telling you there was a viewpoint about a mile from the cabin that you would absolutely love.

You stared at it for a second and then pressed call without thinking.

The phone rang twice.

"Hey, you okay?" He'd answered immediately.

Not because he'd been expecting the call but quite the opposite.

You almost smiled at the concern in his voice.

"Hey. Yeah, I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." A pause. "Can you talk?"

On the other side of the continent, Robby was sitting on the cabin porch with a beer bottle in hand, watching the sky darken over the mountains.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I can talk."

You exhaled. You weren't entirely sure why. Just hearing his voice had already made something feel lighter.

"Bad day?" he asked gently.

"A little."

"Want to talk about it?"

You considered it.

"Not really."

He laughed quietly. "Fair enough."

You took a sip of wine.

"Does it sound stupid if I say I just wanted to hear your voice?"

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

For a moment, all you could hear was the wind moving through the trees on his end of the line. Then Robby shifted in his chair.

"Well," he said, amusement colouring his voice, "I sure feel special."

You groaned. "Don't make it weird.”

"I'm not making it weird."

"You absolutely are."

His laugh settled something warm in your chest.

"I can tell you about the bear I saw today if you need a distraction."

You smiled. "Yes please."

And he did. He told you about the trail, about spotting movement through the trees and realising it was considerably larger than he'd first thought. Halfway through the story your phone buzzed with a picture he'd sent while still talking.

You put him on speaker to zoom in, immediately informing him that he was insane for getting that close. He disagreed.

You told him he was objectively wrong then somehow you were refilling your wine while he wandered into the kitchen for another beer and the conversation simply kept going.

Hours slipped past unnoticed. The topics changed every few minutes. Canadian wildlife became grocery shopping.

Grocery shopping became work which became Dana. Dana became the night you'd gone out with your friends. It felt effortless.

Like no matter what either of you said, the other would find it interesting, as if there were no rush to end the conversation.

Eventually, somewhere between your third glass and his third beer, Robby circled back to something you'd almost forgotten.

"So," he said casually. "Any more plans to go out and let random men buy you drinks?"

You scoffed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sounds suspiciously like jealousy, Michael."

Using his first name felt deliberate. The kind of thing you couldn't take back once it left your mouth.

For a moment he didn't answer and you could almost hear him thinking.

"I think I'm just curious."

"Curious?"

"You mentioned him." His voice was careful now. "And then I spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering whether you actually liked him."

Your stomach flipped unexpectedly.

"And did you come to a conclusion?"

He laughed quietly. "Yeah."

"Which was?"

"That anyone who talks about crypto for ten minutes straight probably doesn't stand a chance."

The warmth that spread through you had nothing to do with the wine. You sank further into the sofa, smiling into your glass.

"Good answer."

For a second neither of you spoke. The silence felt different now, like an awareness blooming.

On the other end of the line, Robby stared out across the darkening lake, suddenly very conscious of the weight in his chest and the dryness in his mouth. He wasn't entirely sure when the conversation had become the best part of his day.

He was even less sure what that meant.

On your end, the wine bottle was looking considerably emptier than when the call had started.

"How much longer have you got out there anyway?" you asked eventually.

He leaned back in his chair.

"Couple more weeks."

You hummed. "A couple?"

"Three."

You did the maths automatically. Three weeks. For some reason that felt shorter than it should have.

"That's weird."

"What is?"

"You coming back."

Robby laughed softly. “I haven't left forever."

"I know."

You picked absentmindedly at the label on your wine bottle.

"Still weird though."

He understood exactly what you meant. The cabin had become normal, so had the mountains. Waking up and sending you a picture of whatever he'd found that day had become normal too.

The thought settled uncomfortably somewhere in his chest.

"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "It is."

For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't awkward, if anything, it felt too honest.

"You'll probably be sick of Pittsburgh again within forty-eight hours."

He laughed.

"Probably."

"And I'll have to move back into my shoebox apartment."

He laughed again.

"You laugh, but I've become accustomed to luxury."

"My apartment is not luxury."

"It has an en-suite."

"It does."

You smiled into your glass.

"I'm gonna miss it."

The words came out before you really thought about them and then, after a beat, you added, "The apartment, I mean."

Robby looked out across the lake. The moonlight stretched across the water in silver streaks. He wasn't entirely sure why that qualifier felt necessary.

"Yeah."

Because he was going to miss something too, he just wasn't sure it was the apartment.

"I'm glad I gave you the keys."

The words slipped out naturally.

"Because I've been such an excellent tenant?"

"Questionable."

You laughed. "Rude."

"You locked yourself out and you don't use coasters."

"That happened one time. And yes I do."

"One time that I know about. And, no you don't."

You shook your head, laughing. "So why are you glad?"

The question hung there. For the first time that evening, Robby didn't answer immediately. He could have made a joke and he probably should have but instead he found himself telling the truth.

"Because otherwise…" He trailed off and you waited. "Otherwise I don't think we'd have ever talked like this."

Something in your chest tightened, just enough to make you still. The sounds around you seemed to disappear for a second. The music, hum of the refrigerator, everything.

"Yeah."

It came out quieter than you'd intended. Because he was right.

Without the apartment, he would've stayed your attending, you his resident. You would've chatted during shifts and maybe grabbed a beer with a group after work once or twice.

But this? The hours spent on the phone, the daily messages, knowing what the other person had for dinner. Sharing parts of yourselves that had nothing to do with medicine.

None of that would've happened.

"I guess not."

Robby stared down at the bottle in his hand. His pulse felt oddly loud.

"Would've been a shame."

The words were barely above a murmur. Honest enough that neither of you quite knew what to do with them. You swallowed. Suddenly very aware of the warmth spreading through your stomach.

And not because of the wine.

Another silence settled between you but this one felt different. It felt full. Like there was something sitting quietly between the two of you that hadn't been there before. Or maybe it had and neither of you had looked directly at it until now.

"Yeah," you said softly. "It would've."

For a second, neither of you spoke, neither of you hung up either.

Somewhere between Alberta and Pittsburgh, with a lake outside one window and city lights outside the other, it felt like the conversation had shifted onto unfamiliar ground.

Not enough to turn back yet not enough to move forward. Just enough that both of you knew something had changed.

-

The next morning arrived with a headache.

Not a catastrophic one, just enough of one to remind you that two glasses of wine had somehow become four and how you clearly couldn't handle your booze anymore.

Thank god it was your day off. You'd spent most of the morning moving slowly, making a trip to the store for supplies before returning to the apartment with a bag full of groceries, painkillers and absolutely no intention of leaving the house again.

After a shower, you pulled on an oversized t-shirt, climbed into bed and put something mindless on the TV. You weren't really watching it. Your attention kept drifting back to your phone. In between doom scrolling TikTok, you kept flipping to your messages.

Nothing from Robby.

You told yourself it was normal since he was a couple of hours behind. He could still be asleep or hiking, he could be doing literally anything.

Still, your thumb hovered over the conversation and you found yourself thinking through parts of last night's call. Especially the end.

Would've been a shame.

You groaned and tossed the phone onto the bed beside you. "Get a grip."

The phone buzzed almost immediately.

You grabbed it so fast it was actually embarrassing.

Robby:

Morning

You:

afternoon actually

Robby:

Right

How's the hangover?

You:

presumptuous much?

Robby:

I'll take that as confirmation

You:

i’ve survived worse

Robby:

Doctor approved medical assessment

You:

exactly

The conversation stayed comfortably familiar at first. Small things, nothing important. What he'd done that morning and what you were doing now. The weather in Canada versus Pittsburgh. The coffee he'd burnt.

You laughed quietly at something he'd sent and snapped a quick picture in response.

Mostly intending to show him the disaster of snacks you'd surrounded yourself with on the bed.

You hit send before really looking at it.

A few moments passed, longer than usual. You frowned.

You:

???

The typing bubbles appeared.

Robby:

You know you're in that photo right?

You opened the image again. Your stomach immediately dropped.

Between the blankets and the snacks was a very obvious stretch of bare leg disappearing beneath the hem of your t-shirt. If you zoomed you could definitely see the edge of lace from your panties.

Heat crept into your cheeks.

You:

well

too late now

His reply took a little longer this time.

Robby:

Suppose it is

Something about the message felt different though you couldn't have explained why.

The conversation slowed. Not because either of you wanted it to end but because both of you seemed suddenly aware of it. Aware of each other.

You:

you're being weird

Robby:

I am not

You:

you absolutely are

Robby:

And what if I'm just thinking?

You:

dangerous

Robby:

That's rich coming from you

You laughed and the tension eased for a moment then returned just as quickly. The phone sat warm in your hand. Neither of you quite saying what was on your mind.

Both of you hovering suspiciously close to it.

Then-

A knock sounded at the apartment door. You sat upright.

"Oh for god's sake."

You:

one sec

Robby:

What?

You:

someones here

terrible timing honestly

Robby:

That sounds ominous

You:

don't go anywhere

Robby:

Wasn't planning on it

You tossed the phone onto the bed and headed for the door.

When you pulled it open, Abbot stood on the other side with two coffees in hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Jack?"

"Good afternoon."

You stared. He stared back.

"Why are you here?"

"Robby asked me to check the place hadn't burned down."

You folded your arms.

"And?"

Jack looked past you.

"Still standing."

By the time Abbot eventually left, the afternoon had slipped away with him. He'd actually brought you coffee because he was passing by, knew Robby cared about you and wanted to check in. Sweet actually.

Your conversation with Robby had fizzled into a couple of harmless messages before disappearing entirely which somehow felt worse. Because now you were thinking about it and judging by the phone call that arrived later that evening, so was he.

You answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"I can't believe you left me hanging like that."

You laughed immediately. "Excuse me?"

"We were having a conversation."

"Jack showed up at your apartment."

"And somehow that's my fault?"

"Everything's your fault."

His laugh crackled through the speaker.

"You know," he said, quieter this time, "I did actually spend the next few hours wondering what happened."

Your heart stumbled slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause. Comfortable but dangerous.

"Well," you said, settling deeper into the sofa. "Lucky for you, I'm free now."

The silence on the other end lasted just long enough to make your stomach flip. Then Robby laughed softly.

"Good."

The word settled somewhere low and God you hated that it did. Or maybe you loved it. Either way, you found yourself smiling into the darkness of the apartment.

"You sound very pleased with yourself."

"I am."

You laughed softly.

"Because I answered the phone?"

"Because I was beginning to think Abbot had kidnapped you."

"Trust me, if he'd kidnapped me, you'd know about it."

You eased into conversation again, tucking yourself deeper beneath the blanket, listening to him talk about a trail he'd found that morning. He was halfway through describing some impossible view over a lake when he suddenly stopped.

"Can I ask you something?"

You frowned. "Depends."

"That picture earlier."

Your pulse immediately betrayed you. "What about it?"

There was a pause. "Nothing."

You laughed. "That's not how questions work."

"I know."

"So?"

Another pause. You could practically hear him weighing his words.

"I just didn't realise you'd sent it like that."

Heat crept up your neck.

"Like what?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

Unfortunately, you did.

The worst part was how carefully he was speaking. How neither of you was actually saying anything and yet somehow both of you knew exactly what the other was talking about.

"It was an accident."

"I figured."

"You sound disappointed at that."

The silence that followed lasted a fraction too long. Your breath caught, just slightly. Then Robby laughed low and quiet.

"That's a dangerous thing to accuse me of."

You stared at the ceiling. Very aware of the oversized t-shirt you were still wearing and how your nipples were suddenly hard beneath it.

"I think you've become a lot more confident since Alberta."

"Oh yeah? Is that a bad thing?" he asked.

"No, it's kinda sexy actually." You laughed, so did he. Then a second passed and you felt the boldness creep in, so much so it decided your next move. "Do you want me to send another?"

You could practically hear Robby choke on his own breath and in the time he tried to get on top of his words, you'd pulled the blanket away, your phone up high with the front camera on, snapping a pic that showed a lot more than the last.

This time it was the bottom of your face, lips plump and pouty, your t-shirt tugged 'innocently' higher to give way to the band of your panties flashed across your hip. Your legs were crossed, not for the picture but to try and ease the now insatiable ache between them. As for your nipples? There was no denying they were the star of the show.

You sent it before thinking twice.

"Fuck." Robby breathed and you knew he was looking right at you.

"Is that better?"

You heard him take a deep breath and could imagine the blush on his cheeks. "You're gonna be the death of me."

You couldn't help but smile. His voice had gotten lower, a little huskier, almost like he was out of breath.

"Robby?"

"Yeah?" He breathed.

"What are we doing?"

He took a minute to answer. Not sure of what he should say, what he wanted to say. "I don't know." You couldn't see but he rubbed his face over his hand, coming to rest at the base of his neck. "I don't fucking know."

He was sat on the sofa at the cabin. The fire was going, lights dim and warm. Ever since you'd sent that first picture he'd been tight against his jeans but then you sent another and fuck, his hand came to adjust himself over the denim.

"But I'm not sure I can pretend I'm thinking of anything other than that picture right now."

You felt a little smug. That was, after all, why you sent it. It was so nice to feel sexy, for someone to be looking at you the way he was, someone you wanted to see you this way.

"Yeah? What you thinking about?" You knew what you were doing. Knew how it would draw the last breath out of him but you also knew you'd crossed a line and there was no going back. Not that you wanted to.

Your hands trailed over yourself, light touches over the cotton of your t-shirt. Your body jolted when finger tips ghosted the outline of a nipple, trailing left to pay the other as much attention. Fuck, it felt good.

Robby knew the pair of you were in dangerous territory but god, he wanted to be there. His head fell back in disbelief, as if he were mad at himself for what he was about to tell you over the phone.

His resident.

"You touching yourself in my apartment." He paused, waiting to see if he'd taken it too far only to hear a quiet moan from you in response. "Playing with yourself in the guest bedroom..."

"I am." Your hand snaked from your tits slowly to your panties, cupping yourself over the lace and that's when you felt it. "Fuck Robby I'm really wet…”

Jesus Christ. He felt himself jolt against his own hand, the one that was palming the growing outline of his cock.

"Fuck, baby. You're really trying to kill me huh?" He huffed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief that this was happening. Almost three months of texts, phone calls, voice notes. A camera roll shared, bad days eased by mindless humour and companionship. A relationship built on all of that.

"You want me to go to your bed?" You almost panted down the line as you moved against your hand. "Fuck myself in your sheets?"

"Shit," He exhaled.

"You want that?"

"Yeah…" His reply was too fast and he cursed himself for it. But all he wanted was the image of you, two fingers deep, coming to his voice while soaking his bed spread. "Please baby, do it for me."

And with that, you got up. He heard rustling down the line as you made your way from the guest bed to Robby's. It wasn't a room you'd gone in much. You'd said you were going to snoop through his drawers, his closet just to be nosy but turns out you had too much respect for his privacy. That was months ago. Now you were crawling onto the bed, setting your phone on speaker next to you as you positioned yourself right in the middle.

Robby was waiting patiently. He'd done no more than rub himself a few times over his jeans, grinding a little into his hand but then knowing it'd be too much and he'd end up blowing his load like a teenager. Instead, he waited. For you. To enjoy you.

You laid your head back against his pillows, inhaling him as if he were right next to you. "Mmm, smells like you in here." You said quietly. "It's like you're here."

He wished he was there. You did too. Wished it was his fingers swiping through your wetness, dipping into your panties and feeling how worked up you'd got from sending him one (not even) dirty photo.

"Tell me what you're doing." It felt like an order even though it wasn't and your pussy jumped at the idea. "Wanna hear you."

"Fuck. 'M rubbing myself over my panties." You whispered lightly. "Wanna take them off."

"Take them off baby." He'd hoped you'd throw them to the side and forget, only for him to find them on his return. "Spread your legs, let me hear."

It'd be hard for him not to hear with how soaked you were.

It was amazing how one phone conversation and suddenly this is how you found yourself, legs open for Michael Robinavitch.

With your panties gone, you anchored your legs apart. Fingers sliding through your dripping slit, gathering your arousal to swirl it in tight circles around your clit. The slick sounds filled the room, they filled the cabin too.

Robby couldn't take it anymore. You heard the sound of metal, a belt unbuckling before a zip slid down in haste. He freed himself, pulling his cock from his boxers, thick and hard. He was leaking from the tip, all red and worked up just from listening to you. It felt so fucking good when he finally stroked himself.

"Oh fuck." He tried to bite it back, failing miserably.

That was music to your ears.

"You hard for me Robby?"

"You have no idea. Feels so fuckin good, thinking about you." He fucked his fist nice and slow, wanting this to last and despite his cock not being inside you, he wanted you to cum first.

You decide it wasn't enough. After all this time, the calls and the pictures, you needed to see him. And you wanted him to see you.

"Wanna see you." You picked up your phone, hand still working your pussy. "Can I face- face time you?" Your words faltered a little as your fingers sped up, rubbing your sensitive clit.

Robby froze for a second. He'd got this worked up just by thinking of you in such a state and now, you were actually going to show him?

"Mhmm, yeah."

And within a second you'd pressed the button the change this to a video call. When he accepted, he saw the dark room lit by a single bedside lamp. You'd slowed your motions for a second, to pick up the phone properly and see him for the first time in months.

"Hey." You smiled, like it didn't matter what the pair of you had been doing just seconds ago. You were so happy to see his face. The slight tan he'd caught, his greyed out beard and stubble around the neck.

"Hey." He couldn't help but smile too. Knowing your hands were down your pants but not being able to get past the heat in your cheeks, how your hair had fallen across the bed and despite stating you had a hangover, you were fucking glowing.

He pondered it for a second, how he might have not noticed this before. The way your eyes narrowed when you smiled, how you looked at him.

"You look beautiful."

That might have turned you on more than anything in the last fifteen minutes. You were breathless, a little wrecked, in disbelief at any of this.

Then you set the phone down on the bedside table to free up your hands. That's when you pulled off the t-shirt entirely, leaving your perfect tits in plain view for Robby to see.

His eyes grew wide as he surveyed every inch of your skin before you laid back into the cushions as you were before, shifting to your side facing the phone.

"Is this what you were thinking about?" You snaked your hand back down to your cunt, dipping in but not all the way, just enough for Robby to hear the slick mess.

"Even better." His hand slowly started to work on himself again, matching your rhythm as he held the phone in front of him.

Your mouth parted when you finally sank a finger inside, then another. Two digits curled deep in your pussy, rolling your hips against them and you never took your eyes off him.

"Fuck Robby." You sped your motions a little, so did he. "Wish it was your fingers, wish it was you inside me."

You weren't sure where it came from. The filthy tongue, the boldness. You weren't shy in bed but he was your boss. The boss you were innocently house sitting for until you decided to get attached.

"Christ." He bit back a moan at your obscenity. "Imagine it's me baby." He started fucking his fist faster, wishing it was your pussy. "Imagine it's my cock deep inside you, I'd fuck you so good, make you feel so fucking good."

It dropped from his tongue with little effort. He thought about how much he wanted to be buried inside you, how he'd wanted that for a while and was too scared to admit it.

"Mmmph Robbyyyy." You whined his name, breathing hard, riding your fingers as you felt the coil tighten in your belly. "Let me see you."

He did the same as you, positioning the phone on the side table that sat at the same height as the sofa. It left him in view from the waist up, free hand roaming his covered chest, the other pumping his cock hard.

You watched him intently. Heard the sounds of precum slickening his strokes as his hips drove up with every beat.

"Fuck I'm close-” You worked yourself with both hands, two buried to the knuckle and the other rubbing your clit with such ferocity. "Really fucking close Robby I think I'm gonna cum soon."

"Cum for me angel, let me see. Such a good girl."

Your hands worked even faster and suddenly, the coil snapped with words of praise and you were coming in Robby's bed.

"Oh my god oh my-” Then silence, your body went rigid as you clamped your hands hard, riding out the most intense orgasm you'd had in years.

You were a sight for sore eyes. Mouth wide open, tits bouncing with every movement and all it took was your guttoral moans for Robby to feel himself close to the edge too. He was fucking himself so hard and fast, it was almost a blur on screen until you heard him pant, a strangled "Uh uh uh" and then-

"I'm gonna cum baby oh fuck-”

You watched him spill his load all over his hand. Thick white ropes dripped down his knuckles, marking his jeans as he stroked himself through it, twitching at his now very sensitive cockhead.

You were both left breathless and sweaty, each reaching for your respective phones.

"You-” He was trying so hard to catch his breath. "-are something else."

You both laughed breathlessly. Fuck, this felt good.

You stayed on the phone for hours after until he ordered you to bed. Told you to sleep well, that he'd be thinking of you.

And that night was the best sleep of your life.

-

Everything felt different after that night except it also all stayed the same.

You spoke every day. Called most nights, FaceTimed, voice noted when you were cooking dinner or carrying groceries. But now it seemed like nothing was left unsaid, that you were both being honest with each other. It was amazing.

The only thing eating away at you right before you fell asleep was the idea this might end. When the three weeks crept closer, when the sabbatical would end. Would everything go back to how it was before?

"Hey can I ask you something?" You broke mid conversation.

"Anything."

"When this is over. Your sabbatical I mean. When you come back and I'm not here." You trailed off slightly. "...Will this all go away?"

There was silence on the line for a second.

"Not if I have anything to do with it."

Your smile reached your ears. Good because-” You inhaled deeply. "I don't think I can go back."

-

You worked like a dog over the next four days.

At one point you'd even picked up a double because Lena had practically begged for night shift cover, and despite every intention of saying no, somehow you'd found yourself agreeing anyway.

It meant you barely saw daylight all week and you didn't get to speak to Robby much either. Not in the way either of you would've liked.

You checked in between shifts, during breaks and whenever you made it home with enough energy to keep your eyes open. He'd send the occasional text during the day, but most of your conversations happened at night. Sometimes a quick call, sometimes longer if exhaustion didn't drag you under first.

It was a brutal four days. By the end of it you were running almost entirely on caffeine and stubbornness, convinced you'd briefly developed double vision somewhere around shift three.

When you finally crawled into bed at the end of it all, you slept hard.

Since your FaceTime call, you hadn't stepped foot in the guest room. Every night you ended up in Robby's bed instead, tangled in his sheets and surrounded by things that smelled faintly like him.

He loved knowing that.

Day five arrived with something close to actual rest. You woke around nine and, for the first time all week, didn't feel like death.

After a shower you made coffee, pulled on some loungewear that wasn't technically pyjamas and settled onto the sofa with every intention of finally finishing the book you'd started at the beginning of all this.

You'd texted Robby before getting in the shower. There was still no reply. You assumed he was asleep or hiking or somewhere without signal. Either way, you weren't worried.

Twenty-five minutes later there was a knock at the door. You sighed immediately.

It had to be Jack.

Apparently nobody trusted you to spend three months in an apartment unsupervised.

Already preparing your speech, you marched towards the door and pulled it open.

The words died in your throat.

"Robby."

For a second your brain simply stopped working. Because Robby was supposed to be in Canada. Robby was supposed to be another two thousand miles away. Robby was supposed to be a voice coming through your phone speaker. Not standing in front of you.

"Hey."

His smile spread slowly across his face, tired and genuine all at once. His cheeks were pink from the road and his eyes looked glassy around the edges, like he'd spent too many hours behind the handlebars and not nearly enough sleeping.

You stared. "What are you doing here?"

He laughed softly. "Good to see you too."

"No, seriously." You gestured vaguely at him and the doorway. What are you doing here? You were in Canada. That's like-" Your brain searched desperately for a number. "It's like five thousand miles."

"Not quite."

"Robby-”

He kissed you.

Just stepped across the threshold and kissed you.

His hands came up to cup your face as he guided you backwards into the apartment, the front door swinging shut somewhere behind him.

Every thought disappeared. All the questions and confusion, gone.

Because he was here, after months of messages and phone calls and hearing his voice through a screen, he was finally here. The last four days worked in his favour, you being so busy. He'd hit the road almost immediately, covering far too much mileage to be considered safe. All to make it back to you.

You kissed him back immediately, both hungry and relieved. Like you were making up for every mile that had sat between Alberta and Pittsburgh.

When he finally pulled away, it was only far enough to look at you, forehead resting against yours.

"Two and a half thousand miles," he corrected quietly.

You laughed.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

"You know," you murmured, fingers still wrapped around his wrists, "this is a very dramatic way to get your keys back."

Robby laughed, the sound warm and familiar.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His thumbs swept across your cheeks.

“Good thing I never came back for the keys”

Your heart squeezed.

The women freeze. In front of you, they turn their heads slightly, enough to send one another questioning looks, but not enough that you can get a proper look at their puzzled expressions. You place your hand on two of their shoulders, pulling the women apart to breach the bodied prison they created.

"Should one not listen to the king? Or do you listen only to me?" You ask, now looking the women in the eyes. At their furrowed brows, you continue, "If that is the case, then I shall dismiss you."

They pause. In the moment of silence, nobody moves.

You roll your eyes, “I have dismissed you! Enjoy the respite. I will fetch you once I have spoken with the king.”

The women scramble. One-by-one, they exit your chambers until it is only you and Dana. She purses her lips, not bothering to conceal her displeasure as she regards you.

“I will be at the door, my lady,” Dana states. Her voice is softer than it had be with the king. It reminds you of the tone she used on the day of your arrival. That evening, your maidenhood had been verified. Throughout the ordeal, the lady held your hand, comforting you.

In fact, Lady Dana has made a great effort to comfort you in this foreign land. You fear that if it were not for her kindness, the marriage before you would be far more daunting. However, her guiding hand has greatly soothed the nerves that would otherwise have suffocated you.

“Do not hesitate to beckon me,” says the lady.

“Thank you,” you nod. “I shall not.”

Dana smiles at you before her departure. A rare treat, but one you cannot dwell upon, as she is swiftly followed by the king.

Michael is dressed in fine garb. Furs adorn his shoulder, brought together in the front with a brooch of gold and sparkling jewels similar to the ones that adorn your neck and ears. He wears no crown, nor is he followed by the small armada of knights that seems to always be within his arm’s reach.

Without then, Michael is far more human than he has been in all the three days since your arrival. Though, you suppose you have not made the best first impression either. You cannot imagine that the king was flattered by your first meeting, when you had disregarded the older man as your possible betrothed.

“You have not run away,” Michael says.

“I would never, my lord,” you assure. “Is that what you have come here for?”

Michael smiles, “Perhaps a man of my stature should not let himself be driven by fear.”

“Well,” you motion to yourself. “I pray my presence eases your fears, my lord.”

The king laughs softly. You’re struck by how dissimilar it is to the laughs of other men, who have oft used their bark to berate and belittle you. Though, you suppose that as queen very few men will be able to succeed in such future attempts.

“Do not call me that,” he says softly. “We are to be wed, are we not?

Your reply comes quick, “Yes, my lord.” You clamp your mouth shut, shaking your head. “Pardon my lapse of tongue, Michael.”

The king grins. He bows before you, “I look forward to hearing you call me that on the altar, my lady.”

“Seriously? But you’re so young and gorgeous” Cassie remarked in surprise.

“And you are literally the nicest person ever, anyone would be lucky to have you, let alone him” Samira added.  

“Oh stop,” you let out a nervous laugh at their compliments, “I don’t know, just never have, plus I don’t think Robby would waste his time on someone like me”

“And he shouldn’t” Dana’s harsh tone cut through the giggles of you both, “You’re one of my best nurses and you don’t need to be with an old man like him sweetheart, too much baggage”

It wasn't a secret that you held a torch for him, always watching him for a second too long or how you hung onto every word he spoke. He could tell you were infatuated, he could also tell that you were shy when it came to flirtations. Robby had always chalked it up to you being young and your overall personality. But now he knew the truth, he knew you weren’t just young, you had also never been touched before. 

That small tidbit of information had Robby locking himself in the bathroom and promptly wrapping a hand around his already achingly hard and leaking cock. Jerking himself off to the idea of your untouched cunt being stretched over his thick length. The image conjured in his mind had him cumming hard and fast into the bathroom sink.

Robby really shouldn’t be thinking of you like this, you were more than half his age, hell he just attended your 26th birthday outing with everyone at your insistence. You had begged him saying how he never comes to these get togethers and that him coming out could be your present. Of course he caved as you stuck that pouty little bottom lip out. He could never truly say no to you; he just liked to make you beg. 

And he was grateful that you had because when he got to the bar and saw what you were wearing, he was sure he was about to combust. Your hair was down instead of its usual up-do for work, and your little black dress was so short and tight that if you bent over in a certain way he was able to catch a peek at your red lacey underwear. He was especially grateful when all of the seats at the table were taken when you made your way back from the bar with two more shots in your hand, and the only place to sit was his lap. 

Hours later and many more drinks you were all but falling asleep on his chest rocking your hips unknowingly across his growing bulge almost as if you were attempting to soothe yourself. If Robby was a better man, he would have stopped it. He would have stood you up and offered you the seat to yourself, but he wasn’t a better man. Even less so when you mumbled into his ear a soft ‘feels s’good’ followed by ‘need you mikey’. Never in your time of working with him had you called him Mikey or any other version of his first name, it was always Robby just like everyone else. 

But here you were practically begging for him by name to take care of you, and he really couldn’t say no to you. So he allowed you to continue your movements with small praises and encouragement from him ‘that's it sweetheart, just like that’ or ‘being such a good girl f’me’ until a soft whine leapt from your throat. He could feel the clenching and fluttering of your cunt through his jeans. And if when he went home later that night slid off his pants and inhaled the deep musky scent and small wet patch you left behind while fucking his fist, well that was his buisness. 

You had been too far gone to realize what you were doing or what you were saying, nor did you remember it the next day. But Robby remembered, he remembered how much you needed him to take charge. And he was going to make sure you were always going to need him, that anything you wanted could only be satisfied by him, that he was the only one you sought out for such things. Because no one was going to satisfy you like he could. No one would care for you like he already has, a worse man would have taken advantage of you for his own pleasure but not him. He let you take what you needed with no expectation of repayment, mostly because that would come later. He just needed you to come to him first, wait for that perfect moment to strike.

____________________________________

A little over a week has passed since your birthday. Over a week of trying to have faith in your vibrator that you secretly named Robby, but alas no luck. Every time you would get right at the edge; cunt fluttering, cord pulled tight in your lower stomach, and then nothing. You have tried every video that seemed to fit your preference (usually ones with older men), erotic audios (that sounded like Robby), and just plain old imagination (of Robby). Absolutely nothing was working and it had begun to make you lose your cool after being unintentionally edged by none other than yourself for a long time. 

It was getting to the point that you feared there may be something wrong with you. Which is how you found yourself at work talking to Dana and Mckay, they always seemed like they would have all the answers. Making them the perfect pair to ask if they knew what may be happening. Except they weren't the only ones you were spilling this to, because as always Robby managed to be somewhere close around when it came to you. So once again he found himself privy to a conversation that definitely wasn’t for him.

“Uhm I had a question I wanted to ask you two, do you- do you guys ever” you took a deep grounding breath before spilling your thoughts, “everhaveahardtimegettingoff?”

Chuckles erupted from the two women as they took a moment to decipher what you had just mumbled. And once they did, both of them turned their full attention towards you for the clearly very personal problem you’re having. 

“Well when I first started Zoloft I did” Cassie nodded with eyes that looked like they were remembering the time, “It took a while for me to really find a want or ability to, finish if you will”

“Yeah but I’m not on any SSRI’s” and God help Robby, you genuinely whined and stomped your foot when you spoke.

“Take a breath there big girl” Dana laughed at your display of annoyance, "What's been going on is it like lack of want or just plain inability?” 

“It’s definitely not lack of want. But it’s just ever since my birthday I’ve had a hard time like finishing I guess” hands run down your face in embarrassment, you’ve never had this problem before and didn’t know how to talk about it, “I always get really close and I can feel it but then it just goes away like im missing something.

Your little confession had Robby basking in how the stars were aligning just for him, because he knew exactly why your sweet little cunt wouldn’t respond. After just one orgasm on top of his jean-covered cock she would only respond to him, only wanting him. You already needed him and he hadn’t even truly done anything to you. He had to play it safe, take it little by little to see just how much he already affected you.

So Robby started out small, every time you had gone looking for a doctor to give report to or if you needed medications revised he made sure that he was always the one who answered and filled out the scripts. Or vice versa whenever he needed a nurse he called for you followed by a slight ‘ah ah ah’ if you were walking past him. But if he was feeling really risky he used two taps to your hip just light enough to have you second guessing his intentions. But it was always followed with instructions or requests, meaning you had to give him your full attention afterwards instead of focusing on his behavior. And to his surprise it only took half a shift before he saw you begin to respond to his behaviors. 

Instead of asking for any available doctors you began just asking for Dr. Robby. And if someone told you he wasn’t available followed by a ‘anything I can do?’ you would kindly say ‘no that’s okay’, because you were just going to wait for Robby. He knows what you need.

And when a trauma was called in all he had to do was tap your hip twice when he was nearby or if you were passing him by a slight ‘ah ah’ and you would stop dead in your tracks and look up at him with wide waiting eyes. It was such a beautiful sight for Robby, and he was waiting for the right moment to see just how much your subconscious remembers from that night. Clearly it remembers his touch and control, but did it remember his voice? 

It was a run of the mill trauma call that you were working with Robby, Whitaker, and Trinity, along with several other nurses. Everyone had a clear job, and yours seemed to be Robby’s assistant. Every move he made he called you for a counter position. Currently he was intubating a patient and called for you to do counter tracheal pressure so that he could see the cords better.

“Okay, now back, up, and to the right f’me” Robby instructed you as he glanced at the scope trying to catch the sight of cords.

You followed his direction slowly and carefully so as to not cause more trauma to his airway since it was already swollen closed. However, you almost lost the traction when Robby muttered his next words.

“That's it sweetheart, just like that” 

His words were so quiet, so simple, yet heat aggressively infiltrated your body. Your all but dead pussy came back to life from the week off she took. Feeling how you fluttered so easily at his words, the rush of fluid that now coated the inside of your underwear. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been so aroused so suddenly, taking a deep breath you composed your expression as quickly as you could so no one would notice.

But Robby did. He noticed everything, especially when it’s a reaction he was really hoping to cause. Advancing the tube, he took a moment to gauge your reaction to his words. The very same ones he mentioned to you that night in the club. And much to his enjoyment you stood to his left frozen with wide eyes. Chancing a glance down to your legs he saw they were clamped tight together. He watched as you sped out of the room the moment the patient was moved to the OR. Allowing you to get a few steps ahead before following. 

You all but ran to your locker, praying that you remembered to pack an extra change of clothes in your bag. You normally always did, never knowing if you were going to end up with bodily fluids that weren’t yours splashed on your scrubs. Thanking every power that be you saw a new pair of underwear tucked in the bottom. Speeding to the bathroom you barely took the time to lock the stall before pulling down your bottoms, convinced that you must’ve started your period with how damp everything felt. 

But all you were met with was clear sticky arousal, and lots of it. Without dwelling too much on why or how it happened you switched out the old pair for the new one you grabbed from your locker. Bunching up the old pair you stuck your head out of the door making quick work of getting to your locker and stuffing the soiled underwear in the back of your locker. Taking one more look around you saw the coast was clear before heading back to the floor. 

The hallways weren't as clear as you thought. Robby had been watching you from the ends of the hallways, catching how you grabbed a small piece of fabric before ducking into the bathroom for a mere 5 minutes. He knew you wouldn’t notice him, he knew you very well. He also knew that you hated combination locks, instead preferring a key. One that you always kept hooked on the top of your water bottle, easy enough for him to unclip it and wait it out. 

As soon as you walked into a patient's room, it was his turn to head to your locker. A slight click sounded as he turned the key, opening the door he saw the black balled up fabric that you had thrown in the back. Picking it up he folded them as small as possible and transferred it to his bag. But not before pushing them against his nose and inhaling your musky scent deep into his lungs. And just because he could, Robby unfolded them once more and spotted the damp center. Before anyone could see if they walked by, he licked a stripe up the gusset collecting whatever he could onto his tongue. 

The sharp tangy taste dulled only slightly by the fabric buzzed within his brain. A deep groan was pulled from his chest, followed by a low fuck. However, footsteps sounded from behind him causing him to shove your underwear into his bag and walking off. But not before promising himself to get that taste straight from the source. He was planning on waiting more than a singular shift, but if anything your underwear was more than enough confirmation that you wanted it just as bad. To hell with waiting.

By the end of shift you were exhausted, mentally and physically. You had spent the rest of the day avoiding Robby, scared of what may happen since you only had the one extra pair. One that you were actively searching for in your locker before clocking out. You could’ve sworn they were at the back of your cubby, but you must’ve slipped it into your bag since they weren't there. Thinking nothing of it for much longer you said your goodbyes to everyone as you made your way out the ambulance bay towards the bus stop. 

“Look at you headed out on time” that deep drawl you’d been avoiding creeps out from the other side of the doors. 

“Oh Dr. Robby I uhm-” it was honestly sad watching you try and speak. 

“Michael”

“Huh?”

“I want you to call me Michael” he stepped closer to you, crowding your space more than he should’ve. 

You attempted to back up but only made it a step and a half before your back hit the concrete wall. His large brown eyes held yours as he waited for your response. One that took you more than a beat too long to respond to.

“Yes?” He decided to prompt you out of your stupor, eyebrows raising in question.

“Y-yes Dr. Robb- I mean Michael” 

“Alright come on sweetheart let’s get you home” his hand rested against your side as if to guide you to his car.

But you didn’t move, too stunned and confused about what was happening in this moment. There were too many thoughts racing through your mind that it blocked your ability to walk. All of which were silenced at the slightest of touches from the man who caused those very thoughts.

Tap tap 

A large hand tapped your thigh twice, it had you snapping your eyes in his direction once more, the action happening before you even had the ability to process the touches. This time with no wild self monologues or reasons why you shouldn’t. Just him. And you found yourself nodding okay, as you followed him through the parking lot leading you to his truck not even worrying about how you left your own car in the garage.

The drive to your house wasn’t long, but Robby had a hand on the inside of your knee the entire time. You were sure he didn’t do it on purpose (he did) it must be where he normally rests his hand in the car. You really were trying your best to ignore it, trying not to let yourself make him uncomfortable by showing just how much his touch turned you on. He was being so kind and driving you home late at night, and here you were hopelessly trying not to let him see you grind your hips in small circles for any type of friction. 

Robby noticed though, he always did when it came to you. He didn’t say anything yet not wanting to scare you off, it wasn’t until you accidentally let out a small whine at a particularly strong press of the seam against your clit. The already low noise atmosphere had gone completely silent afterwards, almost as if the both of you were holding your breath. 

“I-I’m so sorry M-Michael,” the sweet stutter of you calling his name and the slow fill of tears in your eyes had his cock swelling in an instant, “I d-didn’t mean”

“Hey, hey, sweetheart it’s okay” He was never more appreciative of timing, as he parked on the side of the street in front of your complex.

“No i-it’s not. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable” burying your face in your hands you don't see him adjust his pants nor do you see him smirk at your words. 

“I’m not sweetheart I promise, in fact im flattered” Robby’s words were coated in honey luring you exactly where he wanted you, “It’s natural to have needs don’t be embarrassed” 

“I know, it just took me by surprise” you mumbled out feeling less scared knowing he wasn’t mad or on the verge of reporting you to HR.

“Surprised by what?”

“It’s so embarrassing” He knew what you didn’t want to tell him but he was going to get what he wanted. He always did. So he held your chin with his hand and tilted your face towards his. 

“Ah ah ah, need you to tell me so I know you’re okay” Robby was a goner, three small syllables had you spilling everything less than 12 hours after he even began training you. 

“I just have been having problems with finishing and I wasn’t expecting your hand to feel so good. But it's just so big and warm, I really didn’t mean to I just haven’t been so close to someone eve- I mean in so long-”

“Do you want help?” His words had you immediately stopping your rant and near slip up. 

“I-I” you were taken by surprise at his offer but you couldn't stop your words before they tumbled out too blinded by lust, “yes please Mikey” 

Five minutes, that's all it took from the time you said yes in the car to now on your bed completely naked. You complained at first saying you should take a shower but he just shushed your worries and helped you strip out of your scrubs. Hips positioned at the edge of your bed Robby was fully clothed himself as he knelt down (with a groan and crack of his knees), face level with your glistening cunt. He took a moment to just take in the sight, massaging your thighs before placing a few feather light kisses to the inner part, the feeling had you gasping out in surprise.

“OH, uhm you don’t have to do that. You can just use this” 

Propping yourself on your elbows you go to begin rummaging through your bedside table for your vibrator before your body is pulled back. 

“And why would I do that when I have a perfectly good mouth and fingers?” Robby’s face scrunched in confusion, “Do you not want me to?”

“No, god no! I just know most guys don’t like that and well I don't exactly have much experience- with that I mean.” There you went mumbling again.

Robby just melted at your shyness, his sweet girl didn’t want to tell him exactly how inexperienced she was. So instead of continuing with more words, he chose to instead bring his middle finger to you. Parting the soft curls that covered your glistening folds as he took his time in committing the sight to his memory. Once his finger was coated in your arousal ever so gently he began to ease his way into your warmth. Watching as your eyes flutter closed and mouth drops open in a breathy gasp at the intrusion. 

“Oh fuck, yes Mikey please” That damn nickname, one that you didn’t realize you had said once before today. But he did, and he was reveling in how your body and deep memories remembered him even when you couldn’t.

His slow languid pace had that familiar dull pressure building up quicker than you could’ve ever imagined. When he added that second finger your brows scrunched at the intrusion, the stretch was more than three of your fingers ever felt like. Your walls were already fluttering just from this. 

“That’s it, being such a good girl f’me” 

His words rattled around your brain and settled deep into your core. You weren’t sure why they sounded familiar, assuming it was from the many nights of you imagining what he would say to you. But there was barely any time to think too deeply about it because his mouth latched directly onto you. Burying his nose into the soft flesh and inhaling your scent before he licked a strip from where his fingers were and up to your clit.

“OH SHIT MICHAEL!” His full name was ripped from your chest. Back arching to chase the sensation once again.

His broad tongue flattened out; moving up and down, then circling your swollen clit. Robby was full on making out with your cunt. Letting out low vibrating grunts that had you wondering if you could ever use your vibrator again. 

And Robby, he was in heaven. Moving his fingers in and out in a similar rhythm that matched his mouth. Slyly unzipping his cargo’s he pulled out his hard cock and began pumping himself from base to tip letting his own arousal drip shamelessly onto the floor. He wanted this to last forever, wanted your scent burned into his brain and the taste of your cum imprinted into his taste buds. However, all too soon your whines began to pitch into small oh’s. Your toes curled and hips ground into his face chasing that edge that had been evading you for the last long week. 

With thighs clamping around his head, the tight cord finally snapped you all but sighed in relief. Tears filled your eyes as you finally came around his fingers, you expected him to slow down as the fluttering slowed. Instead Robby never slowed down his rhythm, if anything he sped up. His fingers that had been gently thrusting switched into a smooth movement that switched between a come-hither movement and into a scissoring motion. 

“I don't think, Mi-ikey” The slow dissipating fluttering began to strengthen not a full minute after your first orgasm, “fuck, don’t think I can do another”

“You can do it, just one more sweetheart. I just need a little longer” He pulls away from your cunt only slightly to speak before he's diving in again. 

The hand not stuffed in your heat was furiously moving up and down his cock, his own orgasm nearing. While he was focused on keeping his movements, you were distracted by a new unfamiliar sensation creeping up just behind your second orgasm. You tried to ignore it thinking it was just your body being overwhelmed. It wasn’t until you were once again teetering the edge that you recognized what was happening.

“Shit, wait Michael!” once again squeezing your thighs in an attempt to stop him, “H-hold on I’m g-gonna-” 

You tried to warn him you really did, but Robby had crooked his fingers with precision into a spot you didn’t know existed and nipped at your clit. Blinding pleasure shot through you, back arching off the bed as your mouth hung open in a silent scream. A rush of fluid gushed from your cunt, soaking Robby and the Bed below. The tight clench on his fingers and your fluids practically dripping from his beard, had all sent him over the edge. Reaching his own peak he moved back and watched the copious amounts of cum pool onto part of your comforter that was lying on the floor. Robby knew it was going to be a lot, it usually always was. He had even asked a fellow resident one time many years ago about it, hyperspermia they called it. He hoped it would slow down as he got older but apparently that wasn’t the case. But watching it puddle into the blanket gave him an idea.

Wiping himself off with the other side of the fabric he removed his fingers from your spent and swollen pussy before tucking himself back in his pants. Taking those same fingers he just removed from you and scooped a small bit of his cum he left on your blanket. Standing up he rounded the bed, sitting beside where your limp body lay. Eyes closed as you attempt to catch your breath after you were pretty sure you had died and gone to heaven.

“Open up f’me” HIs other hand tapped your hip twice, and just like before, the action was pulled from you before you could process. 

As soon as you stuck out your tongue he was shoving his digits deep into your throat, moving them slowly in and out as you swirled your tongue around them. Tasting yourself as you licked his fingers clean. There was another taste that you weren't sure of but you were too exhausted, too sleepy for big thoughts.

You let out a soft grunt being jostled at the feel of dry cloth being dragged across your soaked center, a feeling that was soon soothed by a warm wet rag between your legs. Managing only small mutterings of ‘thank you’s’. The last thing you remembered was his lips touching your forehead and the clink of your drawer closing. Hearing him whisper to always call him when you needed help.

Soft snores left your mouth as Robby tucked you under the covers. His mind kept replaying the way you so easily swallowed his cum- no - how eagerly you took it. And if he snatched another pair of your underwear dragging it through your sopping wet pussy well, that was no one's business but his own. 

Gathering his keys he stopped just shy of the door, spotting the area that you set your keys in. A shiny spare house key sat on a hook. He shouldn’t. He always knew that he shouldn’t be doing the things he is. But he had to lock your door somehow, he wasn’t about to leave it unlocked for just anyone to come in. So he took it, turning the lock from the outside as soon as he closed the door. 

Hopping into his truck he took the pink lacey pair of now soiled fabric and put it beside the black pair from earlier in his bag before saving your address and taking off to his. 

____________________________________

For the next handful of shifts Robby’s mood had dramatically changed at work. He was lighter, less haunted. He also had a permanent shadow, you. Everywhere Robby was, so were you. No longer needing verbal communication simply three syllables or two light taps. Always seeming to have a hand on you; your lower back, a hip, or anywhere else he could get away with it. The entire pitt noticed the dynamic change, the way you looked at him as if he held all the answers. No one questioned it for the first couple of days, but as time went on they began to question the behaviors displayed. 

Robby saw the whispers, saw how people looked at you and him together. The confusion and attention spurred him on. Watching everyone grasp at straws, wondering what was going on between the two of you. He lived for the double takes between the two of you, the much older attending and the sweet new nurse. 

None of them knew what happened that night, how he had made you cum multiple times on his mouth. Nor did they know how ever since that first night, he had been over at least every other day with his face shoved into your pretty little pussy. Eating you out like a man starved, until you had come at least twice soaking his beard. You almost didn’t invite him back after the post orgasm clarity hit you but when you went to grab your trusted chargeable ‘Robby’ it was missing. So as per his instructions from that night, you called him for help.

Everything was going perfectly, including the way you have taken to whining about reciprocation. Trying everything you could to get his cock out and into your own mouth, but he always turned you away. Saying ‘not yet’ or ‘this is about you’ and each time he almost gave in when he saw how your eyes would fill up with tears. You wanted nothing more than to make him feel as good as he made you feel. But you couldn’t help how your heart swelled with adoration at the prospect of him making sure you were taken care of first.

But that wasn’t why of course.

He just wanted to see how desperate he could make you. He wanted your body to need him before your mind did. The idea of corrupting you before you even realized always had him borderline suffocating himself with your underwear that he had stolen from you. Tonight was no different. With one pair held to his face inhaling your scent that was still prominent on the cotton fabric, the other pair was wrapped around his cock moving up and down. The softness of the fabric is how he imagined your mouth to feel, Robby grunted into the empty room as the image of him feeding you his cum with his cock shoved down your throat as far as he could go had him gasping out as he came with zero warning. Almost whimpering as he emptied himself all over his sheets.  

Laying there with the soiled fabric had him thinking up all the ways he could be giving you a little of him. How he would paint your lips with it and watch you stutter as everyone asked where you got your lipgloss. He would sneak you his cum when he made you breakfast in bed putting just a little on top of your pancakes. Getting you so hooked on the taste of him so that nothing else could satisfy that unknown thirst that burned at the back of your throat.

Because that’s what you had done to him, he was addicted to you. Your scent, your taste, just you. And he couldn’t wait until you were the same.

The next day brought chaos, the shift was filled with multiple traumas and drunks that seemed to never end. You were exhausted, barely having time to sit down and relax. And to top it all off you couldn’t find your water bottle. You had come back from helping transfer a patient up to imaging when you realized it was nowhere to be found. You asked around the whole hospital with no luck. Considering it a loss it wasn’t long before you were pulled into another room.

What you didn’t know was that your water bottle was with Robby. A man who had been locked in the bathroom for the last 15 minutes, and had just finished shooting a load into the sink. Once the thick stream slowed to a light dribbling leak he aimed it right over the straw of your bottle, watching as a particularly thick spurt slid down. Taking his tip he rubbed it over the mouthpiece before closing the top. Giving it a little shake before setting it back where he grabbed it from.

He watched you for about 15 minutes running back and forth between rooms before intercepting you. 

“Hey sweetheart” the nickname had started rolling off the tongue since that first night, “take a break, get something to drink okay?”

“I would love to Mikey I really would, but I can’t find my water bottle and-”

“It’s right there on the counter” he pointed to the spot he left it, one you knew you looked at. 

But before you could question it he gave your hip those two little taps that had your feet moving without question. Picking up a tablet he slid his readers down his nose so that he could peer over the rim. 

You were still so confused on how it had just been sitting there the whole time. You swore that you cleared the area more than once. Popping the top you take a large gulp from the straw, but as soon as the water hit the back of your throat there was a slight after taste that you couldn’t place. Wondering if it was the bottle you gave the mouthpiece a little lick before sniffing the top. There was nothing overtly foul that you sensed just a slight musk, but you reason that it had been a while since you washed it. So after making a mental note to clean it as soon as you got home, you didn’t think much more about it continuing to gulp it down. 

Oh but Robby, he was going to think about this for a long time. That was twice that you took him, gulping him down with no complaints. And he couldn’t wait to see how many more times he could get you to taste him before he gave in. 

The answer was many times. For the next week every shift the two of you had he would bring your favorite iced coffee in. Each time he made sure to take the liberty of rubbing his cock all over the straw and leaking a little bit of arousal into the drink before giving it a swirl. And every time he had you cum on his fingers, he always made sure to mix his own before having you clean his fingers off. However, Robby was desperate to know if you were able to truly pick up  on the taste he decided to try an experiment. 

“One iced coffee for you” He had found you talking to Dana at the lockers when he walked by.

The older woman’s face settled into confusion and something akin to annoyance as she once again watched the exchange. She had seen it many times over the last few weeks. He would hand you a coffee and you would beam as if he handed you the answers to the universe. Yeah, Dana noticed a lot of things. The way that you had seemed to rely on him just a bit too much. 

“Ugh thank you so much Mikey!”

And there was that damn name you had been calling him when you weren’t in a patient room. No one calls him that. It’s always Dr. Robby, Robby, or Dr. Robinavitch if someone is angry. Never once has anyone called him Michael let alone Mikey. She watched how you took a sip but made a face at the first swallow.

“Did they do something different?”

“I don’t think so, why?” Robby had such a practiced air of nonchalance, but Dana was one of his oldest friends she knew when he was lying.

“Dunno just tastes different, I’ll still drink it though” you leaned up on your tip toes as you gave his bearded cheek a kiss and thanked him once more before walking off.

He didn’t even try to bend down or meet you halfway, he loved watching you do all the work. Watching how you always tried your best to reach. But when he looked up he noticed Dana had yet to leave, making him unable to truly enjoy the fact you preferred the coffee mixed with him better.

“What the fuck was that?” Dana’s pointer finger landed on where you had been standing.

“That was a coffee” Robby’s smug snark and head tilt did nothing but shorten that already small string of patience she had. 

“Robby, I want you to leave her alone” she looked around to make sure no one was around before stepping closer, “She’s too young and too impressionable, and you are just-“

“Pressionable?” His eyebrows shot up at the somewhat accusation of intention. 

“All’s I’m saying is, she deserves something good, okay?”

“Don’t worry Dana, I’m not doing anything she didn’t ask for” Robby closes his locker, passing her by with a hand on her shoulder.

His words did absolutely nothing to calm Dana’s worries down. And if Robby was honest, she should be worried, because he was going to make sure he’s the only man to ever touch you. Hopefully, everyone else would know that soon as well. 

The rest of the shift flew by normally, rarely a moment you weren’t next to him as usual. Until you weren’t. Instead he found you in front of central 7 going over an xray scan with the technician that was standing too close for his liking. Who also had a hand resting too close to your body, and an overly obnoxious laugh that permeated through the hallways in the same way C-diff does. 

Dana’s words flitted through his head ‘she’s too young’ ‘she deserves something good’. Robby had agreed. Because you were more than half his age and he had tattoos that were older than you. And you did deserve something good, but that something good was him. Not some young boy who just wanted to get into your pants.

No you needed a man, you needed him. He would swear that he was only looking out for you, swore that he only had your best interests at hand. Hell Robby knew the technician was married, well not anymore he had gotten a divorce three months ago, but you didn’t need to know that. All he needed was doubt to be placed inside that pretty little head. Robby told himself he was just protecting you. Making sure that you don’t ever have to worry about a thing because he was going to take care of it. 

Walking up to where you were talking he leaned his body on the wall directly behind you. Tilting your head up, and as soon as you saw who it you began to lean back so that your spine was against his body. That was enough to convince him he was doing the right thing. Because look at you, practically screaming save me with the way you leaned into him. And he could never deny you.

“Hey man, how are you doin, how’s the wife?” Robby’s head flicked up in greeting.

“Uhm what, no I’m not-?” 

One simple word and the damage was done, Robby watched how you immediately cringed and stepped further back into him not listening to the excuses being made. Catching your arm with his hand he left it hooked around your bicep, protecting, marking, claiming what was his. It was also the second time that someone had looked at him like the idea of you two was absurd. And he loved it. 

You however, felt hurt. Why would a man who was clearly in a relationship flirt with you, Robby wouldn't do that, in fact he just saved you from being humiliated. Robby, the man who's been nothing but helpful to you. Making sure you were taken care of and then some without even making it about him. Bringing you coffee and water when he saw how tired you were. Making sure all your patient orders were signed and filled. 

All your thoughts have been consumed with him lately. When you’re at work you find yourself often wondering where he was or if he needed you. And when you found yourself laid on your bed with his mouth latched onto your clit and his fingers stuffed so deep the only thought filling your head was him. You started to wonder if anyone was going to compare to Robby, and clearly you couldn’t be trusted to find someone as the first guy you flirted with outside of him was married.

But you didn’t want to say anything to him about it. Not wanting to make him uncomfortable when he was clearly just trying to be there for you. You just wish there was a way to show him how much you appreciated him. 

An opportunity to show him was what Robby was in the midst of creating. As he sat down to chart he let out a louder than usual groan, one that you immediately picked up on.

“You okay Mikey?” Concern laced your voice.

“Yeah don’t worry about it kid I’ll be fine,” his tone taut with what you perceived to be pain.

“Clearly you aren’t, please let me help you?” 

There you went, falling so easily into his traps. He didn’t know what he had done in another life for this to work out so perfectly. So with a ‘reluctant’ sigh he nodded and asked you to follow him. Leading you to an on call room you assumed he just didn’t want to let others know he was struggling. Closing the door he turned towards you and reached out for your wrists, holding one in each of his large hands.

“You know how I always help you feel better?” His question came quiet, almost timid. 

“Yeah” you were slightly worried he was going to tell you he couldn’t anymore.

“I’ve just been hurting in a similar way lately, can’t seem to really make it better” his thumbs caressing your wrists.

“I-I can do it,” your voice came with false confidence, “I mean I’ve never really done it but I can try, I want to try.”

“Oh I don’t know sweetheart, I don’t want you to feel like you have to”

“No!” Your answer was immediate, “I really want to, please Mikey”

Music to his ears, your voice just pleading an old man like him to shove his cock in your mouth. Who was he to deny his sweet girl for asking so nicely. Especially when you sank to your knees without being told and started pulling at his bottoms. He let you open his pants and basked in the sight of your eyes widening when you pulled his boxers down. How the sight of him had your mouth dropping open and your tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

He was bigger than you expected, your gaze trailed down from the thin trail of hair at the bottom curve of his stomach before leading into a patch of dark curls. His thick hard length jutted out, seemingly held low in its attempt to hold up the weight. The head an angry shade of red and leaking arousal, a small puddle already collecting on the floor between your knees. 

Reaching out to grasp his cock he let out a hiss as you touched him. Your fingers didn't completely touch when you held him, hand covering less than half of his total size. It was intimidating. Leaning forward you press a small lick to the head right where he was dripping arousal. And as soon as the taste settled on your tongue it felt familiar, almost soothing in a way. The switch was instant, and had you doubling your efforts within seconds. 

You wanted more, needed more of that taste. Flattening your tongue like he would on you, starting at the base and ending at the tip. You may have been inexperienced but you had watched videos, seen the tips and tricks. Now you are doing your best to implement them. Which seemed to be working because as you flicked your tongue up underneath the ridge of the head, Robby let out a grunt.

“Fucking hell sweetheart, just like that” he couldn’t stop himself as his hand wrapped itself into your hair. 

He slowly began moving your lips up and down his length, wetting it before he allowed you to start to take him down your throat. He loved how immediate and natural it was for you to give him control. And because Robby was who he was, he wanted to see how far you’d let him take it. 

With his hand still wrapped in your hair he took you off his cock and led you back towards his base. But he didn’t stop there. Moving your mouth down beneath to where his balls hung. Lifting his cock with his other hand he stuffed your face into the soft skin between. A light squeak came from where you were below, he was slightly worried he scared you off. But before he could pull you back off you took one side into your mouth and began massaging the area with your tongue covering him in your spit before moving over to the next side. 

Breathing through your nose had you inhaling his scent into your lungs. The deep musk of a long hard shift and the salty taste of sweat and cum had your throat vibrating with moans. The view was obscene from his angle. Your nose shoved far against him as his spit-slick balls lay against your face. He ended up having to pull you off quickly before he came prematurely.

“Holy shit, hold on” you let out a whine when pulled you off.

But you didn’t have to wait long before he was once more moving you back so that he began  shoving his cock into your throat. 

“Open up f’me sweetheart” he watched as you followed directions, “now stick out your tongue, and remember to breathe through your nose”

Once you had taken a good few breaths, he slapped his cock on top of your tongue twice before slowly moving it back into your mouth. Warmth encompassed him as he went further, before he felt the back of your throat. As he bumped the back of your hard pallet he noticed you had yet to gag. 

“Tip your head up just a bit, wanna see how far I can get,” 

Just that small angle change had him sliding past and down into your trachea. It wasn’t until he had your nose pressed against his pelvis that you finally gagged slightly. 

“Fuck, look at that” his other hand felt the bulge of your throat, “knew you could do it” 

That small praise had you ecstatic, he waited just a few more seconds before pulling you off. Not completely however, just enough to release some pressure before he began thrusting. Your hands braced against his thighs as his cock slid in and out. Hitting the back of your throat with each thrust had your eyes filling up with tears. His balls smacked against your lower chin as his speed picked up, and all you could do was sit there and take it. Something you were more than happy to do. 

“I’m so close sweetheart, fuck” 

You gave a little nod expecting him to keep going. But instead he began to pull back slowly. So you scrunched your brows and reached your neck forward so you were still on him. 

“Its gonna be a lot kid, don’t want you getting scared” 

Allowing for just a moment to pull off his cock, as you look up at him.

“I can take it, please want more of you Mikey” your voice came out slightly hoarse from the use.

Moving back onto his cock your hands gripped his thighs encouraging him to finish down your throat. So with his thrusts picking back up to where it was before, your excitement grew. All you had wanted to do was make him feel as good as he makes you feel, and for some reason that damn taste you seemed to already be addicted to him. 

“Fuck baby,” 

“Gonna cum,” his voice a deep growl as he warned you, “ through your nose”

You thought it was silly of him reminding you of that for what seemed the third time, but it took you two seconds to realize why. As soon as he started to cum it wasn’t just light spurts, it was a flood. Your mouth was filled within seconds, cheeks puffing as you tried to keep up with small swallows. You could feel as it began dripping out the sides of your mouth no matter how hard you tried to swallow quickly.

That view in real time was even better than anything he could have imagined. Looking down he saw you already looking up at him with wide surprised eyes. Watching how his cum that dribbled out mixed with the tears escaping from the corners of your red rimmed eyes. It took him a while before he finally felt himself slow down. Removing himself from your mouth with a small wet pop, he took the opportunity to smear his tip over your lips just like he wanted to.

Knees aching you waited as robby tucked himself back in his pants before pulling you up to a standing position, holding you still as your legs gained their balance back. His hands cradling your face as his thumb swipes your chin collecting what fell before pushing it back into your mouth. 

“Was I good?” The rasp in your voice is still prominent. 

“So fucking good baby,” There it was again baby, the new nickname had you preening.

“I want you to come over tonight please,” your hands grasp his jacket, “I need you so bad Michael, wanted you for so long”

“You don’t want an old man like me to be your first” hook, line, and sinker. He was right where he wanted to be. 

He knew how much you craved him, especially after you had just let him shove his balls in your face mid shift. How much you wanted his approval both in and out of this job. And he couldn’t wait to give it. Just needed you to beg a bit longer, work harder. 

“Please, I do- I promise! Want you so bad, I need you” Those tears once again filled your eyes as fear of rejection flooded your brain, so much so that a sob sounded from your chest. 

As always he never said no. Not when you were sitting there so pathetic with your tears and his cum smeared all over your lips. Robby allowed your blubbering for a few minutes more before he agreed, saying how he would take you back to his place after shift. Relief flooded you, repeating small thank you’s over and over. Clinging to him as the two of you walked back into the hallway. Robby kept his eyes on you when you went back to the board to check on the patients, and saw how you tried to keep your composure. You took the time to fix your hair into looking somewhat presentable, but what you missed was the suspicious stain that had fallen into the collar of your scrubs. Robby didn’t, he saw it and decided to keep that there. Like a dog marking its territory, he wanted everyone to see.

There had only been half an hour left in your shift when you made outback to the hub. You ended up giving report to another nurse who came in early and offered to take your run. But before you could leave Dana flagged you over. She was planning on asking if you were okay seeing how you were flushed and eyes red. However, the closer you got she was able to see that fucking stain that he left. Her eyes went wide with anger before looking around the room to spot someone, and you were confused. So looking down at yourself you finally noticed the problem. Heat rushed to your face as you took her by the hand and drug her aside. 

“Wait Dana hold on-”

“What do you think you’re doing kid?!” Her accent thick as she whispers trying to control her anger, “He is more than twice your age, and not to mention the chief of this floor” 

“I know, I know but Dana he is so good to me. And he's so kind I know what I'm doing I swear” 

 You plead with her to drop it, and reluctantly she does. But as you walked out with Robby you could see the look she held as you passed her. To you it was one of wariness about the dynamic of the power imbalance. Robby recognized it though, he saw it often. He sees right through her concern and right into the disgust that was very poorly hidden, and that had his cock swelling all over again. Knowing just how much she and others were calling him all sorts of things for sneaking you into his bed. 

Which is exactly where you were now, splayed out on his bed naked and whining with want. Lips swollen from kissing him, marks littering your neck and chest down to where he was now, knuckle deep in your soaked cunt as he had you working on your second orgasm. Crooking his fingers in the exact spot that he knew you needed had you careening onto the edge, walls clenching his fingers as you moan your release. 

Robby loved having you fucked dumb, after your second you tended to become extremely pliable. Something you were going to need for him to ease his way in, he may be a gross old man but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you. Not his sweet girl. Stripping himself of the rest of his clothes he made his way back up to you. Where you ran your hands across his broad chest nails raking against his skin.

“Gonna need you to relax f’me can you do that?” He hooked an arm behind one of your knees opening you up. 

With a nod of your head he slid the tip of his cock through your folds collecting your arousal before notching it at your entrance. Pushing the first few inches he gave pause seeing your face  scrunch up in slight discomfort, waiting a moment more before going further only to stop once more as you let out a hiss. 

“I-I don’t, I can’t” The stretch was intense. It didn't hurt but the pressure was immense, like he was in your stomach. 

“You can do it for me sweetheart, already halfway there” His reassurance did nothing, only making you squirm at the idea there was more than what was already in you.

He could feel you clench around him at his words, you needed to relax but that wasn’t happening. So as you took a deep breath in, he shoved the rest of himself in with no warning. The air that had just entered your lungs was pushed out at the intrusion. Nails dug into his arms as tears sprung to your eyes. 

Oh how he loved to see you cry, especially while you were stuffed full of his cock. The only one to have ever made a home in your body, and he was going to make sure he was the last. He knew you better than anyone else ever could, and he knew exactly what to do to calm you down. 

“Ah Ah Ah,”  Robby was met with immediate stillness from you, eyes open and glued to him, “Look at that, so full. I knew you could do it. Taking me so well, need you to be good for me okay?” 

Rivulets of tears ran down your cheeks as you nodded, you had to be good. His hips moved back, cock slipping almost all the way out before he thrust forward to the hilt. The first few movements were slow, getting you used to the sensation. He watched as the scrunch between your brows relaxed and your own hips soon tried to match his movements. Taking that as a go ahead he started a faster rhythm, one that had you gasping for breath. 

“Fucking made for me sweetheart, knew it long before your fucking birthday” His words went in one ear and out the other.

Already so sensitive and puffy from the last two orgasms, you could feel another building already at the feel of him moving in and out. 

“All mine baby, just f’me” He delivers a particularly harsh thrust, his cock bullying into your cervix, that slight twinge of pain mixed with pleasure had you fluttering around him. “C’mon need you to say it for me please” 

Robby pauses for a moment before grabbing at your other leg and hooking that over his other shoulder, almost folding you in half as he settles his weight onto you. The angle had you feeling as though he was thrusting into your throat as he was reaching places you didn’t know existed. 

“F-fuck ye-es, all y-yours!” voice still cracking from the use of earlier, “cum i-inside, on bi-irth con-ntrol” 

Mixed feelings ran through the man, on one hand he was enjoying the thought of you allowing him to claim you so deeply had him on the edge of finishing. On the other he was annoyed with you being on birth control, he wanted the fruits of his labor to be prominent in your swollen belly filled with his child. Instead of dwelling on that particular fact, he decided to file the information away for another day. 

“Want me to cum inside, fuck, want your old man to fill you up and have you dripping for days?” 

The building pressure in your lower stomach sharpened with his words, becoming a tight string at the friction of his small grinds when his pelvis met yours. 

“Fucking mine” his deep growl was followed by his lips crashing on yours.

The movement had him laying most of his weight on you, keeping him fully sheathed within you as your third orgasm finally crashed through you. Your body was choking his cock with each wave, sending Robby head first through his own orgasm. Pure white hot heat pooled inside you as he flooded your insides with his cum, the sensation pulling out more of your own aftershocks. 

You were extremely surprised that he still had so much left after the literal full course meal he had given you before. The earlier promise of you dripping his cum for days after seems like it’s about to come true. Your head was buzzing, nothing but yours and Robby’s heavy breaths rang through your ears

“You okay sweetheart?” His words broke your quiet.

Only letting out a small mhmmm. Eyes drifting closed as exhaustion took over, you felt his hands come up and settle on the side of your face. A soft kiss is placed on your lips, one you were too lazy to reciprocate. He loved having you like this. It’s how you ended up on your birthday, when he had first tasted you, and now as you let him into your body. 

Watching as you fell asleep, Robby had many thoughts. Thoughts of the future and what it held for you both. He should be thinking about how he’s stealing your youth in a venture to prove to himself that someone needed him. But he can’t have been wrong in his actions when he’s looking at the product of his internal truth. 

Here you were laid out on his bed, putting way too much trust in him when truly you should’ve been running. However, you didn’t know any better. And that was by design. But lying here with you, he realized there were still too many variables. 

You finally wanted him, needed him. But you didn’t rely on him yet, not exactly. He wanted you to know that he would take care of everything, that there wasn’t a thing in this world that you should worry about. And then there was the fact that people like that no good x-ray tech thought they could flirt with you, as if you weren't his. He needed something that told everyone that looked at you, that you were taken, unavailable, Robby’s.

The waiting room looks like hell.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Too bright. Too loud. Too many people packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath fluorescent lights that wash everyone the same sick shade of exhausted gray. A toddler screams somewhere near triage. Somebody vomits into a plastic bag near the reception desk. EMTs burst through the ambulance bay doors every six minutes carrying fresh disasters like offerings.

And over all of it: the constant overhead paging.

The ER never really sleeps. It just bleeds into the next catastrophe.

“You got a room for a possible bowel perf?” a paramedic barks, already wheeling the patient forward.

“Trauma Two,” You answer automatically without looking up from your chart.

“Trauma Two’s occupied.”

“Then hallway bed six.”

“That guy’s psych hold.”

“Then put him literally anywhere with oxygen and a pulse ox.” The paramedic grins tiredly.

“That’s why I like you.”

“Yeah, well, poor judgment’s a recurring theme around here.”Behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the noise immediately.

“She flirts with everybody before midnight. Don’t take it personal.”

You don't have to turn around to know it’s Dr. Robby. Still, your stomach betrays you anyway.

Stupid thing.

The paramedic laughs.

“Damn, Robby. Possessive tonight.”

“That’s not what this is,” Robby mutters immediately.

You finally glance up. Big mistake. He looks exhausted. Not regular exhausted. Hospital exhausted. The kind that settles into the bones after too many double shifts and too many people dying under your hands no matter how fast you work. His dark curls are damp at the temples from hours under harsh ER heat, scrub top wrinkled, stethoscope hanging crooked around his neck. And still— still unfairly handsome. You hate that about him.

Hatesthat after fourteen hours on shift he can still look across a trauma bay and make your brain briefly stop functioning like a licensed medical professional. The paramedic wheels off laughing. Robby steps into the space beside you immediately, eyes dropping to the chart in your hands.

“You re-order the labs on Bed Nine?”

“Mmhm.”

“He needs another lactate.”

“Already done." Robby’s mouth twitches faintly.

Of course it is.

Working with him became dangerous months ago.

Not because he’s difficult. The opposite.

Because somewhere along the line the two of you became… this.

Too synced up. Too aware of each other. Too comfortable.

You know how he takes his coffee. He knows when your migraines start before you say anything. You hand him instruments before he asks during procedures. He automatically moves people out of your path during traumas without even looking.

Nobody misses it. Especially not Dana.

“You two are way past appropriate,” she muttered three shifts ago while watching you two argue over a chest tube placement like a divorced couple.

You laughed.

Robby didn't.

Now he leans slightly over your shoulder, scanning the chart.

“You eat yet?” There it is. Every damn shift. You keep your eyes on the paperwork.

“I had coffee.”

“That ain’t food.”

“It has nutritional value emotionally.”

“Cute.” His tone flattens immediately. “Eat somethin’.” You scribble another note onto the chart.

“Yes, dad.” Robby sighs through his nose. Not annoyed. Worse. Concerned.

“Seriously.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that six hours ago.”

“And look.” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “Still vertical.” His eyes flick over your face briefly. Too briefly for anybody else to notice. Long enough for you to feel it anyway.

“You got that headache again?” he asks quietly. You blink.

“How the hell do you always know that?”

“Because you rub your temple every thirty seconds when it starts.” your hand drops immediately away from your face. Robby’s expression shifts just slightly.

Victory.

Tiny.

Private.

Dangerous.

Before either of you can say another word, the overhead speakers crackle violently:

“CODE TRAUMA. MULTIPLE GSWs EN ROUTE. ETA THREE MINUTES.”

The entire ER changes shape instantly. Everybody moves. Nurses sprint toward trauma bays. Stretchers reposition. Gloves snap on. The easy rhythm of conversation disappears beneath adrenaline and practiced chaos. Robby is already moving.

“So much for food,” you mutter.

“You’re still eatin’ after this,” he throws over his shoulder.

“You can’t legally force me.”

“I know where your locker is.”

You snort despite yourself and follow him into Trauma One. Three minutes later the ambulance bay doors explode open. And suddenly nobody has time to breathe anymore. The first patient crashes before the second stretcher even clears the ambulance bay.

“Twenty-three-year-old male,” the paramedic shouts while helping transfer the body over. “Multiple GSWs to the chest and abdomen, lost pulse twice in transport—”

“We got him,” Robby cuts in immediately. And just like that, he changes. Not physically. Something else. The warmth disappears first. The dry humor. The tired little almost-smiles he only really gives staff he trusts. Everything narrows into sharp-edged focus so complete it almost feels frightening to witness up close.

“Tube him,” he orders. You’re already moving before he finishes speaking.

“On it." The room erupts into controlled chaos around you. Monitors screaming. Gloves snapping. Blood everywhere. The patient looks young. Too young. Baby-faced beneath the oxygen mask, skin already going gray around the lips. Robby climbs onto the side rail slightly to get better leverage while assessing the chest wounds.

“No breath sounds left side.”

“Tension pneumo?” you ask.

“Looks like it.” He points instantly. “Needle.” You slap the decompression needle into his waiting hand before the nurse beside you can even react. Robby doesn’t look at you when he takes it. Doesn’t need to. That’s the problem. You work together too well now. A hiss of trapped air escapes the patient’s chest.

“Pressure’s tanking,” Langdon says.

“How bad?”

“Seventy systolic.”

“Blood now.” You move automatically, cutting through clothing while Robby barks orders over the noise. Another stretcher bursts through the doors behind you.

Second GSW. Teenager this time. Jesus Christ.

“Trauma Two ready?” Dana yells.

“No,” you answer immediately. “Use Three.”

“We need you in there too.” You glance toward Robby instinctively. Big mistake. Because he’s already looking at you. Just for a second. Long enough for that familiar awareness to pass silently between you both beneath the chaos.

Go.

You peel away instantly toward the second trauma bay. The teenager is conscious at least. Barely. Crying. Blood soaking through both hands where he’s trying to hold pressure against his own stomach.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” you say firmly while climbing beside the stretcher. “Stay with me.”

“I don’t wanna die,” he chokes out immediately. God. You hate when they say that.

“You’re not gonna die.”

“You promise?” You don’t answer fast enough. Because nobody smart makes promises in an ER. Behind you, through the open trauma bay doors, you can still hear Robby running his room like a battlefield commander.

“Push epi.”

“Again.”

“Clear.” The defibrillator cracks loud enough to echo. Your own patient starts crashing ten minutes later. Then everything becomes movement again. Blood transfusions. Suction. Pressure. Yelling.

At some point somebody presses a protein bar into your scrub pocket without explanation. You already know it was Robby. You don’t even have to look. Two hours pass like that. Then three. The teenager survives surgery. The first patient doesn’t. You know the exact second Robby loses him because the entire energy of Trauma One changes. The noise drops. Voices lower. A silence settles that only really exists in hospitals after death. You finish dictating notes at the nurses’ station forty minutes later with aching shoulders and blood dried stiff across your scrub sleeves. The ER has calmed slightly. Not quiet. Never quiet. But survivable. You rub at your eyes tiredly while signing discharge paperwork.

“You didn’t eat that.” Your head lifts immediately. Robby stands beside the desk holding the untouched protein bar from your pocket. Shit.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot for three hours?”

“It was busy.”

“It’s always busy.” You sigh dramatically and reach for the bar. He doesn’t hand it over yet.

“Robby.”

“You get dizzy again?”

“No.”

“You lyin’?”

“…maybe a little.” His jaw tightens. Not angry. Worried. Again. You hate how much that affects you.

“I’m fine,” you insist more quietly this time.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That phrase means absolutely nothin’ when it comes outta your mouth anymore.” Before you can answer, Dana walks past carrying charts and immediately stops dead seeing the two of you standing too close again.

“Oh my God,” she says flatly.

You blink. “What?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely between you both. “Whatever weird emotionally repressed slow-burn nonsense this is.” Robby pinches the bridge of his nose immediately.

“Dana—”

“No, seriously. It’s painful.” She points at you. “You look at him like he personally hung the moon.” Your entire soul leaves your body.

“Excuse me?”

“And Robby looks at her like somebody put a live grenade in his chest.”

“I’m literally standing right here,” Robby mutters.

“You two have been divorced-married for like six months.”

“We are not—”

“You shared fries yesterday.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You remembered her migraine medication before she did.” Robby opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it again. Dana looks vindicated immediately.

“Oh, my God.”

“Dana,” you warn weakly.

“No wonder the whole department thinks you’re sleeping together.” Silence. Complete silence. A nearby nurse actually turns around trying not to look interested. Robby stares at Dana like he’s reconsidering several HR policies simultaneously. You can physically feel heat crawling up your neck.

“We are not sleeping together,” you say tightly. Dana snorts.

“Honestly that’s worse. The tension in this department could power the city grid.” Then she walks away before either of you can recover. You stare at the floor. Robby stares somewhere over your shoulder. The protein bar gets silently placed into your hand at last. A wave of nausea fills you head to toe as your migrain pounds against your skull, and you wince and push away from the desk.

"Eat it." Robby pushes. You nod, turning away from him.

"Yeah, i will. Later-" You barely finish your sentence when your vision tunnels and you stumble. You sway a little in place before gravity does it's job and you go crashing for the floor.

"Shit !" Robby catches you before you have the chance to crack your skull open on the linoleum, fingers pressed to your neck to check your vitals. A stupid reflex. He looks up at Dana, who is walking away. "Dana ! A little help here !" He calls. Dana stops and spins around on high alert, and her eyes blow wide.

"Oh for pete's sake." She breathes, slinging her stethoscope off her neck as she runs forward. "What the hell happened ?" Robby shifts you in his arms, one hand supporting your limp neck.

"She's dehydrated. Only had coffee." He explains, his voice rough. Dana swears under breath and looks up.

"Perlah, get me some saline !" She shouts, "Santos, Whittaker, get me a bed !" Everything moves at once after that. The ER shifts shape around emergencies automatically, instinctively, like a living organism responding to injury. Nurses break into motion. A gurney appears from somewhere down the hall. Somebody lowers the volume on the television overhead. And through all of it, Robby doesn’t let go of you for even a second.

“She hit her head?” Dana asks quickly, already checking your pupils while Robby keeps you upright against his chest.

“No,” he answers immediately. “I caught her.” The speed of that answer makes Dana’s eyebrows climb. Interesting.

“BP?” she asks.

“Couldn’t get one yet.”

“She breathing okay?”

“Yes.”

“Pulse?”

“Fast.” His jaw tightens. “Too fast.” You lie limp against him completely unconscious, cheek pressed against the navy-blue fabric of his scrub top. One of your hands is curled loosely against his chest like your body just gave up trying to hold itself upright. And Jesus Christ— Robby looks terrified. Not visibly to most people. But everybody here knows him. They know the difference between Dr. Robby handling a crisis and Robby barely holding himself together through one. Langdon skids to a stop beside Mel and Samira, who have stopped in their tracks to stare at their friend passed out on the ground.

"Jesus, what happened ?" He asks, his tone wuipped.

Robby looks up, incredulous.

"The fuck does it look like Frank ? She's unconcsious !" He swears under his breath. "Whittaker ! Where the fuck is that bed ?"

“Coming through!” A stretcher rattles around the corner at full speed. Whittaker wheels a bed over fast while Santos helps clear space beside the nurses’ station.

“We got her,” Santos says carefully. Robby doesn’t move.

“Robby,” Dana says slower this time. Like she’s talking him down off something. His eyes flick up finally. For half a second he genuinely looks like he forgot anyone else was there. Then his face shutters immediately back into professional composure.

Right.

Doctor mode.

He carefully transfers you onto the bed, one hand still bracing the back of your head even after you’re safely down against the mattress.

“She’s burning up,” he mutters. Dana presses a thermometer against your forehead.

“Low-grade fever.” She frowns. “Probably running herself into the ground.”

“Shocking,” Santos mutters under his breath. Robby shoots him a look sharp enough to cut steel. Santos immediately raises both hands. “I’m just saying.”

“Get fluids running,” Robby says flatly. Dana watches him for a second too long. Then:

“How long’s this been going on?” Robby doesn’t look away from you.

“What?”

“This martyr complex of hers.” Dana gestures vaguely toward your unconscious body. “She’s looked like hell all week.”

“She said she was fine.”

“Oh my God.” Dana actually laughs once. “And you believed that?” His expression darkens immediately because— No. He didn’t. That’s the problem. He knew. He knew you were overworking. Knew you were skipping meals. Knew the migraines were getting worse because he memorized your tells months ago without meaning to. And somehow he still let this happen. The guilt crawls visibly across his face. Dana sees it instantly.

“Hey,” she says, voice softening slightly. “This isn’t on you.” Robby exhales sharply through his nose.

“She passed out standing next to me.”

“Because she’s an idiot.” A beat. Then quieter: “And because this place eats people alive.” Nobody argues with that. Perlah arrives with saline while Princess hooks you up to monitors. Your pulse flashes too fast across the screen immediately. Robby stares at it like he personally offended the laws of medicine.

“She’s gonna wake up pissed we made a scene,” Dana says knowingly. That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost. Instead he reaches down absentmindedly and brushes a strand of hair back away from your face. The entire room goes still for exactly one second. Because that— That was not a coworker gesture. Robby realizes it immediately after doing it. His hand stills. Dana’s eyes widen slowly like she just found proof of life on another planet.

“Oh,” she says very quietly. Robby straightens instantly. Professional again. Too late. Way too late. “You are so screwed,” Dana informs him with the calm certainty of someone announcing a weather forecast.

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“You’re in love with her.” Whittaker nearly chokes in the background. Robby’s face hardens immediately.

“Dana.”

“No, no, this is actually insane now.” She points between him and your unconscious form. “You looked two seconds away from coding yourself when she hit the floor.”

“She fainted.”

“And you caught her like a grieving Victorian widower.” Silence. Santos turns around entirely to hide his laughter. Mel and Samira pretend to be busy with a chart as Mckay walks by, her brows furrowed at the scene. Langdon whistles and turns around, walking off his his hands in his pockets. Robby rubs both hands down his face hard enough to leave red marks behind.

“This conversation is over.”

“Mhmm.” Dana crosses her arms. “You gonna tell her before or after the next time she collapses from neglecting basic human survival needs?” His eyes drift back toward you automatically. Unconscious. Pale. IV running steadily now. Something in his expression shifts again. Softer this time. More dangerous.

“Soon,” he says quietly before he can stop himself. Dana goes completely still. She sighs, and her face breaks into a grin.

"Great. Abbot owes me a hundred bucks." Robby goes still.

"What ?"

-------------

The world is bright.

God, it's so bright.

You crack your eyes open and immediately regret it, groaning as the bustling sounds of the ER flood back in.

"Ah. Rise and shine, sleepy-head." You tilt your head to the side. Langdon and Mckay are in your room, Mckay down by the computer, checking your chart while Langdon is sat by your bed, adjusting the drip flow in the IV.

Wait.

Why are you in a room ?

Your voice is rough with sleep when you speak.

“…what?” Langdon grins immediately.

“Oh, she’s alive. Shame. I was just about to steal your locker.” You blink at him slowly, brain still buffering.

“…why am i in a room?” You croak. "Why are you guys in a room.. with me ?"

“Visiting hours,” McKay says dryly without looking up from the chart. “We brought flowers.” You glance around blearily. No flowers.

“…you’re both assholes.”

“Correct,” Langdon says pleasantly. Then your brain catches up.

Room.

IV.

Monitor.

The realization hits all at once and you groan, dragging a hand over your face.

“Oh my God.”

“There it is,” McKay mutters. “The embarrassment. Nature is healing.”

“How long was I out?” Langdon checks the watch on his wrist dramatically.

“Long enough for Robby to threaten three residents, snap at a nurse, and hover outside this curtain like a divorced father at a middle school dance recital.” Your stomach drops instantly.

“…what?” McKay finally looks over at you then, expression dangerously entertained.

“Oh, yeah. It was bad.”

“He scared Santos so badly she almost started crying,” Langdon adds.

“That’s not true.”

“She absolutely thought she was getting fired.”

“I did not snap at Santos,” Robby’s voice cuts in sharply from outside the curtain. Both of them immediately grin like sharks scenting blood. And then Robby steps into the room carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and an electrolyte drink in the other. He stops the second he sees your eyes open. Every inch of tension in him visibly shifts. Not gone. Just redirected.

“Oh, there he is,” Langdon says smugly. “The grieving widow.”

“Frank,” Robby says flatly.

“You were pacing.”

“I was working.”

“You checked on her seventeen times.” McKay snorts into her coffee. Robby ignores both of them completely, eyes already on you instead.

“You with us?” You nod weakly.

“Unfortunately.”

“Any dizziness?”

“Yes.”

“Nausea?”

“A little.”

“Headache?” You just stare at him. He sighs. “Right. Stupid question.” Robby looks like he wants the earth to physically open beneath him.

“Okay,” he says tightly. “Everybody out.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Langdon says immediately.

“Frank.”

“Nope. This is the best day of my life.” Robby points toward the door with terrifying calm.

“Get out.” McKay is already cackling as Langdon lets himself be physically shoved toward the curtain. The curtain swings shut behind them amid open laughter from the hallway. Then it’s quiet again. Well. Quiet except for the distant ER chaos and your own heartbeat trying to escape your body. You stare determinedly at the blanket over your lap. Robby stares somewhere over your left shoulder. Neither of you speak for a full five seconds. He sighs, pinching his nose.

"We put you on IV Saline. You were dehydrated." He explains, walking over to the seat Langdon had previously occupied. You gulp, nodding.

"My bad." He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah, it is your bad. I can't have you collapsing like that in the middle of a shift." You groan, shaking your head.

"What, would you rather I do it before ? Or after ? I'm sorry, oh ER overlord, i'll try to control my unconscious state from now on." Robby lets out a short, incredulous breath through his nose.

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“I’m not getting smart,” you say, already pushing the blanket off your legs. “I’m getting out of here.” His head snaps toward you instantly.

“…no, you’re not.” You pause mid-movement.

“Yes,” you say slowly, like he’s missed something obvious, “I am.” Robby stands up so fast the chair behind him scrapes the floor.

“You just passed out.”

“And I woke up.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s exactly how it works.” You swing your legs over the side of the bed anyway, ignoring the slight sway in your balance as you reach for your shoes on instinct. Robby’s voice drops.

“Stop.” You freeze for half a second. Not because he told you to. Because of how he said it. But then you shake it off and pull your shoe on anyway.

“I’m going back to work,” you repeat. Robby moves closer immediately.

“You’re not cleared.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” You glance up at him sharply.

“I didn’t ask for a second opinion.”

“And I’m not giving you one,” he snaps back. “I’m telling you, as the attending who just watched you hit the floor—”

“Because I forgot to eat,” you cut in. “Not because I’m dying.”

“That doesn’t make it better!” The words echo harder than either of you probably intend. Silence hits for a beat. Your fingers still on your shoe. Robby drags a hand down his face, breathing out through his nose like he’s trying not to explode.

“You don’t get to just—” He stops himself, jaw flexing. “You don’t get to walk back out there like nothing happened.” You stand up fully now. A little too fast. The room tilts slightly.

“I’ve got patients,” you say more quietly. Robby’s voice goes lower.

“So do I.” A beat. Then: “And as of right now, you are on of them. Now, I’m telling you to sit back down.” You stare at him. He stares right back. There’s no humor in it anymore. No teasing. No banter. Just that same pressure from earlier—too much concern packed into too little space. You exhale through your nose.

“…you don’t get to order me around.” Robby laughs once, sharp and disbelieving.

“Apparently I do, considering I just watched you hit the floor and scare half the department into thinking we were gonna lose you.” That lands. Harder than it should. You look away for a second. Then back at him.

“I’m not fragile,” you say again, quieter. Robby’s expression shifts instantly.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You’re acting like I am.”

“I’m acting like you’re someone who almost cracked their skull open because they refused to take a break.” That makes you go still. A beat passes. Then you grab your badge from the bedside table. Robby’s eyes widen slightly.

“…don’t.” You clip it onto your scrub top.

“I’m going back to work.”

“No,” he says again, sharper now. You step around him. He moves with you immediately, blocking the exit. You stop. Look up at him.

“…move.” Robby doesn’t. For the first time since you woke up, he looks genuinely frustrated in a way that isn’t controlled anymore.

“You’re making a stupid call.”

“And you’re not my keeper.” That hits something in him. You see it. The flicker. The crack.

A pause. Then softer—but no less firm:

“I’m still not letting you walk out there like that.” You stare at him for a long second. Then, very deliberately, you step sideways. Not pushing past him. Not fighting. Just… going around. Robby turns instantly.

“Hey—”

“I said I’m fine,” you cut in, already heading for the curtain.

“You’re not—”

“I am,” you repeat, not stopping. Robby follows you out into the corridor. Langdon and McKay are still visible down the hall, both of them immediately clocking what’s happening and exchanging a look.

“Oh no,” Langdon murmurs. “She’s upright.” McKay winces.

“That’s worse.” Robby catches up to you.

“Seriously—stop.” You don’t.

“I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“You don’t get to just leave.” You finally stop in the middle of the hallway. Turn back to him. People move around you. A stretcher rolls past. A monitor alarm bleats somewhere in the distance. Life keeps going. Even when you’re both frozen in it.

“I have a shift,” you say calmly. “You have patients. We are both adults.” Robby looks at you like he wants to argue and can’t find the right angle anymore.

“You’re still dizzy.”

“I’ll sit if I need to.”

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

“And yet I am.” A beat. Langdon quietly mouths, this is insane, to McKay. Then you turn and keep walking. You wrap your arms around yourself, walking over to the nurse's station and picking up the chart you had left there. Your teenage patient. You sniffle and walk over to his room, pushing the curtain aside. Robby follows.

Of course he does.

You feel him before you even hear him—heavy footsteps that don’t belong to the usual ER rhythm, too deliberate, too controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to close the distance in three strides and drag you back by force.He stops just outside the curtain.You don’t look at him. You can’t afford to. There’s a chart in your hands and a patient who actually needs you upright, even if your skull still feels like it’s full of cotton and static.

“Vitals stable,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

“You don’t get to just—”

“Robby,” you cut in, sharper than you intend. A warning. Or maybe a plea. “Not here.” Silence. Then, quieter, dangerously controlled:

“You think I care where it is?” That finally makes you look at him. He’s standing half in the curtain light, half in the hallway chaos, scrubs wrinkled, hair slightly messed from running his hand through it too many times. He looks like he hasn’t stopped moving since you collapsed. His jaw is tight. Not angry anymore. Past angry.

“You passed out,” he says. “In my department. In my ER. In front of my staff. And you woke up and decided the appropriate response was to go back to work like nothing happened.”

“I am back to work.”

“No.” One step closer. “You are standing on adrenaline and spite and a saline bag that’s barely had time to do anything.” You let out a short breath, half laugh, half exhaustion.

“You always this dramatic with every patient, or am I special?” That lands. You see it hit him—right under the ribs. His expression shifts, like something in him finally snaps into place instead of being held together.

“No,” he says. Then he reaches for your wrist. Not hard. Not rough. But decisive.

“Hey—Robby—” He doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks you backward—not dragging, not forcing, but absolutely not giving you the option to argue your way out of it. You stumble once, annoyed, and he adjusts instantly without even looking, like he already knows exactly where your balance breaks.

“Seriously?” you hiss. “You’re doing this now?”

“Yes,” he says flatly.

“You can’t just abduct your attending in the middle of a shift.”

“I can when she’s about to drop again in front of Trauma One.”

“That is not—” He opens a door you didn’t even see him key into. On-call room. Small. Dim. Too quiet compared to the screaming outside. He guides you inside and shuts the door behind you. The click of the lock is loud. Final. He draws the curtains shut. For a second, neither of you moves. The room feels wrong in a different way—no monitors, no alarms, just the hum of the hospital through the walls and the two of you trapped in a space that suddenly feels way too intimate to be professional. You turn on him immediately.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.” You stare at him. He stares back. Then he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for hours and finally gave up.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Sit,” he repeats, voice lower now. Not loud. Not angry. Final. Something in it makes your irritation falter for half a second.

“I don’t need—”

“You almost face-planted into a hallway cart,” he cuts in. “So forgive me if I don’t trust your assessment right now.” That stings. You hate that it stings.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“And I told you to stop saying that like it’s a magic spell that makes it true.” Silence snaps between you. You cross your arms. He runs a hand over his face, dragging it down like he’s physically trying to keep himself from losing control again. Then, softer—dangerously honest: “Do you have any idea what it looked like?” Your voice drops a fraction.

“No worse than what we see every day.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” He looks at you. And whatever restraint he’s been clinging to finally slips just enough for you to see what’s underneath it.

“I thought I was going to lose you in my own department,” he says, quiet and raw. “While I was standing ten feet away.” That shuts you up. Not because you don’t have a response. Because suddenly you don’t trust your voice. Robby steps closer again, slower this time, like he’s approaching something that could still break.

“You don’t get to decide that it’s nothing,” he says. “You don’t get to walk it off because it’s convenient.” Your throat tightens.

“I wasn’t trying to make it convenient.”

“Then what were you doing?” he asks immediately. A beat. Your answer comes out smaller than you want it to.

“Working.” He lets out a humorless breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what scares me.” You frown slightly.

“What?” He looks at you like he regrets the words the second they leave him—but not enough to take them back.

“That you’ll always pick the job over your own body,” he says. “Even when it’s failing you.” Something shifts in your chest. You don’t like how seen that feels. Then he steps right in front of you. Close enough that the air changes. A pause. The hospital noise outside feels miles away. You swallow.

“This is inappropriate,” you mutter automatically, because your brain is scrambling for something safe to hold onto. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “We passed that a while ago.” You scoff, backing away from him.

"God, Robby - Why do you care ? I'm an adult, i can handle myself-" He moves with you instantly. Not chasing. Not grabbing. Just… matching you step for step until your back meets the wall and there’s nowhere left for you to retreat without admitting you’re retreating.

“You call that handling yourself?” he asks quietly. Your jaw tightens.

“I didn’t ask for a performance review.”

“I’m not performing,” he says. “I’m telling you you scared the hell out of me.” That lands harder than anything else so far. Because it’s not clinical. It’s not Dr. Robby. It’s just him. You force a short laugh, brittle at the edges.

“You, scared?” you repeat. “You? You run trauma codes like it’s any other Tuesday and you’re telling me I scared you?” His eyes don’t move from yours.

“Yes.”Simple. Unapologetic. That shuts you up for half a second too long. Then anger finds its way back in—because it’s easier than whatever is sitting underneath it.

“You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice sharper now. “You don’t get to pull me into a room, lock the door, and act like—like—”

“Like what?” he cuts in. You gesture vaguely between you.

“Like this matters more than everything else.” Robby goes still. That’s the wrong thing to say. You see it immediately.Something in his expression tightens, like he’s been holding something behind his teeth for too long and you just forced it open.

“It does,” he says. Quiet. Flat. Absolute. Your breath catches slightly.

“No, it doesn’t,” you say automatically, because that’s safer.

“It does to me.” Silence. You stare at him, trying to find the angle where this becomes a misunderstanding you can fix with sarcasm or distance or anything familiar. But there isn’t one. Robby exhales through his nose, frustrated now—not at you, but at himself.

“You really think I’d be doing this,” he gestures between you again, sharper this time, “if it didn’t matter?”

“You’re my attending,” you say quickly. He laughs once, humorless.

“That’s what you’re going with?”

“It’s a boundary.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”Your pulse spikes.

“Excuse me?” Robby steps closer again, and this time you don’t move fast enough to stop it.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” he asks. “You think I don’t know exactly how this looks? How long this has been going on?” Your throat goes tight.

“Robby—”

“I’ve been watching you almost pass out for weeks,” he snaps suddenly, voice rising. “I’ve been watching you run yourself into the ground, and I keep telling myself it’s just work, it’s just stress, it’s just—”He stops. Jaw clenches. Then quieter, but sharper somehow: “And then you collapse in front of me and I realize I don’t care if it’s ‘appropriate’ anymore.”

Your breath stutters.

“Stop,” you whisper.

He shakes his head once.

“No.” A beat. Then it comes out—rough, unplanned, like it slips through a crack he didn’t know was there. “I can’t do this pretending I don’t—” he cuts off, swallows hard, eyes flicking down for half a second like he’s annoyed at himself for losing control. “I can’t stand there and watch you walk yourself into the ground and pretend it’s nothing to me.” Your voice barely works.

“Robby…” He looks back at you. And whatever restraint he had left finally breaks cleanly.

“I’m in love with you,” he says. No softness. No buildup. Just truth, thrown into the air like it’s been suffocating him. The room goes completely still. Even the hospital noise feels distant now, like it’s happening to someone else’s life. You don’t speak. Not because you don’t have words. Because you have too many and none of them fit right. Robby watches your face change like he’s bracing for impact. And then, almost immediately, regret floods in.

“Shit,” he says quietly. One step back. “No—forget I said that.” Your stomach drops. His jaw tightens like he’s trying to physically shove the words back into his chest.

“I shouldn’t have—” he starts again, voice rougher now. “That’s not—this isn’t—”

“Robby,” you say, finally. He stops. Doesn’t look at you immediately. That alone says everything.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” he says, almost bitter now, like he’s punishing himself. “I just—”

'Robby."

Venice

Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through his frantic backpedaling like a scalpel. He finally stops, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. He still won’t meet your eyes, staring at a point on the scuffed linoleum floor like it holds the secrets to avoiding this exact moment. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, filled with everything he just said and everything you haven’t.

“Robby,” you say again, softer this time. You take a half-step forward, closing the tiny gap he’d created. “Look at me.” He hesitates, a war playing out across his face. The urge to flee warring with the command in your voice. Finally, slowly, he lifts his gaze. The raw vulnerability in his eyes is a punch to the gut. It’s the same look he had when you were on the floor, but magnified, stripped of all clinical pretense. It’s just him. Scared. Exposed.

“I…” he starts, then stops, his throat working. “I know I shouldn’t have said that. It’s out of line. It’s—” You don’t let him finish. You surge forward, grabbing the front of his scrub top in both fists and yanking him down to you. The movement is clumsy, desperate. Your mouth crashes against his. It’s not a kiss of gentle revelation. It’s a kiss of frustration, of relief, of months of unspoken tension finally detonating. It’s all teeth and desperate pressure, a clash that’s been brewing for longer than either of you would admit. He makes a sound against your lips, a harsh, surprised groan, and for a second he’s frozen. Then his hands are on you, not gentle, not asking. One hand clamps onto the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place with a grip that’s just this side of painful. The other arm bands around your waist, lifting you slightly, pulling you flush against him until there’s no air, no space, just the frantic hammering of his heart against yours through the thin fabric of your scrubs. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all the fear from the hallway, all the annoyance at his overbearing concern, all the traitorous warmth that’s been pooling in your stomach every time he looks at you for months. You bite his lower lip, hard, and he groans again, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming yours in a way that’s possessive and demanding and utterly, completely Robby. He walks you backward, and your back hits the wall with a soft thud that doesn’t break the kiss. He pins you there, his body a solid, warm weight, one of his thighs wedging itself between yours. The pressure is intoxicating, a dizzying contrast to the lightheadedness from before. This is a different kind of spinning out of control. One you don’t want to stop. His hand slides from your neck down your side, tracing the curve of your ribs before coming to rest on your hip, his thumb digging in, holding you captive. You can feel the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his breathing, a mirror to your own. He finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you are breathing hard, chests heaving. The room is silent except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the distant, muffled hum of the hospital that feels worlds away.

“Christ,” he rasps, his voice thick and wrecked. His eyes are still closed, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear, and a shiver runs through you. “You can’t… you can’t just do that.”

“You’re the one who said you were in love with me,” you manage to get out, your voice shaky. “And then tried to take it back.”

“I wasn’t taking it back,” he says, lifting his head. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a mix of adrenaline and something else, something hungry. “I was trying not to fuck everything up.”

“Too late for that,” you breathe, and then you’re kissing him again. It’s just as rough as before, maybe rougher. His hands are everywhere, roaming over your back, your sides, gripping your ass and pulling you harder against him. The wall is hard and unyielding at your back, and he’s solid and unyielding at your front, and you’re trapped in the best possible way. He rolls his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that sends a bolt of heat straight through you, and you gasp into his mouth. He takes the opportunity to kiss a trail down your jaw, his scruff scraping deliciously against your skin. He nips at your collarbone, his hand sliding up under your scrub top, his palm hot and firm against the bare skin of your stomach.

“Robby,” you pant, your head falling back against the wall as his mouth finds that spot on your neck that makes your knees weak. “We’re… we’re in the on-call room.”

“Mhmm,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Locked the door.” His thumb brushes against the underside of your breast, and you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. He chuckles, a low, smug sound that vibrates through you. “Someone could knock.”

“Don’t care,” you gasp, as his other hand tugs your scrub top out of your pants, his fingers finding the waistband of your pants. “God, don’t stop.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s a question there, a final check-in, but it’s buried under layers of raw want. You answer it by grabbing his hand and guiding it further down. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, and then his mouth is on yours again. He tastes like burnt coffee and the faint metallic tang of hospital air, but there’s something else, something bitter and sweet and rawly, desperately Robby that makes you want to climb inside his chest and break his ribs open from the inside. His hand is already down the front of your scrubs, palm hot against your hipbone, fingers trembling just enough to betray everything he won’t say aloud. You fumble at the drawstring on your own waistband, frustration clawing up your throat in a low, angry whine when the knot won’t loosen fast enough. You stare up at him—mess of dark hair, sweat on his brow, pupils wide enough to swallow the brown—and wonder absently if this is what it feels like to code. For a minute nobody says anything. You just breathe, harsh and hungry and desperate, noisy enough that if anybody is in the hallway they’d know exactly what was happening in here. It’s Robby that breaks first. He makes a strangled sound, forehead dropping to yours, so hard your noses smashed together. His voice comes out low and shredded and nearly begging.

“You gotta let me know if you want me to stop.”

You don’t.

Fuck, you don’t.

You want him to break you down to single-celled organisms. you turn your head and bite the meat of his bicep, just to feel him jerk.

“Shut up and do it, then,” You mutter. Your hands drop around his shoulders, pulling him down, and the next kiss is more teeth than lips. You don’t even notice his other hand has made it to your waistband until you feel the cool slide of his hand against your skin. You’re so far gone, you don’t even feel the fear or shame anyone normal would. Can’t bring yourself to care that you’re half-pinned to a drywall partition and the edge of a cot, moaning into your supervisor’s mouth like you’re both undergrad idiots caught in a blackout at frat formal. His hand is relentless, moving fast and clever, not even bothering to be delicate. You nearly lose your balance when he presses a thumb down just right over your scrubs, and your center of gravity hops about a foot left.

“Fuck—Robby, fuck—” You hiss it against his jawline, legs starting to shake. He gets a hand under your thigh, hefts it up, then hooks your knee on his belt so all you can do is hang there and let him wreck you. Somewhere in the back of your awareness you’re listing all the ways this is the worst idea you’ve ever had, but your body refuses to stop. He’s cursing too, breathing your name into your neck, voice so rough you can feel it vibrating in his chest. You want to put a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet but you know if anyone comes in, you’re both dead anyway. He fumbles at the drawstring with clumsy, single-handed urgency, finally manages to get it untied. The relief when his fingers actually slide past the waistband is so intense your vision goes white at the edges. He doesn’t even tease—just buries his hand against you and makes a noise so dark and satisfied it spikes something hot and relentless at the base of your spine.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re fucking soaked.” He says it like he means it as both a compliment and a diagnosis. Then he pushes his palm harder against you, finding every sensitive spot and working you with unerring, almost clinical precision, like he’s taking inventory of every way you can be taken apart. Your head thunks back against the wall with a little hollow sound. You want to tell him to stop, or slow down, or just breathe for maybe two seconds, but you don’t. You can’t. Instead you let yourself fall open and let him see it. The fact that you’re wrapped this tightly around him is not new information, but this—exposed, desperate—is a new evolutionary stage. He leans in, mouth back on yours, and you taste sweat, salt, and faint chemical hospital on his skin. The wall is cold at your back and his hand is molten at your front and your whole body is nothing but contrast and overload and hunger. You barely register your own hands, but they’re on him, pulling up the hem of his shirt, searching for bare skin, something to ground yourself. You feel the heat of him even through layers, alive and pulsing and real. He holds you still, fingers working in brutal, short pulses, driving you mercilessly toward the edge. It’s not careful. It’s not gentle. It’s like he’s making a point. Like he’s proving to you, to himself, to God, that you’re not going to scare him off, not ever. You come like a detonation. It rips through you so hard your vision whites out again and you clench around his hand. He groans, slowly slipping his fingers out of you before taking a step back away from your and pulling down your scrub pants. You gulp as you watch him undo the drawstring on his own pants, your mouth watering with need. The cold air against your exposed cunt is making you clench involuntarily, and the only thing you want right now is to have him inside of you. He pulls his pants down, only enough to free himself, and the air feels like it’s knocked out of your chest. His cock slaps up against his stomach, flushed dark, thick and heavy with blood, and the sight alone is enough to make you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation, shivering even though the room is sweltering. He spits in his palm, slicks himself, then walks over to you. His hands hook beneath your thighs and you jump up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he presses you against the wall. He pushes your hair back from your face, kisses your nose. He doesn’t waste a second. The first thrust is brutal, messy, all pent-up frustration and months of not acting on impulse. He’s thick—bigger than you’d let yourself admit in all those late-night, shamefaced fantasies—and the stretch steals the air from your lungs. Your jaw drops open, eyes rolling back as you lock on to the faces he’s making: mouth slack, eyebrows knit, a bead of sweat at his temple that you want to lick off more than you want to live. He’s got both hands under your ass, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, holding you up so all you can do is take it. And you do, with everything you have, bearing down on him so you can feel every inch, every twitch. He huffs a shaky, humorless laugh, the kind you only make when you’re so overwhelmed you can’t do anything else.

“You okay ?” He rasps, kissing his way up your neck. The sound that comes out of you isn’t even a word. He pounds into you with another deep, brutal stroke and your body locks up so tight you’re glad he’s the one holding you or you’d have fallen flat. Every thrust slams your spine into the drywall and it should hurt, it should, but all you can do is claw at his shirt, nails catching the rough cotton, dragging it up over his ribs so you can feel him—real, alive, so much hotter than any fever you’ve ever run in the hospital. The slap of skin, the hiss of your breathing, the mangled noises you’re making—all of it so loud, vulgar, so perfectly, awfully public even behind the locked door. He’s whispering shit into your neck. At first you think it’s curse words, but then you catch your own name buried in there, and then more, like instructions, like hymns.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, the words punching out of him like he’s angry about it. “God, you’re unreal.” His hips snap again, harder, and your shoulders knock back against the wall, sharp bite of drywall dust filling your nose. Each time he thrusts in, your vision smears around the edges, the pleasure so hot it borders on pain. It isn’t like you pictured, not really—it’s better. The angle, the rush, the way he bullies all the air out of your lungs with every movement. Your hands are in his hair, clawing tight, pulling him down so you can mouth at his neck, take the taste of him into yourself. He shoves your scrubs up higher, rough hands leaving trails of heat on cold skin, then fists one hand in the fabric at your shoulder, pinning you harder to the cinderblock. There is nothing gentle, nothing careful, nothing but his body taking yours apart, and yours letting him, wild for it. He keeps muttering, a string of filthy reverence against your ear:

“Can’t believe it’s you, can’t believe you let me—fuck, you’re so—Jesus, clench again, just like that—” The words run together, get lost under the wet slap of skin and the broken sounds you’re making. You can’t answer except to dig your heels into his lower back, desperate to keep him as close as possible, to force him deeper, to make certain it’s real. This has to be real. For months you both acted like this wasn’t going to happen, like you didn’t live your whole life in inches, waiting for the day the rules would break and you’d get to see what would actually happen if you let go. Now you’re against the wall, and he’s inside of you raw and fast and a little bit mean, and every expectation is dissolving in a haze of salt and friction and heat. You want to tell him he can do anything to you, that there is nothing off-limits, but all that comes out is a shattered little whine, just his name, again and again. He bites your collarbone, sucks a mark there, and the pain is almost enough to bring you back down, but you’re already spiraling. Robby’s voice is a chant in your ear, weirdly reverent, filthy and devotional all at once. He’s running hot, sweat trickling down his neck, the muscles in his forearms taut as bowed steel where he brackets your hips. Each thrust slams you against the wall hard enough to rattle the fluorescent hum down to your teeth. You know you’ll have drywall dust embedded under your nails, maybe even in your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Your world is reduced to the vicious, deliberate drag of his cock inside you, the scratch of his stubble jaw against your cheek, the gasp-and-hitch cadence of your own lungs. His hand slips, finds your jaw, thumb prying your mouth open.

“Look at me,” he grates. It’s not a request. You do, eyelids dragging heavy, drool stringing from your lips. He shoves his thumb inside and you clamp down on it, tongue greedy, and watch his resolve ripple and snap at the edges. “Fuck, you love this,” he hisses. A hot, shameful thrill blooms in your gut. You can’t even nod; your brain’s gone chemical, all instinct and nerve and the urge to let him ruin you properly. He pulls his thumb free from your teeth, then brings his hand back to grip your jaw, rough, almost cruel.

“You gonna come for me like this?” His pelvis snaps up, grinding you against concrete. “You gonna soak me, right here, where anybody could walk in?” He means it as a threat, but the promise makes something deep in you uncurl and spiral tight. You dig your nails into his back and feel the give of his skin, the helpless rocking of your own hips. You’re close again—embarrassingly, stupidly fast—and he can tell, because he starts fucking you even meaner, chasing the edge with all the subtlety of a gunshot.

“Jesus,” he says, “you feel so good, I can’t—fuck. I can’t stop.” Like he’s ever going to. You snarl something incoherent, probably his name, and you feel the tension crest, shatter, and pour out in waves so intense you lose track of your own body. Robby keeps moving, not letting up for a second. Everything’s too much: the raw thud of your shoulderblades grinding cinderblock, the way your ankles have locked behind his back, the friction and heat and static spit-glue between your skin. You try to tell him you’re gonna lose it but only manage a wild, choked keening that doesn’t sound like it could belong to you. He drops his head to your shoulder, teeth scraping, and groans your name so low and honest it makes your toes curl. There is nothing in the world but this. Nothing but him pinning you, holding you, fucking you like he’s lost count of where the rest of the world even is. Your hands are in his hair, wrenching, and you yank his head up so you can bite at his bottom lip. He lets you, gives a little gasp, then locks eyes with you and pours all that manic, frantic reverence right into the next kiss, mouthing at your skin and then burying his face in your neck like he’s drowning. The pace gets relentless—body-shocking, staccato, sharp even through the haze of it. He fucks through your aftershocks as if it’s a challenge, like the goal is to keep your body from ever regaining equilibrium. When you come again it’s so loud you’re sure the ward must hear; he clamps his hand over your mouth, eyes blown so scared and wild, but the pulse of his cock inside you says he’s not really trying to stop you so much as channel every iota of your body back into his. His own rhythm gets jerky, sloppier, and his mouth drops open against your jaw as he pins you tight and starts to lose it.

“Fuck, oh fuck, gonna—” His body locks, hips jammed flush against you, and you feel him pulse hard, the warmth spilling inside you like he’s pumping more heat into an already-overloaded core. He’s breathless, shaking, still pressed in deep as if he can’t trust gravity to hold you together otherwise. You stay like that, tangled, your cunt still rippling around him, both gulping at the hot, sick air, until your numb legs make you both slide down the wall in a graceless heap.

You’re both wrecked. Sweaty and glassy-eyed, scrub shirts sweat-stuck to your ribs, bodies still twitching in the late echoes of what the fuck just happened. There’s a sheet of drywall dust on your back and your own fingernail crescented into his skin; he’s smiling, shit-eating, delirious, and you’d punch him if you weren’t still shaking like a defibrillator just went off under your sternum.

He leans in, a gentle press of lips to your forehead, and you want to tell yourself it’s just an autonomic reaction, that the only thing happening here is a literal pressure release after months of idiotic, unyielding need. But you know better. The way he holds your face, the way he says your name soft into your hair, the way he’s still—still—inside you, hips slotted to hips, like he can’t bear to break the circuit.

You roll your head to stare at him. He meets your gaze, a thundercrack of worry, awe, and something else you don’t have the energy to name. You want to say something pointed and clever, but you can’t ; all you manage is a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.

It should be awkward.

It should be so fucking awkward.

He kisses your face as he slips out of you and shoves himself back inside his pants before dropping you slowly to the floor, hands braced at your waist as your legs wobble. He slips your own pants and underwear back up your thighs, looking up at you.

“You okay ?” He asks, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s weird, how true it is. You blink, vision still dazzled and dopplered, and catch Robby’s hand trembling where it rests on your hip. The shake is microscopic, like a skipped frame in film, but it’s there, and it’s only then you realize you’re vibrating too. You try to laugh, and the sound cracks, warbles, but he mirrors it, leaning in until your foreheads tap, bone on bone. He smells like fresh sweat and latex and the antiseptic tang of someone who’s spent an entire adulthood hunched over sterile trays. He rubs his thumb slow circles at your waist, and the gentleness is so unexpected, so at odds with the way he just had you, that you almost start crying on the spot. You swallow it back and close your hand over his, try to will him not to let go just yet. You listen together to the radiators pop and the wild rattle of your pulse. He keeps his head dipped, mouth resting on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. Neither of you moves. He’s still breathing you in, slow, like he’s afraid if he does it too fast, it’ll all be over.

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he whispers, so low you almost miss it beneath the thonk of your heart in your ears. You want to make a joke, something flippant, but you’re too raw. It all comes out honest, whether you like it or not.

“No. You could’ve hurt me more.” The silence after feels like a dropped glass; sharp, fragile, ready to split the air. Robby closes his eyes. You see every microflinch, the way his throat sticks around the swallow, how he steadies himself before answering.

“‘Kay. Just—” He hesitates, and you sense it’s the kind of pause he’d usually grease over with a quip. Not now. Now he’s counting on you to stay, just a little, and not run. “I’ll be gentle next time. Or not. Whatever you want.” He tries to smile, but it turns lopsided, uncertain. You grab him by the collar, tug him in for a kiss that’s less a collision and more a hinge opening, slow, like letting light into a dark corridor. You can taste the apology before he says it. You hate that you love it. Robby pulls away, eyes shiny in the half-light. He nudges your nose with his, then plants a kiss at the corner of your mouth, softer than anything he’s ever done. It feels as reverent as a benediction.

“You should lie down,” he says. “Your legs are—” he gestures with a shrug, then glances down and grins sheepish. “Sorta toast.”

“My legs are awesome, thank you,” you say, but you lean your full weight into him anyway, allowing yourself to be steered to the bed. He maneuvers you down with surprising care, one arm looped around your back, the other smoothing your hair off your sweaty forehead. He smiles down at you, sighing.

“I’ll go get you some saline. You are on bedrest for the next two hours.” You frown, gasping.

“Oh you devious fuckwad.” You mutter. "This was your plan all along.' You grumble.

"No." He says, and then winces. "Okay. Maybe. I was initially planning to just lock you in here.. I didn't play on telling you I love you and coming inside you. That... was a slight hitch in my plan." You roll your eyes.

"You're an asshole."

"An asshole who doesn't want you to run yourself into the ground." He mutters, brushing your hair away from your face. You sigh annoyedly.

"Fine. You win. Two hours." Robby grins, triumphant.

"Ah. Look who finally is listening to reason." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'll go get the Saline from Perlah. Don't move." You roll your eyes, swatting at him.

"Ha-Ha."

“And water. And probably something vaguely edible that passes for food in this place.” You reach out and catch his wrist before he can leave. He stops instantly.

“Robby.”

“Yeah?” You look at him for a second—really look. Tired. Stressed. Still half in doctor mode even after everything. And completely, unapologetically here.

“I love you too,” you say quietly. Something in his expression breaks open again. It’s not dramatic.It’s worse than that. It’s steady.

"I know.” You let go of his wrist. He holds your gaze one more second, then forces himself to move—because he still knows how to function even when his entire emotional life is on fire. The hallway is chaos again the second Robby steps out. He’s halfway to the supply station when he sees him. Abbot. Clocking in. Standing dead still. Staring straight at the on-call room door like he’s just witnessed a miracle or a crime or both. Robby doesn’t even slow down. He walks past him, grabs the saline bags, and says flatly, without looking up:

“You owe Dana a hundred bucks.” Abbot blinks.

A beat. Abbot stares at the door again. Then lets out a long, defeated breath.

“Son of a bitch.”

taglist !

Work has not changed. You still move through the department with quiet confidence, and a steady rhythm that people rely on. You are careful in ways no one else notices. A step slower when you need to be. A little more aware of where you stand, of what you carry, of how close people get.

But, you know that work does not change for anyone, and, as always, shift change brings chaos.

The overlap between day and night feels like a collision in itself, information flying back and forth, voices overlapping. You are halfway through handing over a patient when the incident happens, your focus split between your notes and the questions being thrown at you by a new, sweet trainee that you have all the time in the world for.

There is shouting from down the corridor. You register it distantly at first, the way you always do, filtering what matters and what doesn’t. Then it gets closer, too close for comfort, if anything.

You turn instinctively, your body already shifting before your brain has caught up, just in time to see the patient being pulled back by security, just in time to realise they are not fully restrained yet.

Just in time for them to lunge.

It is sudden, messy, all uncoordinated force and misplaced intent. They did not mean to hit you, but that doesn’t matter. The impact is enough. You stumble, your foot catching awkwardly against a trolley behind you, balance gone. The world tilts sharply, your centre of gravity shifting too fast for you to correct.

You hit the floor hard. Your shoulder takes most of it. Your head follows. There is a sharp crack of pain, bright and immediate, blooming at the back of your skull. For a second, everything goes white. Then sound rushes back in all at once.

“Hey! Step back!”

“Careful!”

“Are you alright?!”

Hands reach for you, voices overlapping, the chaos tightening into something sharper. You blink, your vision swimming slightly, the white ceiling above you too bright, too close.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. Your voice sounds distant. Wrong.

“You hit your head,” someone says.

You tilt just enough to see Mel and Langdon lowering down next to you. If the grimaces on their faces are anything to go by, you’re probably not in a great position.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to push yourself up.

A hand presses gently against your shoulder, stopping you. “Take it easy,” Mel says, her voice firm but calm. “Stay down for just a second.”

“I’m okay,” you insist, even as your head throbs in time with your pulse, even as the edges of your vision flicker in a way you do not like.

Your hand drifts, almost unconsciously, to your abdomen. It is instinctive, but you freeze. No one notices, or at least, you hope they do not.

“Took a bit of a tumble there. Let’s get you up slowly,” Langdon says, already crouching beside you. “No rush, you know the drill.”

Said ‘drill’ isn’t quite coming to you, you find. Even so, you nod, wincing as the movement makes the world tilt again, nausea rising faintly in your throat.

“I can walk,” you say, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Mel replies, not entirely convinced. “I mean, I don’t think you should. But, okay, we’ll try.”

They help you sit first, one hand steady at your back, another at your arm. The room shifts but does not spin, which feels like a small mercy.

“Where does it hurt?” she asks.

“My head,” you admit.

“Anywhere else?”

You hesitate, focus stuck on the tiny life inside of you, that precious little secret. You know Jack is near, you know how to use an ultrasound machine. You choose to revel in secrecy a little while longer.

“No. Just my head.”

You let them help you to your feet, your balance returning slowly, carefully.

“I’m okay,” you say again.

Mel gives you a look. “We will be the judges of that,” she replies.

You open your mouth to argue. Then you catch sight of Jack.

Jack stands just beyond the cluster of people, his posture too still, his expression locked down in that way that means he is holding something back. His gaze is fixed on you, sharp and assessing, already cataloguing every detail, every shift, every sign that something might be wrong.

You swallow. Jack does not move closer immediately, he waits and watches, clinging onto the scrap of professionalism that’s stopping him from lunging at the patient and then whisking you home immediately after.

“Come on,” Mel says, guiding you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Let’s get you somewhere quieter.”

Langdon stays close on your other side, his presence steady, reassuring in a way that does not feel overwhelming. The walk is short, but it feels longer, each step a careful reminder that your body is not entirely under your control right now.

Jack falls into step behind you, just close enough so that you know he is there.

You are settled onto the bed in one of the exam rooms, the door closing behind you, cutting off the worst of the noise from outside.

“Alright,” Mel says, already moving through the motions, checking your pupils, your responses, her touch professional and precise. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“A bit,” you admit.

“Vision?”

“Blurry for a second. It’s better now.”

Langdon hums quietly, making a note.

“Any loss of consciousness?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You exhale slowly, your hands curling slightly against the edge of the bed. You can feel Jack’s presence more acutely in here, contained space making everything sharper, closer. You do not look at him. Not yet.

Melissa pauses for a second, her expression shifting slightly as she considers something.

Then, casually, like it is nothing more than routine, she asks, “Any chance you might be pregnant?”

The world stops. Your heart stutters, breath catching in your throat. You had prepared for a lot of things, and this was always going to be one of them. You just had not expected it to happen like this.

You glance up. Jack is already looking at you, he does not say anything. The question hangs in the air, waiting.

You swallow. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “There is.”

Subtly, but unmistakably, like the room has tilted on a different axis, like everything has just been rearranged without anyone moving. You feel it immediately, that change in the air, that quiet pause where the words settle in and take shape.

Mel stares at you.

Not in a way that feels clinical or detached, not in the way she had been just seconds before, but in a way that is wide and bright and just a little bit disbelieving.

“Wait,” she says, her voice softer now, like she is trying not to startle the moment into disappearing. “There is? You… you’re, um, what?”

You nod, your hands curling tighter into the thin blanket beneath you, your face already warm, already betraying you in the way it always does when attention shifts too sharply in your direction.

“Yeah,” you repeat, quieter this time. “I am.”

Langdon makes a noise that is somewhere between a laugh and something far more delighted.

“No way,” he says, his grin immediate, unfiltered. “You’re serious?”

You nod again, unable to quite find anything else to say.

It feels strange, saying it out loud like this, in a room that smells faintly of antiseptic and hospital linen, under fluorescent lights that are far too bright for something that feels this soft, this private. It feels like handing something fragile over to the world and hoping it is treated gently.

Mel lets out a small, breathless laugh, one hand coming up to grasp Langdon’s forearm in sheer joy for a just second before she drops it, eyes still fixed on you.

“Oh my gosh,” she says, grinning so wide that you just know her cheeks ache. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was going to,” you reply, your voice small despite your best efforts. “I just hadn’t yet.”

“I mean, yeah, no. That is not a small thing to just mention,” she says, but there is no judgement in it, only warmth, excitement bubbling just under the surface.

You risk a glance at Jack. He is standing in the same place, still quiet, still composed on the outside, but there is something in his expression now that was not there before. Something softer, something almost openly proud in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You knew?” Langdon asks, looking between the two of you.

Jack nods once, a smile finally tugging at his lips. “Yeah. I mean, this would be a pretty lousy way to find out.”

“And you didn’t say anything either?”

“It wasn’t mine to say.”

The simplicity of it lands somewhere deep.

Mel exhales sharply, shaking her head slightly like she is trying to process it all at once.

“Okay,” she says, snapping back into something more clinical, more grounded, even if the smile is still there, tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Right. That changes things slightly.”

Your stomach flips.

“Is everything okay?” you ask quickly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, your earlier calm slipping under the weight of something sharper, more fragile.

Jack shifts at that, just slightly, his attention sharpening further. He walks over, sitting on the bed next to you. A hand instinctively moves to your hip, thumb running soothing circles against it, conscious of the tiny life that is not far from it.

Mel’s expression softens immediately. “Please try not to worry,” she says gently. “We’re just being careful. That’s all. You hit your head, so we’re going to do everything properly, make sure you and the baby are okay. You’ve done this before, you know how it works.”

The baby. Hearing it like that, said so easily, so naturally, makes something in your chest tighten and expand all at once.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Langdon is already moving, grabbing what he needs, his earlier excitement now tucked under a layer of professional focus that does not quite hide the grin still lingering on his face.

“This is great,” he mutters, almost to himself. “This is actually great.”

“Langdon,” Mel says, shooting him a look that is only half-serious. “Can you focus?”

“I am focusing,” he insists, still smiling.

You let out a small, shaky breath, your hand drifting again to your abdomen, more deliberate this time.

“You okay?” Jack asks quietly, hand moving up to your bicep with a gentle squeeze.

You nod, your throat tight, your emotions sitting too close to the surface now, everything heightened by the sudden shift from quiet secrecy to this.

Mel finishes her checks, her movements careful, precise, her questions more thorough now, more attentive to detail in a way that reassures you even as it makes your pulse pick up again.

“No red flags,” she says after a moment, her tone reassuring. “We’ll keep an eye on you for a bit, just to be safe, but everything looks fine so far.”

Relief hits you in a wave, strong enough that you have to close your eyes for a second, your shoulders dropping, tension you had not fully acknowledged easing just slightly.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

She smiles. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m still telling everyone.”

Your eyes snap open. “What?”

“I’m kidding,” she says quickly, though the look she shares with Langdon suggests she absolutely is not.

“Mel—”

“We’ll be discreet,” she amends, not sounding entirely convincing.

Langdon is already backing towards the door, his grin far too wide to be trusted. “I’m just going to grab something,” he says.

“You are absolutely going to tell people,” you reply, your voice somewhere between resigned and horrified.

“Me?” he says, feigning innocence. “No. Never.”

He slips out of the room before you can argue further. Mel lingers for a second longer, her expression soft again as she looks at you.

“Seriously,” she says quietly. “Congratulations.”

Your face warms further.

“Thank you.”

She squeezes your shoulder gently before following him out. The door closes.

Silence settles again. Different this time. Fuller. You let out a breath you did not realise you were holding, your hand still resting protectively over your abdomen.

Jack shifts closer properly now, no hesitation left as he lets you melt into his side.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod, even as your emotions feel like they are shifting too quickly to keep up with.

“Yeah,” you say. “I just… that wasn’t how I pictured telling people.”

Jack huffs a quiet breath, something almost amused, almost fond. “No,” he agrees. “Probably not.”

You glance up at him, your lips pressing together in a small, shy smile. “They’re going to tell everyone.”

“Yeah. Saves us the job, though.”

“I’m going to have to face the entire department in about five minutes.”

“You and me both, sweetheart.”

You groan softly, dropping your head back against the wall. “I might actually die.”

“You won’t,” Jack says, his tone dry, but there is warmth there, unmistakable. He presses a firm kiss to your temple. “You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

Jack’s hand shifts slightly, brushing against yours where it rests on your stomach. It is instinctive. Gentle. You still. Your breath catches. He notices.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You look up. Jack’s expression has softened completely now, whatever restraint he had been holding onto slipping just enough for you to see what sits underneath.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you want to tell them to keep that secret forever, you know they will,” Jack says.

“I know,” you reply softly. You can’t help but think of just how excited they both were, grins wide and hands batting each other in unrestrained joy. “I think it’s easier this way.”

From somewhere out in the corridor, you hear it. A voice. Then another. A laugh. Your name. You close your eyes briefly.

“Yeah,” you say, smile spreading. “It’s happening.”

When you eventually leave, you do not get a quiet exit. You had hoped, briefly, irrationally, that maybe the shift would swallow it, that the chaos would take precedence, that people would be too busy to notice, to care, to turn their attention towards you in the way you have always quietly avoided.

You should have known better. The moment you step out of the room, it hits you. Not physically, not like before, but socially, emotionally, a rush of voices and attention that makes your chest tighten in an entirely different way.

“Hey! Hey, is it true?”

“Oh my God, congratulations!”

“Seriously? That’s amazing!”

Your name is everywhere all at once, carried on excitement and curiosity and a kind of warmth you do not quite know how to handle when it is directed at you so openly.

Your face burns. It is immediate. Unavoidable. You duck your head slightly on instinct, your hand drifting again to your abdomen like it might anchor you, like it might make you smaller somehow.

“Careful,” Jack murmurs beside you, his hand finding the small of your back, steady, grounding. “I won’t let them crowd you.”

You nod, even though your words feel stuck somewhere behind your teeth.

“Thank you,” you manage to one nurse who squeezes your arm gently as she passes, her smile bright and genuine.

You mean it. You just wish it was not happening all at once.

“Look at you,” Trinity says, laughing softly, tone teasing but uncharacteristically gentle. “Keeping secrets.”

“I wasn’t—” you start, then stop, because you were, and there is no point pretending otherwise. “It’s recent,” you say instead, your voice quiet, careful.

It feels easier than explaining the truth. Jack stays close. Not hovering. Not drawing attention. Just there, a steady presence at your side, his hand occasionally brushing your back, your arm, small points of contact that keep you grounded when everything else feels a little too loud.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Dana’s voice cuts through the noise, firm and authoritative in a way that makes people listen immediately. “Give them some space, yeah? You can all be excited at the baby shower someday.”

Relief floods through you so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” you whisper, more to the universe than to anyone specific.

Dana gives you a look as she passes, softer than her tone had been. “Go home,” she says. “Both of you.”

You hesitate. “I’m fine to stay,” you start automatically.

“You hit your head,” she replies. “And you’re pregnant.”

Hearing it said like that, so matter-of-fact, so out in the open, makes your face warm all over again.

“You’re going home,” she repeats.

Jack nods once. “She’s going home,” he agrees.

You glance at him, something in your chest tightening and softening at the same time.

“What about your shift?” you ask quietly.

“Shen’s here,” he says.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cuts in gently. “I want to.”

The simplicity of it leaves no room for argument. You nod. “Okay.”

The walk out feels longer than it should. Not because of distance, but because of the constant stream of congratulations, the soft smiles, the quiet excitement that seems to follow you down every corridor.

You try to respond to as many as you can, your voice soft, your words brief, your composure just about holding together under the weight of it all.

Jack does not let go of you. Not fully. His hand stays at your back, guiding, steadying, a quiet reassurance that you are not navigating this alone.

By the time you reach the exit, your cheeks ache slightly from smiling, your emotions stretched thin in a way that feels both overwhelming and strangely warm.

The night air hits you gently as the doors slide open, cooler, quieter, a stark contrast to the noise you have just left behind. You breathe in deeply. You step outside, your shoulders dropping slightly, the tension easing now that the attention has faded.

“That was a lot,” you admit, your voice soft.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees.

You glance at him, a small, shy smile tugging at your mouth. “They’re all very excited.”

“They are. Did you think they would react any other way, baby? Have you met them before?”

You grin. “I know. I just wasn’t ready for that.”

“I know,” Jack says, tone softer. “You handled it like a champ.”

You huff out a quiet breath, shaking your head slightly. “I feel like I’ve just been put under a spotlight.”

You look at him properly then, really taking him in, the way his expression has softened completely, the pride sitting there, open and unguarded in a way you do not think you have ever seen directed at you like this before.

It makes your chest ache. In a good way.

“I am so proud of you,” Jack says. “I don’t say it enough. I’m so, so, so proud of you, angel.”

Your breath catches slightly. Your gaze drops for a second, your face warming again, that familiar shyness creeping in even as something deeper settles underneath it.

“It’s early,” you murmur. “We don’t even—”

“I know,” Jack interrupts gently. “Doesn’t change a single thing. Proud of both of you.”

You nod slowly, your hand drifting down again, resting lightly over your abdomen. It feels different now. Less like a secret. More like something real.

“You were scared,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now.

You hesitate. “Yeah,” you admit. “When I hit my head, I just—” you stop, your throat tightening slightly. “I didn’t even think about me first.”

“I know.” Jack’s hand shifts, covering yours where it rests, warm and steady. “They’re alright,” he says.

You nod, your eyes stinging just slightly. “Yeah.”

You stand there for a moment, the world quieter around you, the chaos of the hospital feeling distant now, like something you have stepped out of rather than something that is still pulling at you.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you home.”

Home. The word settles softly. You nod.

“Okay.”

Jack keeps his hand in yours as you walk, his pace matching yours without you having to think about it, without you having to ask. You feel tired.

Still, underneath all of that, there is something else.

You lean into Jack slightly as you walk, just enough to feel the solid presence of him beside you, just enough to remind yourself that this, all of this, is real. He does not pull away. And, for the first time since everything shifted, since the moment in that exam room, since the voices and the attention and the sudden change in everything, you feel something settle properly.

Not perfectly. Not completely. Just enough. Enough to breathe a little easier. Enough to let yourself feel it. All of it.

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