Secret gardens in my mind

Javier is trying very hard to stay gentle.

You can feel it in the way he touches you, slow hands moving over your body like he’s forcing himself not to rush even though his breathing’s already uneven against your neck.

The sheets are tangled around your legs, the room dark except for the red light coming through the curtains. You’re half underneath him, fingers buried in his hair, and every time you pull him closer, he lets out these quiet little sounds that are seriously driving you insane.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters against your skin when your nails drag lightly down his back.

You smile against his mouth. “You okay there, Peña?”

“That depends,” he says roughly. “You trying to kill me?”

“Maybe.”

That gets a low laugh out of him, but it disappears fast the second you kiss him again.

And Javier kisses like a man who’s been trying not to touch you all day. Slow for maybe a few seconds. Then suddenly not slow at all.

His hand slides up your thigh under the sheets, gripping tighter when you arch into him, and the look he gives you after that almost ruins you completely. Dark eyes. Messy hair. Already losing it. “Fuck,” he breathes quietly, his forehead falling against yours for a second.

You can feel how hard his heart’s beating. You run your fingers through his hair again, softer this time. “You’re really bad at staying calm, huh?”

“Not around you.”

The honesty of that catches you off guard a little.

Javier shifts above you, one arm beside your head now, the other hand still resting on your waist like he needs to keep touching you or he’ll lose his fucking mind. Maybe he already has, because a second later his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your legs with a rough, impatient pull. Then shoves the sheets out of the way so he can touch you properly.

He doesn’t look away from you while he strips you bare, his hand immediately sliding back between your thighs. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says quietly, his thumb moving slowly over you.

You gasp, your hips rolling up into his touch automatically, and you pull him down into another kiss before he can even finish the sentence. That answers him pretty clearly.

He groans into your mouth, low and rough, his fingers sliding inside you. He works you open fast, already knowing exactly what makes you fall apart, pumping deep while his thumb keeps rubbing against your clit hard enough to make your whole body tense.

You arch off the mattress with a broken little whine, your hands leaving his hair to grab onto his shoulders instead, nails digging in hard.

“Yeah? You like that?” he growls against your jaw, his pace getting faster, his thumb working you over until you’re shaking and dripping all over his hand. He barely gives you time to breathe after that.

Javier reaches down to undo his belt, the sharp metal clink loud in the quiet room. He pushes his jeans down just enough to free himself, his cock pressing hot against your wet thighs. He rubs himself against you once, twice, making you whimper out loud for him. “Look at me,” he says, voice rough as hell.

You open your eyes, completely dazed, staring up into his dark blown-out pupils.

He positions himself between your thighs, rubbing against you once before finally pushing inside.

You cry out instantly, fingers clawing at the sheets beneath you.

He buries his face against your neck, chest heaving while he takes a second just to stay there inside you, stretching you so full it almost hurts. “God, you’re so fucking tight,” he chokes out, already starting to move again.

And that’s the moment he completely loses whatever control he had left. The slow, careful Javier disappears. He starts fucking you hard, deep relentless thrusts that keep knocking the breath out of you while one hand pins your wrists above your head. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the room along with his low curses and your shaky moans.

“Javi, fuck… don’t stop,” you sob out, your head falling back against the pillows.

“I’ve got you,” he pants, grabbing your hips so he can push even deeper. He hits that exact spot inside you hard enough to make your entire body lock up.

Your orgasm crashes through you suddenly, squeezing him so tight he lets out a wrecked groan against your skin. The feeling of you shaking around him completely breaks him.

Javier buries himself deep inside you, his whole body tense as he comes hard, shuddering against you while he rides out every second of it.

After that, neither of you says anything.

Javier’s still on top of you, breathing hard against your neck, his forehead damp with sweat where it’s pressed against your skin. One of his hands is still holding your hip like he forgot to let go.

The room’s quiet now except for both of you trying to catch your breath.

Then he lifts his head just enough to look at you, still completely wrecked, dark hair falling into his face. “Hi,” he says hoarsely.

And you actually laugh a little, still dizzy from him. “Hi.”

That finally gets a tired grin out of him before he slowly pulls out of you, making you both hiss quietly at the feeling. “Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, still breathing hard. Then he drops down beside you, pulling you against his chest immediately like it’s instinct at this point.

And somehow, that feels even more intimate than everything that happened before.

thank you for reading

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A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

he’s gentle and careful. he’s up before you are, urging you to stay on the bed as he goes and retrieves a warm and wet towel to clean you up

and when he cleans the mess he made, harry focuses on the task at hand—completely enamored with how you look lying naked on his bed.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

harry likes his eyes, always did. he knows how to use them too. soft and puppy like when he wanted you to forgive him for forgetting to pick up dinner, and stern and serious when he needed to speak with investors.

his favorite body part of his partner’s would be your ass. especially in a pair boy shorts (paired with a thin tank top), walking around the penthouse like it didn’t distract him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

one of his favorite things is watching his come trickle out of you. it stills him—his white spend pulsing out of you and dripping down your inner thighs.

oftentimes, he’d gather his release on the tip of his length to push it back inside of you. something possessive takes over him whenever he sees his cum leak out of you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

he’d never admit it but he caught you one afternoon in his bed, watching porn with your hand between his legs. he stayed hidden behind the door, just watching and listening to the sounds of your pleasure as you got yourself off.

he knew you’d be embarrassed if he ever told you, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping for that same scenario every time he came home early.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

absolutely. there’s no doubt about it. ever since his leg lengthening surgery, harry had plenty of experience with a lot of women who finally started noticing him.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

it’s a cliche, but harry’s favorite position with you is missionary.

he loves feeling your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. but the best thing about missionary is the fact that he could stare into your eyes, watch your face contort into pleasure. it’s intimate. and it’s real.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

harry is 100% serious in the moment. it’s not that he can’t be goofy, but whenever you’re around, he can’t help himself. it’s like something else takes over him.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

he does his best to groom himself. harry has always been an organized and neat person, so that extends to his grooming.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

eye contact. low groans. muttering how much you mean to him and how good you feel. he tries to get as close to you as possible, lips brushing your own, feeling your breath on his lips. he’s always been a hopeless romantic anyway.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

he masturbates quite regularly. especially when you’re away for a trip or a work event and you have to work late.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

harry has a breeding kink. when you told him that he cum inside you the first time, it was like a whole other world opened up for him. he started imagining you pregnant—how beautiful you’d look. he also loves knowing that you’re walking around filled with his cum too.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

if he was being honest, he didn’t necessarily have a favorite place… so long as it’s with you. but if he had to choose, he’d say the shower. he loves watching the water cascade down your body… and he loves it when he presses you up against the glass too.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

you. you. you. it’s easy to get him turned on whenever you’re around. it’s the small things you do too—how you bite your lower lip when you’re thinking, when you’re asleep on your side, one leg straightened out and the other bent forward to reveal your legs and ass, and even when you’re sitting on the sofa with a book in your hands and your hair pulled into a messy bun. as long as it’s you, he’s already turned on.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

he won’t call you derogatory names—even if it’s part of role play. it just doesn’t sit right with him when all he sees you as is perfect.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

oh, harry loves giving and he loves receiving too. not only does it feel good to have your lips around him, but the fact that you are more than eager to just swallow him whole gets him going.

giving, on the other hand, he loves it when you sit on his face. loves the way you taste, the way you move your body against his mouth.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

both. he likes it both ways, and he knows you like it too. there’s just something in the way of you feel around him that makes him want to go slow, but the fast at the same time.

he loves feeling your walls slide along his length, gripping him with each thrust. when he’s rough and on top, he enjoys watching your breasts bounce… but when he’s behind, he loves watching your ass shake against him.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

harry doesn’t typically like quickies… only because it’s just not enough time for him to do everything he wants to.

but he won’t say no to it either… especially if you’re pressed for time but want him badly. who is he to deny you of your needs?

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

yes, 100%. harry loves tasking risks with you. in fact, it excites him at how he’s so willing to try new things. only if it’s with you. always with you.

there was one thing that he’s never done before that he did with you that he’s now obsessed with: bondage. specifically, tying you up.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

harry’s pushing fifty, so it’s not like he can go round after round. but he does have stamina to make that one round last for what seems like hours.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

harry bought a toy because you asked. at first, he was offended, he wasn’t sure why you needed one when you had him.

but now, the vibrator has become a part of your sex life. he likes using it on you as he thrusts into you, watching you come undone so quickly.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

oh he loves teasing you. harry enjoys pushing you so close to the edge until you’re an absolute mess, begging for him to just fuck you.

luckily for you, whatever his girl wants, his girl gets.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

he’s not overly loud, but harry is vocal during sex. he growls and groans, loud enough for you to hear. he’ll curse under his breath you when your mouth is wrapped around him and he moans when he slides into your heat.

he never holds back when he’s with you. especially when you’ve told him before that you like the sounds he makes.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

harry likes being the little spoon sometimes. especially when he’s had a stressful day at work. you’d just hold him and the weight and warmth of your body against his always manages to ease any stress and concern that he feels.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

harry isn’t considered chiseled. he’s muscular and broad in his own way, but he also has some weight around his midsection, which doesn’t usually bother him. not when you look at him the way you do.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

oh it’s high. harry has a super high sex drive where you’re concerned. he yearns for you whenever you’re apart and he yearns for you whenever you’re just sitting right next to him.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

harry doesn’t fall asleep that fast. not because he isn’t tired, but because he likes to take a longer look at you before he does.

You were already by the crib, a mug of coffee warm between your hands. You looked up as he slipped into the room, your eyes softening at the dark circles under his.

"Hey, handsome," you whispered, setting your mug down on the side table. "Survived the night?"

"Barely," Jack murmured back. He walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Missed you, beautiful."

"Missed you too, Doctor." You tilted your head, kissing his cheek. "Say hi. She’s just waking up."

Jack smiled, pulling away to step over to the crib. Inside, your daughter was starting to stir. She blinked sleepily, her eyes rubbing against her fists until they landed right on Jack. Instantly, a tiny smile broke behind her pacifier.

"Daddy!" she screamed with a sleepy voice.

She immediately poked her hands up into the air, making her uppie arms.

Jack’s heart completely melted. He leaned over the railing, scooping her warm body up against his chest.

"Hi my beautiful girl," Jack whispered as he pressed a long kiss into her hair.

She let out a giggle, her hands immediately coming up to cup his face. Her fingers patted his cheeks, testing the rough morning stubble on his jaw. "S'atchy," she mumbled, but she didn't pull away. She leaned her forehead against his nose, rubbing it side to side in a sleepy greeting.

"Yeah, Daddy needs a shave, doesn't he?" Jack cooed, rocking her gently from side to side as she buried her face into his neck.

As he hoisted her a little higher, Jack noticed something else in the crib. A familiar fluffy brown teddy bear dressed in a miniature set of blue hospital scrubs with a very cute little stethoscope.

"Since when does she sleep with plushies?" Jack asked softly, turning to you with an arched eyebrow. "She usually kicks everything out the second she lays down."

You let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his shoulder. Hearing your voice, your daughter reached one hand to pat your face, ensuring both of her favorite people were within arm's reach.

"She only sleeps with that one," you explained. "And only on specific nights. When you're on a night shift and you can't put her to bed, she gets incredibly restless. She sits by the door waiting for you."

Jack’s chest tightened. The guilt of the long hours at the hospital was a constant weight.

"So, I started giving her the bear on those nights," you continued, reaching out to smooth a stray curl away from your daughter's forehead. "I told her that whenever Daddy is at the hospital helping people, this guy is on duty to keep her safe until you get home. Now, she won't go to sleep without him when you're gone. I think it's her way of keeping you close until you come back."

Jack looked down at the scrubwearing bear on the mattress. He reached down with his free hand and picked up the plushie, holding it up so his daughter could see it.

"Who's this, sweet girl?" Jack asked her gently, shaking the bear's little paw. "Is this your helper?"

The toddler blinked sleepily at the bear, then looked right at Jack, her little thumb poking the bear as she nodded. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and pointed a tiny finger at the plushie.

"He's night dada," she mumbled softly, her voice muffled around her paci.

Jack froze. New emotions emerged at the realization that she considered the little bear her version of him when the sun went down.

"Night Dada, huh?" Jack pressed the plush bear gently into her arms, and she instantly hugged it tight against her chest, right alongside his own neck. "He takes good care of you when Daddy's at work?"

The toddler nodded and whispered. "Dad doctor."

He wrapped his free arm securely around you, needing the comfort of his family.

He found you exactly where he feared: sitting in front of your painting, eyes closed, one hand clutching your head and the other on your stool, trying to keep your balance. As if you were trying not to fall. His eyes went straight to the untouched plate of food on the side table, and then to the terrifyingly familiar pallor of your skin.

"Hey, baby... Look at me," Jack muttered desesperatly.

You lifted your head and he caught you before you could slip to the floor. You felt terribly light. Jack lifted you and laid you on your back on the living room couch, quickly propping up your legs with a couple of cushions.

"Damn it, not again" he breathed, pressing two fingers to the side of your neck. Your pulse was thready and rapid, racing to compensate for a body running entirely on empty. You closed your eyes just a minute, trying to gain energy but you lost consciousness.

He knew your absolute refusal to stop painting when the spark hit you. You had spent the last fifteen hours painting, completely forgetting that your body actually required sustenance to function.

"Baby," Jack pleaded, gently tapping your cheek. "Open your eyes."

A groan escaped your lips. Your eyelids fluttered open as your brain scrambled to figure out which way was up.

"Jack... I don't feel well," you said, feeling disoriented.

"Yeah, I can see that. Stay still," he ordered softly, his hand resting on your forehead. "Don't try to sit up, okay? You're going to pass out again."

You tried to turn your head toward the canvas. "I... I just need to finish the shading..."

"Don't move, please," Jack's voice cracked with deep frustration. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to calm himself before looking at you again. "Your blood pressure is crazy right now because you probably forgot to eat all day."

"I just got caught up," you whispered, tears of exhaustion blurring your vision. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apology, I want you to take care of yourself," Jack loved your passion, but it was terrifying to love someone who consistently burned themselves out just to keep a creative spark alive. "I'm going to get you some water, and then we're going to go to ER, you probably need more than food on you," Jack said.. "No arguments. I can't keep finding you like this."

-

"What the fuck, Jack?"

Robby received the stretcher as it entered the ambulance bay, his eyes scanning back and forth between Jack and you. Seeing his partner instantly changed the atmosphere in the ER.

"Syncopal episode at home," Jack said. "History of chronic iron-deficiency anemia. Non-compliant with nutrition and supplements. I think she's tachycardic. I found her almost passing out."

Robby didn't hesitate. "Alright, let's get her into Trauma 2. Jack, step back and let us work."

"Robby, I can—"

"Step back." Robby repeated, his tone firm but not unkind.

Nurses swarmed around you, hooking up an IV, slapping telemetry pads onto your chest, and drawing several vials of blood. Through the haze, you could see Jack standing just inside the doorway, looking helpless.

An hour later, Robby walked back into the curtained cubicle, holding a printout of your lab results. He looked at the paper, then up at you, and finally at Jack, who was sitting next to you.

Robby sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, the numbers, honestly, are horrible."

Jack leaned forward. "What’s the hemoglobin?"

"It’s at a six point two," Robby said bluntly, looking directly at you. "Your iron stores are completely depleted, and your electrolytes are a total mess. You're severely anemic. I’m surprised you managed to stand up long enough to paint anything at all today."

You shrank back into the hospital pillows, looking down at your hands. "I didn't mean to..."

"I know you didn't," Robby said, his voice softening. "But your body is starving. You can't just walk out of here with a prescription and a promise to eat better."

Jack closed his eyes. He knew it would be bad, but hearing the numbers gave him a reality check.

"I'm admitting you," Robby announced, rewriting something on his chart. "We're going to put you upstairs for a few days. You need a couple of units of red blood cells, continuous IV fluids, and a dietary consult. We need to monitor you."

"A few days?" you whispered, panic rising in your chest. "Robby, please, I have a deadline. The studio—"

"The studio will be there when you get out," Jack interrupted, his voice cracking as he finally looked up. "You're staying, baby. Robby's right. You need this."

Robby looked between the two of you, nodding gently. "I'll get the admission orders started and call up to the floor. Get some rest."

Robby caught Jack’s eye, tilting his head slightly toward the corridor. It was the universal shorthand for we need to talk, doctor to doctor.

Jack swallowed and gently let go of your hand. "I'll be right back."

He stepped into the hallway. He leaned back against the hospital wall, trying to hold himself together.

"Talk to me, man. What’s going on here?"

Jack rubbed his palms over his face.

"She just... she stops," Jack said. "When she's working, everything else just ceases to exist for her. It's not the first time I come home and I find her almost passing out. It’s like she doesn't care. I'm cooking meals that just sit there and go cold. I'm forcing iron pills down her throat since last month, hoping it does something. I'm terrified one day I’m gonna come home too late."

The raw panic in Jack's voice was palpable. Robby listened quietly, letting Jack vent the terror he’d been bottling up for months.

"Hey." Robby said firmly until Jack met his eyes. "You need to take off your scrubs for a minute. You are her partner. You are not her primary care doctor, and you are not her therapist."

"But I should be able to—"

"No, you shouldn't," Robby interrupted gently, cutting him off. "This isn't just about her forgetting a meal or two. This is a deep behavioral pattern, maybe some hyperfixation or burnout. You can't love her out of an eating habit like this, and you certainly can't bully her into it."

Jack looked down at the floor, his shoulders sinking. "I don't really know what to do with her when she's like this."

"We get her professional help," Robby said. "Once we get her blood counts up and stabilize her, I’m going to put in a referral. A professional can help her unpack why she shuts down her own bodily needs when she paints."

"She’s going to be okay, Jack," Robby promised, giving his shoulder a supportive squeeze. "We’re going to fix the numbers. And then we’re going to get her the tools to fix the rest. You don't have to carry this whole thing on your back. Let us help you."

Jack nodded slowly. "Thanks, man. Seriously."

Jack stood outside the curtain for a long moment before he stepped back into your cubicle. He sat down and gently took your hand.

You looked up at him, bracing yourself for a lecture. You knew your numbers were terrible, and you expected him to be angry.

Instead, he just looked at you softly.

"Hey," he murmured.

"Hi," you whispered back, shifting uncomfortably against the hospital sheets. "Is Robby mad at me?"

"No. Robby cares about you. And I care about you, too" Jack said. "I just talked to him. He...."

You swallowed hard. "He what?"

"Robby suggested something," Jack continued softly. "He wants to put in a referral for a specialist. A professional who works specifically with people who struggle with this kind of burnout. Someone who can help you find a way to keep you painting without starving yourself to do it."

You tensed slightly. "A therapist? Jack, I'm not... it's not like that. I don't have a problem with food, I just forget—"

"I know you just forget," Jack interrupted. "He, we, think it's a behavioral habit. But it’s a dangerous one, and doing this on our own isn't working anymore. I can’t keep finding you almost passing out, baby. There’s no shame in letting someone help us navigate this."

He leaned in closer. "Please. Do it for you. For us. Do it so I can come home from a shift and just love you, instead of checking your pulse."

The honesty in his plea broke through you.

You realized he was right.

You couldn't keep living like this.

"O- Okay," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Okay. I'll see someone."

A visible relief washed over Jack and he pressed a kiss against your forehead.

"Thank you, beautiful." he breathed against your skin, his hands wrapping securely around yours. "Thank you. We’re going to get through this. I promise."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

“What do you mean?” Victoria’s gaze moved from Trinity to Abbot and back again.

“I mean,” Trinity drew the words out in annoyance, as if it should be obvious what she was getting at without her needing to explain. “He’s cool. SWAT, the leg, him and Robby are besties. Like, what’s his story?”

“Why do you care?” Victoria was so confused as to the point of this conversation.

Trinity shrugged one shoulder. “Thinking about going on nights for a while. It wouldn’t hurt to have an in with the attending.”

Victoria’s eyes went wide before she nodded once as if that made sense. “You should ask him about his wife. He loves talking about her. It’ll totally get you points.”

“He’s married?” Dennis asked.

She looked at him. “Yeah, didn’t you notice the ring?”

“Well, we haven’t really been around him much to be fair,” he said.

Trinity smiled. “Thanks for the solid, Crash.” She hopped to her feet and patted the younger woman on the shoulder as Abbot walked past them to head into the breakroom. “You’re coming with me, Huckleberry.”

“But—What? I was helping Vict—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Victoria rushed to assure him, waving a hand through the air. “I’ll ask someone else.”

As she turned to hurry away, she hoped they hadn’t noticed the gleeful expression on her face.

When they hurried into the breakroom, they found the attending sitting at one of the tables with a cup of coffee. “H-hey, Dr. Abbot,” Dennis greeted.

“What’s up? Why are you here anyway?” Trinity added as she grabbed an energy drink from the fridge.

Jack looked between the two of them with a frown not saying anything. Finally, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Morning admin meeting. Now, what do you want?”

Dennis started to stutter out an excuse but Trinity talked over the top of him. “We were wondering about your wife, is all.”

“My wife.” Jack’s voice was rough, low. His gaze darted between the two of them. “Would you like to hear about my leg next? Why don’t we just rehash all of my trauma?”

Dennis’ eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open slightly. Oh no. Shit.

Trinity sat at the table. “Yes, actually. What happened?”

Jack turned his head slowly to look at the resident, an unimpressed expression on his face. “Robby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with me on the back. They had to amputate.”

Trinity’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit. Really?”

“No.”

Her mouth opened and closed before she said, “Oh.” She glanced at Dennis who stood behind Abbot shaking his head and mouthing the word No. “So, what about your wife then?”

“My wife was the most remarkable woman. I have never and will never love anyone like her. I will love her and only her for the rest of my life.”

Trinity swallowed hard. “What happened to her?”

Jack blinked once. Twice. “Robby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with her on the back. She didn’t make it.” His tone was flat, emotionless.

Trinty physically recoiled ever so slightly. “Listen, I’m sorry if—”

This time it was Dennis cutting her off, just as the breakroom door opened. “Dr. Abbot, we are so sorry. We didn’t mean to bring up any trauma or whatever. Seriously, we were just trying to get to know you.”

“What’s going on in here?” Robby asked.

“We were just asking Abbot about his wife,” Trinity said as she stood.

Robby narrowed his gaze. “And what did Jack have to say about the Mrs.?”

“Just about how much he loved her. It was very sweet really,” Dennis hurried to say before pushing Trinity out of the room.

“I think Crash set us up,” she said once they’d reached the hub.

“Ya think?” Dennis asked, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

“Good for her.”

Dennis just shook his head as he watched his roommate leave to check on a patient. He glanced back to the closed door of the breakroom before walking off himself. Whatever had happened to Dr. Abbot’s wife, he obviously still loved her deeply. Dennis could only hope he’d find a relationship like that someday.

Roughly an hour later, Dennis was heading back toward the hub when he saw you standing next to Robby. He briefly considered introducing himself knowing you were the other night shift attending. His gaze caught on Abbot making his way to you, bag over his shoulder. And his eyes glued to your ass.

Dennis frowned. Hadn’t the man just been extoling his wife’s virtues and now here he is staring at yours? Dennis was oddly offended on Mrs. Abbot’s behalf. He walked over to where the older man was making no effort to hide his obvious leering and stood beside him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I thought you’d never love anyone like you loved your wife.”

Jack huffed a humorless laugh. “You got that right, kid.”

“Then what is this?”

“This is me appreciating what’s right in front of me.”

“Are you staring at my ass again?” you asked, not even glancing over your shoulder.

“I told you if you don’t want me staring at it, you shouldn’t put it in front of me,” Jack said.

Dennis curled his lip. Abbot was disgusting. He’d actually felt sorry for him and now—The thought cut off abruptly as Abbot wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple.

Robby shook his head. “Whitaker, have you two met?”

“No.” Dennis stepped forward as Robby introduced you.

He finished with, “Also known as Mrs. Abbot.”

“Oh.” Dennis processed what he’d just been told. “Oh!”

Jack just grinned as you elbowed him in the side. “What did you do this time?”

“Why do you always think I did something?”

You stared at him without saying anything.

Finally, he said, “Okay. Fair.”

“I don’t…I’m so confused,” Dennis said with a helpless look at Robby.

Robby put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get used to it.

Today I learned that apparently being married means my wife can use the embassy phone line as her personal emotional support hotline. The first call came at 9:20.

I’d barely sat down. Still had my jacket on the back of the chair, coffee not even half gone, a stack of reports waiting for me like they were personally offended by my existence. The phone rings. I pick it up. “Peña.”

A tiny pause. Then my wife’s voice. “Hi.”

Immediately softer. “Hey, cariño. Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “I just miss you.”

I blink. Look at the clock. Look at the phone. “You called the embassy to tell me that.”

“Yes.”

I lean back in the chair, already smiling despite myself. “You know I left like an hour ago, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“And you miss me already.”

“Yes.”

I rub a hand over my face. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Okay, bye.” Click.

I stare at the receiver.

Steve looks over from his desk. “Everything alright?”

I put the phone down slowly. “Apparently I’m missed.”

He snorts. “Poor bastard.”

But I should’ve known it wasn’t over. Second call. 9:42. Same line. Same voice. “Peña.”

“Hi again.”

I close my eyes for a second. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

I glance up at the ceiling. “Cariño.”

“I know, I know. You’re working.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be quick.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I missed you again.” I can actually hear the smile in her voice. This woman.

I lower my voice. “You can’t keep calling me every twenty minutes just to say you miss me.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is an embassy.”

A pause. “So thirty minutes?”

I laugh under my breath. “No.”

“Twenty-five?”

“No.”

“Fine. I’ll be reasonable.”

That should’ve worried me more than it did.

Third call. 10:07.

Steve doesn’t even look up this time. He just slides a file across the desk and mutters, “Your wife again.”

I pick up the phone. “What now?”

“Wow. That’s how you answer your loving wife?”

“I’m at work.”

“I know.”

“Are you dying?”

“No.”

“Is the apartment on fire?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Silence for a second. Then quieter. “I just wanted to tell you I saw your mug in the sink and it made me sad.”

I stare at the wall. “You called me because of a mug.”

“It still had coffee in it.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I was running late.”

“I know. I just miss your face.”

I can’t even be annoyed anymore. Not really. I lean back in the chair. “I’ll be home tonight.”

“That’s so far away.”

“It’s four o’clock.”

“That’s at least a hundred years.”

I smile despite myself. “Go bother someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.” And there it is. The thing she does. Makes it impossible to stay irritated.

By the fourth call, Steve’s fully invested. He leans on the edge of my desk as the phone rings again. “Take a guess,” he says.

I glare at him and pick up. “Peña.”

“Hi.” I can hear her smiling.

I drop my head back. “You’re doing this on purpose now.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you need?”

“You.”

I let out a breath that’s way too close to a laugh. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s honest.”

Steve is openly grinning now, the asshole.

I turn slightly away from him. “Cariño, if you keep calling, Murphy’s never gonna let me live this down.”

Her gasp is dramatic enough to be heard through the line. “Steve knows I miss you?”

I close my eyes. “Please do not make this worse.”

“Tell him I said hi.”

Absolutely not.

By lunchtime, she’s called six times. Six.

At this point, I answer before the second ring. “Miss me again?”

A soft laugh on the other end. “Maybe.”

I shake my head, smiling into the receiver now because what else am I supposed to do. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me.”

Unfortunately. Very much.

The last call comes just before I leave.

Her voice is softer this time. “I won’t call again.”

“Good.”

A pause. “Unless I miss you.”

I laugh quietly. “I’m already on my way home.”

Another pause. “Can you drive faster?”

I can’t help it. I smile. “See you soon, cariño.”

“Okay.” Then softer. “I really did just miss you.”

Yeah. I know.

Note to self: Get her a second coffee mug so she stops using mine as an emotional event.

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Whether it be cinnamon scrolls.

Cookies of all sorts. 

Brownies with a twist. 

Treats baked with a delicate buttery puff pastry. Strawberry danishes with a hint of pistachio, or simply pear with a little crumble on top. 

Tarts, cakes, and everything else in between. 

You simply made sure that whatever you brought in, could be eaten with ease, could be eaten in a hurry.

Being the daughter of a charge nurse meant knowing that time was of the essence when it came to working in the ER. 

Nothing was ever stale.

Bringing only the best of the best for these hard workers. 

Even treating them with new creations, offering these all up for free and all you’d ever ask, is for a bit of advice on whether the recipes needed a little tweaking. 

Not that anyone had a single complaint. 

Merely that there was never enough, Trinity would teasingly complain. 

You were kind, with a humorous wit that matched your mother’s. 

So no one thought too deeply over the fact that you dropped by. 

Not realising that on days you’d stop by during the change over, whilst you’d leave side by side with your Mama. 

Just outside, just out of sight, you’d be met with a gentle kiss and sweet hello. 

By the very fearsome, intimidatingly brooding orthopaedic surgeon, the Shark. 

Otherwise known as Brendon Park. 

Your husband.

You couldn’t say for sure that you meant to keep it a secret. 

You couldn’t say that you intended to hide your relationship. Not even your Mama worked very hard to conceal this link.

In fact whenever Park would be summoned down to the ER, he’d always make an effort to stop by and check in with Dana. 

He knew how much you worried cared for your Mama. So whenever he could, he would say hi. 

And she’d be just as happy to see him. 

Perhaps with a little teasing remark. That always kept him on his toes.

For however brief the interaction was. It meant a lot to Dana to see Brendon make such an effort. 

Because she knew that deep down, behind his cold facade and abrupt nature. He was as soft and gooey as the brownies you would bake. 

It just happened that no one had noticed. 

Simply believing Park to have the decency to be nice towards the ER’s charge nurse. It wasn’t uncommon, seeing as he could be civil with Robby, the nurses and a few others in the ER.

Only ever truly being curt and clipped towards the juniors. He could be most impatient when it came to improper handling of cases. 

His method of teaching being more akin to throwing them in the deep end rather than holding their hand in a wading pool.

…Truly, besides knowing that you were Dana’s daughter and an owner of a bakery, with a knack for making the very best treats. 

Not much was known about you. 

Well.

With only a handful of people knowing more of your personal life. Including Robby and Jack, Lena and Lupe, as well as most of the nursing staff, especially those closest to your Mama, such as Princess and Perlah. 

All of whom knew better than to divulge your personal life. 

Leaving many of the medical students and newcomers to wonder about your life. 

Whenever time was on your side, you’d do your best getting to know them. 

Listening intently when Dennis would speak about his youth growing up on the farm–giving him a little advice here and there. You had of course picked up a few things being Dana’s daughter.  

Gently teasing Victoria when you saw her stumble over her words as she spoke with Mateo, feeling a burst of pride while you watched her confidence grow. 

Samira would gravitate towards you and rant about her day, whilst you let her frustrations roll off. With a sympathetic smile, and always a little treat to quell her stress. 

Frank would greet you with a wide grin, endearingly calling you “Baby Evans” in honour of your mother often calling you Baby.

Unfortunately, that nickname had caught on…

“Hey Baby Evans–what’s new with you? It’s been a while since you stopped by,” Trinity grinned, leaning upon the desk as she looked at you. 

From where she was standing all she could see was your top half as you sat at the station.  

“Well–uh. Funny you should ask,” you smiled gently, a small coy glint to your eye, “Maybe you’d like to guess?” 

She rests her head in her hand as she looks at you. 

A slight glow to your complexion, but that wasn’t overly unusual. 

A slight glossy sheen to your hair. 

And a wide smile upon your face. 

But–

Trinity tugged Mel as she passed to stop her, while pointing a finger towards you, “Does something seem different with Baby Evans today?” 

Mel’s brows knitted together, “Uh–”

"Something's different and I can’t quite put my finger on it” 

Mel looked at you, as you gave her a little wave, before she glanced back at Trinity. 

“She seems a little more glowy today? But that could be because of the pregnancy,” Mel replied a little quizzically. 

Trinity blinks rapidly before her eyes snap back to you, “What?-”

Your laughter cuts through the room as you nod. 

Trinity’s lips curl into a smile, rounding the corner, “Congratulations–Why didn’t you tell us?” her arms wrapped around you from behind, while you reached up to hold her arms. 

And now as she stands beside you, she can see your growing stomach, rounded and full. 

Smiling with such delight you answer, “We were just waiting a few weeks, just to make sure–wouldn’t want to jump the gun, a few weeks just happened to turn into a few months” 

Trinity nods before glancing up, interrupting Dana and Robby mid conversation, “Dana! Why’d you hold out on us!” 

Dana looks up, eyes peering over her glasses, before plucking them off, “Like N/N said, just wanted to make sure everything was tracking along ok,” her gaze drifts down to you, “Did you tell them the other news?” 

You shook your head, “You can” 

Dana nods with a smile, walking over taking Trinity’s place by your side, looking down at you fondly, “My Babygirl is going to be having twins,” she beams with pride. 

A round of congratulations pour out from everyone, all of them taking the time to say hi and congrats to both you and Dana. 

And so with this news. 

The murmurs of gossip began. 

All revolving around, who was the lucky guy to call you his partner in life? 

With only a few tidbits of information to go on. 

For one. 

He was considerate. Caring. 

It was no secret you were very much in love, with never a bad thing to say about your husband besides the fact that he worried too much over you. 

Two. 

He was a doctor. 

It had come up in passing. So brief. Barely even a moment spent on the topic. 

Merely a fleeting comment, whilst one of them fussed over you, insisting they help you with the boxes of baked goods claiming the stress wasn’t good for the babies. 

You had simply swatted them away with a small chide, “Oh please don’t fuss over me, I get that enough from my Mama and my husband cause he’s a doctor” 

And then three. 

Dana never had a bad word to say about him. So he must’ve been a great guy to have gained her approval.

Oh. 

And that he was handsome. But as that information came from you, that could’ve easily been a subjective opinion. 

That was it. 

That was all they had to go on. 

And instead of asking either you or Dana outright. 

They had resorted to trying to work it out themselves. Sifting through whatever snippets of information they could gather. Trying to piece together this little mystery, 

Unaware that the answer was right beneath their noses. 

Unaware that your husband worked alongside them. 

“So who do you think it is?” Trinity asked Victoria, her eyes glancing at you from across the room. 

“Who?” Victoria asks, without looking up from what she was doing. 

Trinity clicks her tongue, “Who?–Pay attention Crash–I’m obviously talking about Y/N’s husband”

Victoria nods in understanding, before shrugging, “I don’t know, is it really any of our business”

“I’d still like to know,” Trinity says, biting the tip of her pen in thought. Before adding, “Do you think it’s someone from the night shift? I mean she always arrives at changeover–What do you think, Huckleberry?” She drags him into the conversation. 

He shakes his head, “Uh–uh, I am not getting involved in this. I still want Dana to like me” 

She rolls her eyes at him, before directing her gaze once more to Victoria. 

Who hums in thought, “But her showing up at changeover doesn’t really prove anything, I mean she could easily be with someone from the dayshift” 

Trinity sighs in agreement. 

Her eyes narrow, observing you whilst you happily chatter with those around you. All of them trying to guess the sex of your babies, listing off plenty of names as suggestions. 

Olive and Sage. Poppy and Colby. Or even Hazel and Brie.

Seemingly everyone found it very amusing to suggest names relating to you being a baker…

But you held your cards close to your chest. Not once showing whether you favoured one name more than the other. 

Though you did scrunch your nose in distaste when Jesse offered the name Graham…after you had brought in graham cracker crusted tarts.  

And you definitely broke down into a laugh when Princess had whispered the name Hunter with a knowing look in her eyes. 

And yet. 

The med students were no closer to figuring out who your husband was…the only other clue they had was that he had to be quite well off, considering the very sparkly ring they saw upon your hand. 

Whilst your due date grew closer and closer. Your Mama loved to fuss more over you. Trying her best to dissuade you from coming to the ER. 

With worries such as, “It’s not safe, patients can be erratic” 

“The stress of the ER isn’t good for you”

And everything like that…

Unfortunately for her, you were as strong headed as she was. Waving off her concerns always with the same response. 

Whilst you’d gently squeeze her hand, “Mama,”  looking her in the eyes, “I like coming in here, I like coming to see you, and besides–I’ve got plenty of baked goods and you all deserve a little sweetness too” 

However both your Mama and Brendon had managed to convince you to take it easy at work. To reduce your hours and hand over more responsibilities to your employees. 

Telling you to take it easy. 

To rest and stay off your feet a little more. 

And whilst at the start you had complained…you were starting to see their point once you began to get winded more easily, feet growing sore, back aching. 

Especially noticing that your bladder was growing weaker as your babies pressed upon it with each little shift. 

Leading to times like these. 

Dropping the box of cookies at the hub with a quick hello, before rushing past your Mama to the bathroom. 

And then. 

The elevator doors open. 

Brendon Park steps out, with his bag slung over his shoulder. Icy blue eyes scanning the room, noting the familiar box of cookies at the hub. 

He strides over to Dana, with a small raised brow. As interns and students alike duck their heads to avoid eye contact. 

Question on the tip of his tongue. 

“The babies decided the bathroom was where they wanted to go,” she explained. 

He nods his head in understanding, “And how are you today?” 

Dana nods with a smile, “Not bad”

Their conversation cuts short as Trinity waltzes up to the hub alongside Dennis, as she plucks a cookie, sending Dana a look before glancing at Brendon. 

“Didn’t know we needed an ortho consult?”

Dennis’ eyes widen in panic trying to avert himself from Brendon’s eyeline. 

Whilst those around hold their breaths. 

Waiting for the bite back. 

For the sharp retort. 

But it never comes. 

Brendon simply arches a brow. His eyes flicker down to meet Dana’s who meets his, before she looks back at Trinity. 

And then. 

Dana huffs out a laugh. 

Stunning those around them – well those of them who didn’t know the relation between the two. 

“If you’re not here for a consult, then why are you here?” Trinity probes further. The cookie in her hand, now half eaten. 

Grinning widely, Dana wraps an arm around Brendon with a small pat on his back, whilst his arm slings across her shoulders. 

She answers, with a slight sense of pride, “He happens to be my son-in-law” 

Shock enveloping everyone around them. Whilst those who knew stifled a laugh at the sheer surprise flooding everyone’s features. Robby and Jack bite back a grin as he sees his colleagues freeze from the information. 

Princess lets out a giggle whispering with Perlah, who hands her a $10 note with a small sigh. 

Trinity almost chokes on the cookie in her mouth. 

Victoria’s mouth agape. 

Samira’s mind racing. 

Dennis blinked in shock. 

Cassie lets a smile stretch across her face with a small nod as she takes in the news. 

Mel and Frank share a look of disbelief. 

Until all they can simply do is watch as you walk over from the bathroom. 

Seeing how your eyes light up at the sight of Brendon, shuffling over to him, with a soft smile – your gaze only focused on him. Not noticing the stunned expressions of those around you. 

Simply delighted to see your husband’s handsome face. 

Dana lets her arm fall from Brendon who walks to meet you halfway. You’re arms wrapping around him, “Hey love.”

He leans down to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head, a soft smile creeping onto his face. 

An expression so unfamiliar to those around him. 

They had to pinch themselves to believe it was even happening. 

“Hey Angel,” he murmured with such tenderness. 

Sighing you relish in his company, so comforting and soothing, “How’s your day?” 

“Better, now that you’re here – what about you?” he replies, sincerity drenching his words, his hands drifting to caress your cheek, before settling onto your stomach, “Hope you both have been good to your mom.”

You shrug, lightly with a small laugh, hands shifting to settle on his as they’re warm against your stomach. 

“I’ve been good and they’ve been good, making sure I keep my steps up though, constantly making me need the bathroom today,” you reply cheekily, before you notice everyone coming to a stand still around you. 

The silence broke as Ellis nodded, crossing her arms over her chest, “I knew it,” she remarked to Trinity. 

The crowd of med students and interns all share their own thoughts, whilst Ahmad divides out the money from the bets placed pertaining to who your husband could have been. 

Both you and Brendon sigh as you watch it all unfold. 

You grin up at him, patting him on the arm, “I better go talk with them about this”

“You didn’t mention I was your husband?”

You shoot him a look, retorting with a teasing lilt to your voice, “It’s not like you said I was your wife” 

He tuts at your words, folding his arms over his chest, “Everyone in my OR knows I’m happily married to you”

You lean up to press a quick kiss to his lips before stepping back. With a wink, “Good luck, living this one down” 

He sends you the slightest of smiles, the expression reserved only for you, while you leave his grasp. 

Brendon is pulled into talking with Robby, and Dana, while Jack pats him on the back. All of them watching the others flock to you.  

And in a moment you are swarmed by all those who were surprised by this revelation as they ask you any and all questions that come to mind. 

How?

Why?

When?

All wanting to know, just how you managed to make Shark become as soft and sweet as a shortbread cookie. And even more so, how Park had managed to gain Dana’s approval.  

In the midst of talking with Samira and Trinity, your breath hitches slightly, “Oof–”

Samira’s eyes furrow in concern, sharing a look with Trinity, “Are you okay?” 

“Hm? – Oh, yeah. I’ve just been having these pains for a little bit – but I had them before and they weren’t anyth–oof” you hunch over just a little, hands settling to rest on your lower back, breathing deeply. 

“Hey can you get Dana or Park here?” Samira asks Trinity, who nods. 

You wave them off, “I’m fine”

Samira ducks slightly, hands resting on the sides of your arms to support you, “I’d rather not take the risk – especially considering you’re related to Dana and Park”

She observes you, slipping into habit as she asks, “How long did you say you were feeling like this?” 

“Over the last hour or so, but I’m sure they’re just braxton hicks or whatever–” You explain. Not overly concerned. 

“You really don’t think you’re going into labour?” 

You think over her words. Over how you’ve been feeling, the discomfort and pain. How you had simply chalked it up to just being pregnant. 

“I mean–now that you mention it–”

“Hey Baby, what’s going on?” Dana steps beside you, joined by Trinity. While Brendon joins your other side. 

“Oh–hey Mama, Brendon, uh–everyone seems to think I’m going into labour,” you say with an airy laugh. 

Both of their eyes look at you in concern. 

Dana glances up, a questioning look entering her eyes as she looks to Samira and Trinity. Who both nod in agreement. 

“Ok, well lets get you up to the labour ward and we can get you sorted,” Dana’s hand soothingly rubs across your back. 

“Do you think you can walk, or would you like a wheelchair?” Brendon asks. Ready to step into action. 

About to argue, insist that you could walk, you stop yourself short as another wave of pain enters your abdomen with a sharp breath. 

Hand gripping your Mama’s. 

“I think I’ll take that wheelchair”

He nods and moves quickly to grab one, before settling you down. 

Feet moving quickly, steadily as he pushes you towards the lift. 

Everyone calling out their good lucks and words of support as you leave. 

While Dana walks quickly beside you both, grabbing at her bag as she passes by, nodding towards Lena, “Sorry I can’t help more with the hand offs–” 

Lena gives Dana’s hand a gentle squeeze, shaking her head, “Don’t even start. You just make sure your Babygirl’s ok when she has her babies”

Dana nods gratefully, before disappearing into the lift alongside you and Brendon, her hand slipping to hold yours. 

Looking up at them both. 

You smiled, a slight mist entering your eyes. Grateful for their support. For their love. Breathing deeply. 

Calm. 

Assured. 

That your babies were coming into a family so full of love. 

A loving father. Brendon’s hand resting on your shoulder, so soft and tender. Looking at you with complete adoration and affection. 

A doting grandma, Dana, who had quickly called Benji, asking for him to pick up your pre-prepared baby bag back at your home.

While she informed your sisters of the recent development. Who were more than ready to be adoring aunts for your soon to be born twins. 

It made your heart swell at the thought. 

You couldn’t wait for the next chapter of your life. 

After a long night. 

Soon, your struggles came to an end, as you were handed over your beautiful babies wrapped up in cotton blankets. 

Tears welling up in your eyes, forehead sticky from the long labour. 

Smiling widely, while Brendon kissed your head firmly, his own eyes growing misty. Heart melting at the very sight of your babies. 

“I love you so much,” he told you. 

Within his grasp he held his entire world. Your two precious little twins, Finnick and Rosie. With bright wide eyes peering at you both with intense curiosity, fingers curling around yours. 

Whilst you beamed down at them, leaning against Brendon. Whose eyes lifted to meet Dana’s, gesturing for her to come over. 

“Would you like to hold one of them?” he asked. 

A smile stretches across her face, her eyes glittering as she looks upon the scene before her. 

What more could she ask for? She had a son in law who ensured her daughter’s comfort–who ensured that you felt loved every moment of every day. And two little baby grandkids to fill her days with joy…

Nodding, her arms stretched out while Brendon carefully placed Finnick in her arms. She coos softly at the little baby. 

Hours pass, as you all simply relish in the peace. 

The news filters its way down to the ER. 

And from the moment the news broke. 

Every so often, you would have a new guest knock upon the door. 

Friendly faces stopping by. 

To they discover, you with Brendon never far from your side, close and cosy, and the two little bundles of joys. 

Jack and Ellis made an appearance when the ER had succumbed to a rare moment of relative peace. 

Until soon the dayshifters began to filter in. 

Dropping off little snacks and some food for you, brought to you by Samira and Victoria, helped by Lena who told them all of your favourites. 

Trinity and Dennis had stopped by a stack of gifts neatly wrapped in their arms, from blankets, to two little plush stuffed sharks. 

Robby had briefly checked in, sharing his own congrats with you both. 

And of course, most of the nursing staff had taken the time to check in with you all. Princess and Perlah crooning over your two little sweethearts. 

And each time whenever someone would stop by. 

One of the first questions they would ask was. 

What are their names?

And each time you’d be asked that question. You’d share a glance with Brendon, a tender softness. 

Finnick Park.

This one. 

This one took a little arm twisting for Brendon to agree, catching onto your little joke immediately, as you were barely able to conceal your growing grin when suggesting it. 

But with a little effort, with a few sweet kisses you had managed to get him to agree. 

The nail on the head was just after you had given birth to them - there was no way he could say no to you.

But the next name. 

Rosemary ‘Rosie’ Park. 

That name took no effort at all to convince him. 

In fact as soon as the name left your lips he had fallen in love with the idea.

A small way to preserve the memory of the very first time you had met each other…

Years ago. 

Back when Brendon had only started out at PTMC. Had only just started his journey there. Already growing a reputation. A cold demeanour. 

But he had cracked this day. 

A slight fracture in his otherwise pristine facade…

A tough day that still had hours left. 

He had managed to slip out, for a bit of fresh air he had convinced himself that this was all it was – a bit of fresh air…

But as he walked down the street. 

He had come across the quaintest little bakery – a cafe. Friendly and welcoming, with butter yellow awnings. And a bright blue door. 

Sugar & Spice. 

The words neatly printed upon the glass pane. 

And for whatever reason. He had stepped in. The faint doorbell ringing out. Whilst he was enveloped in the fragrant warming aromas of all the baked goods, rounded off with the notes of coffee in the air.

A few people sat dotted around the space. 

Not quite flooded by people. 

Judging by the space it seemed to be relatively new. Perhaps only having been opened for less than a few months. 

This place was your dream come true…served with a side of stress. A small team of four, including you, worked to maintain the demand. 

Mind racing with a multide of things whilst you worked. 

But your gaze came to a halt. 

Stopping upon the lonely figure of a man sat by the window…

Unable to choose from the array of baked goods, Brendon had simply ordered a black coffee. 

Simple.

Just wanting something simple. 

But you had other plans. 

A small frown twisting at your lips while you watch him. 

How his dark brows furrowed. Lips pulled taut. 

Crystal blue eyes, now clouded over. 

Murky.

With that very same look you had seen a hundred times before on your own Mama’s…

How his shoulders’ slumped as though carrying the weight of the world. The brunt of the day.

Just like your Mama did. 

It was how you had known he worked in the medical field. 

…well that and the fact he still had his scrubs on barely hidden beneath his jacket. 

Now while better judgement might have told you it was a bad idea to give out free food so early on into opening your business.

Your bleeding heart had won out in the end.

The gentle clink of the ceramic plate broke Brendon from his daze.

Icy blue eyes met yours. 

Making your breath catch for just a moment.

Before regaining composure whilst you slide the plate closer to him.

A plate of rosemary shortbreads.

Fresh from the oven. 

A crisp and perfectly buttery crumble texture, with the salted edge from the rosemary, lifted by a citrusy twist from a touch of grapefruit. 

You watch as his eyes knit together in confusion, voice low, as though a gentle hum, “I didn’t order—“

“You’re not allergic to anything are you?” You had asked, tilting your head looking at him expectantly.

Only for him to shake his head. 

There was something about you. That had made his words lodge in the back of his throat. 

Nodding in satisfaction you added, “Good. Try these and tell me what you think of them before you leave.”

“But–“ he goes to argue. To counteract. Unsure what had warranted him this act of kindness.

“On the house,” You had flashed him a smile, before walking away. 

His eyes trailing after you. 

Gently lifting the unique shortbread to his mouth. 

Letting it simply overtake his senses as it melted onto his tongue.

Soothed by just a single bite. 

Catching your eye as he smiles your way in thanks.

Who knew. 

That that was all it would take to make him besotted with you. 

Leading you both to this moment now.

Your twins now fast asleep in their little bassinets. 

Whilst Brendon’s arms wrapped around you. So warm and steady. 

The rise and fall of his chest helping ease any worries.

Even when life would throw you troubles. Even if there would be disagreements or problems.

Those would always fade away. Would always be worked through. 

Embraced by his unwavering love and affection for you. 

Brendon was unconditionally in love with you.

Just as you were with him. 

Now this…

This was sugar and spice, and everything nice.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little story ♥️ I can just imagine that when Brendon first met Dana as your boyfriend he was a nervous wreck. This was absolutely so sweet to write and explore!! I had a lot of fun developing these dynamics. (My heart is such a sucker for softy Brendon behind his steely facade) Also check out this recipe for rosemary shortbreads (they are delicious) Let me know what you thought ✨ Read Part 2: Gentle Hands & Gentle Hearts here! Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Help yourself and check out my other Pitt Works on My Masterlist Here!

"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.

“Red? What’s going on? It’s fucking late, even for us.” Jack grumbled. The use of your nickname calmed you some. You were worried he was going to be mad. He’d given you the name when you met. You’d been running to help with a trauma and slipped in a puddle of blood. You were red all over.

“I know. I’m really sorry. I tried calling Santos and Emma. No one would answer. I’m in a little bit of a situation.” You sighed.

“Are you okay? Are you somewhere safe?” Jack’s voice turned serious, concerned. You heard rustling, you guessed he was sitting up in bed.

“Um…I just need someone to come get me. I went out with a friend, or at least I thought they were my friend. Anyway, some shit went down, I might have a broken nose and I lost my debit card.” You tried to hide the tremble in your voice.

“Where are you?”

“That new club on fifth, Fuego. Big neon sign in the shape of a campfire. Can’t miss it.”

“Okay. I’m on my way. Don’t move.”

“I’m just sitting on the curb, don’t worry.”

“We’re past telling me not to worry.” Jack snorted. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.

“Thanks.”

The call ended and you sat shivering on the sidewalk. There were a few people milling about outside. There was a bouncer keeping an eye on you. He’d offered to give you the money in his wallet for a cab. You didn’t feel safe in your state to take a cab.

Jack’s Jeep rolled up in front of you fifteen minutes later. He jumped out of the car and jogged over to you.

“Jesus, Red!” He gasped.

You were in a sorry state. Your once green dress was now stained pink and red. Pink from the Cosmos you had been drinking and eventually spilled all over yourself, red from the blood dripping down from your nose, lip, and chin.

“You should see the other guy.” You smiled, which didn’t help matters as your teeth were covered in blood.

“You can explain when I get you home.” Jack said guiding you to his Jeep. He had a firm hold of your waist as you stumbled on drunk legs toward the vehicle.

“I lost my key.” Your lip started to tremble.

“Good thing I was taking you back to my place anyway. You’re in no state to be left alone.” Jack huffed as he climbed into the driver's seat.

“I’m sorry I woke you up.” You whined. Your emotions were starting to catch up to you and they were not being gentle.

“It’s fine. It’s my night off. Glad you had enough of your faculties left to call someone responsible.” Jack’s eyes were trained on the road.

“You are responsible. You’re so nice.” You sighed. Your head fell back against the headrest, lolling with the movements of the car.

“You’re nice too.” Jack chuckled.

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep, but all of a sudden Jack was shaking your shoulders.

“Red, wake up. We’re here.” Jack hummed. You looked up to see you were parked in front of a brick, one-story house with ivy climbing the sides.

“Fuck.” You mumbled, your head swimming.

“Take it easy.” Jack helped you out of the car. His hands never leaving your waist.

You stumbled toward the door, resting against his chest as he unlocked the front door. He pushed you through the house to the living room. If you had your wits about you, you’d be admiring the warmth of the house. The TV was surrounded by books. The lamps were a soft yellow, casting gentle light across the room. The couch was wide and deep, made of dark brown leather.

“Sit down.” Jack pushed you onto the couch.

“I’ll ruin the couch.” You mumbled, half aware of yourself.

“You won’t. I’m grabbing my kit. Stay there.” Jack marched out of the room.

You stood up and went over to the bookcase. You scanned the titles, trying to find something familiar. Your eyes landed on Pride and Prejudice. You smiled to yourself as your fingers grazed the spine. A flare of light caught your eye and you turned to see a picture on a shelf. You moved closer to examine it. It was Jack with his arms around a beautiful woman on a beach. He had a wide smile on his face and less wrinkles. His silver curls were a dark auburn. He looked more relaxed than you had ever seen him.

“I thought I said to stay on the couch.” Jack’s voice made you jump.

“Fuck!” You gasped. “I got bored.”

“Get your ass on the couch.” He smirked. It slowly faded as you picked up with picture and turned to him.

“Is this your wife?” You asked.

“Yes.” Jack took a sharp breath. “Our last vacation before she died. Not that we knew it.”

“She’s beautiful.” You put it back and wiped the tear from your face.

“You’re nosey.” He gently took your arm and pulled you back to the couch.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Not used to people asking about her. They mostly avoid the subject.” He shrugged as he pulled supplies from his bag.

“I remember when my mom died, no one wanted to talk about her. I hate that.” You sighed.

“People don’t know what to do. They just don’t want to make it worse.”

“But they do.”

“Yeah.” Jack sighed. “You want explain tonight?”

“No.” You mumbled.

“Let me rephrase. Tell me what happened so I can make sure you’re okay.” Jack shot you a glare as he poured a blue liquid into a bowl.

“I went out with my friend Casey. It was supposed to be a girls' night, but her boyfriend decided to come along. I fucking hate that guy. He’s such a pompous dick. Anyway, it started out fine. We were having a few Cosmos and dancing. I looked over and I saw her boyfriend put something into her glass! So, I called him out! I mean, what an asshole! But she took his side! We were shouting at each other, I fell over a table and banged my head on the floor. When I got up, she was going to drink the fucking drink! I smacked it out of her stupid hands, and she punched me. I’m not proud, but I decked her back. Next thing I know, her boyfriend is slamming me into the wall, and security is pulling him off. Then I threw up. That’s when I called you.”  You rambled, trying not to slur your words.

“Holy shit, Red. That’s not a little situation!” Jack gawked at you.

“I handled myself.” You huffed.

“I’m not doubting that.” Jack chuckled. “So, you probably have a concussion, is what I’m hearing.”

“I guess.” You sighed.

“You’re going to have a decent shiner,” Jack said as he examined your face.

“Is my nose broken?” You asked. Jack started poking and prodding your nose, his brows furrowed.

“Technically, I can’t say no without imaging. But, I don’t think so. Your lip is going to swell, and you might have a scar on your chin. Nothing too dramatic.” Jack started cleaning the blood from your face.

“Great.” You groaned.

“Cheer up, I’m sure you made it out better than Casey.” Jack smirked.

“Better believe it.” You snorted and winced.

“Any nausea or dizziness?” Jack asked, his eyes focused on your nose.

“I’m drunk. Yeah.” You rolled your eyes.

“Outside of the drunkenness, smartass.”

“Don’t think so.” You shrugged. “Are you going to make me stay awake all night?”

“I don’t think you have a severe concussion, if you have one. You can sleep.”

“Dr. Abbot does show mercy, who knew!” you giggled.

“Smartass.” He shook his head. You watched as he cleaned your wounds. His eyes were intense on a normal day, but there was something extra in them now. His hands were gentle as he held your face and scrubbed.

“You’re good at this.” You murmured, half asleep and half love-struck.

“I would hope so.” He smiled.

“I’m not used to this side of things.” You sighed. “I like seeing you like this.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not that drunk.” You smiled up at him. He watched you for a moment, like he was trying to see into your soul. He shook his head with a smile and started putting his kit away.

“You’re all patched up. I’m going to get you something to sleep in.” He disappeared down the hallway.

You flopped back against the couch with a groan. Your face was warm with a killer combination of lust and embarrassment. You wanted to crawl under the couch and die. You wanted to run after him and throw him on the bed. Neither were good options, especially in your wobbly state.

“Here,” Jack came in and tossed a pile of clothes at you. It was a Nirvana shirt and some blue basketball shorts. “Their clean, I swear.”

“I’m more concerned that you’re a Nirvana fan.” You smirked.

“They were groundbreaking, alright? I have nothing to be ashamed of.” He crossed his arms.

“Whatever you say.” You chuckled.

“Bathroom is down the hall. I’ll get the guest room set up for you.” Jack cleared his throat as he walked away.

You slowly made your way to the bathroom. It was bare bones, no decorations. Your curiosity got the better of you and you opened the medicine cabinet. It was mostly over-the-counter stuff. But there was a bottle of Pregabalin. You assumed it was for his leg. You changed into the clothes that smelled like Jack, making your way down the hall. You passed his room, peeking your head in.

His room was painted a dark blue, the blackout curtains were drawn.  The king-sized bed was messy with four blankets on top. There was a picture of his wife on the bedside table, next to his water bottle and reading glasses. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall between the bedframe and bedside table. There was a warmth to it, but the loneliness was obvious.

“You’re really nosey.” Jack’s voice made you jump.

“Why do you have four blankets?” You ignored his comment.

“I have a hard time regulating my body temperature. I get cold.” He didn’t seem to mind you poking around his life. Maybe he figured you wouldn’t remember any of it tomorrow. Maybe he truly didn’t care.

“You need some art or something. It’s depressing.” You said.

“Don’t hold back.” He chuckled. “It’s not depressing.”

“Your room is literally painted black.”

“Dark blue. It’s to stop light from waking me up.”

“I stand by what I said.”

“Where do you even get art?”

“I’ll take you out someday and we’ll get you something. This is so sad, you’re making me sad.” You watched as his face lit up.

“I’ll hold you to it.” He nodded. “Come on, I know you’re about to fall asleep standing up.”

“I could sleep.” You shuffled after him.

The guest room was a different story. The walls were a pastel green with white trim. The lamp next to the bed cast a warm, orange glow across the room. The bed was dressed in lavender colored linens.

“Whoa! This is way nicer than your dungeon.” You said, sitting on the bed.

“My wife’s idea. She wanted the guest room to be nice. My room wasn’t always a dungeon.” Jack said.

“Your wife had good taste. What color was your room before?”

“Deep purple. She loved color. I couldn’t stand the purple without her. The dark blue was practical, but it gave me something to do to try and move on.” He shrugged.

“How do you sleep alone after losing her? I can’t imagine.”

“I didn’t. Hence the night shift. I don’t sleep much.” Jack shifted from one leg to the other, clearly getting uncomfortable.

“Sorry. I get invasive when I’m drunk.” You got up and pulled the blankets back and got into bed.

“I don’t mind. I wouldn’t answer if I didn’t want to.” Jack walked over to the lamp, moving to turn it off.

“You’re a good guy, Jack.” You mumbled, your eyes starting to close.

Jack smiled down at you before turning off the lamp.

Robby kept his eyes on the chart. He was, objectively, a man capable of extraordinary focus under extraordinary pressure — this had been proven, repeatedly, in rooms far worse than this one — and yet here he was, reading the same line about magnesium levels for the fourth time because you were humming something without any apparent awareness of his existence. 

That was the thing that got him, if he was being precise about it. The total lack of awareness. Like you were alone in the room. Like the fact of him standing eight feet away was information your nervous system had simply not received and wasn't particularly interested in processing.

"Are you signing off on Martinez or are you planning to stand there all night?"

You turned around. Hands still wet. "Her oxygen sat's been stable for two hours. I was doing one last check." You reached for a paper towel, unhurried. "Good evening."

"It's nearly midnight."

"Good evening, Dr. Robinavitch."

He did not look up. He was very deliberate about not looking up. "Paperwork first. Pleasantries second. Order of operations."

"I'll keep that in mind." Perfectly pleasant. Not a trace of sarcasm. Impervious. Like being curt with you was something that happened to other people and simply bounced off you. He'd watched it happen across an entire shift — residents trying to one-up each other and you deflecting it with some mild observation about coffee going cold, a nurse coming at you frazzled and leaving calmer, and him, standing at the nurses' station, doing the thing where he read the same line four times.

He watched you cross the bay to get the chart, moving through the wreckage of twelve hours like you had a fundamental dispute with the idea that any of it had been hard.

He looked back at the magnesium levels. They remained uninteresting. Across the bay, you turned off the tap and the humming stopped, and somehow that was worse — the sudden awareness of its absence, the way the room rearranged itself around the quiet.

Robby set the chart down. Picked it back up. Read the magnesium levels a fifth time.

He'd been an asshole. He was aware of this with the specific clarity of someone who knew and had decided, at some point, that knowing was sufficient.

It hadn't started that way. He'd been neutral in the beginning, the way he was with most residents — professionally indifferent, appropriately demanding, nothing beyond. And then somewhere between you explaining to a thirty-seven-year-old construction worker why he needed to stay still and not, in your words, be a hero about the needle, because you'd dealt with actual heroes today and they had all, uniformly, behaved themselves — something had shifted. Slowly. The kind of shift where you don't notice until the geography's already changed and you're standing somewhere you didn't plan to be. And by the time he'd noticed, the only thing he knew how to do was be curt about it.

The curt had escalated. He corrected your charting when it didn't need correcting. He'd sent you to the Mathers consult — a three-hour admit, the kind that hollowed a person out — and watched you handle it with the patient attentiveness of someone who didn't know there was another option. He'd told himself it was assessment. He'd told himself a lot of things.

Then was the supply closet.

Pediatric case. Bad, in the quiet way. He'd delivered the news himself and sent everyone back to their stations and gone to chart it, and he couldn't find you anywhere. He checked the on-call room. Then, following some dim instinct he chose not to examine, he tried the supply closet.

You were on the floor, back against the IV bag shelf, knees pulled up, crying.

He stood in the doorway. Thought about leaving.

You looked up. And then — immediately, the reflex of it — you said "I'm sorry" and started to wipe your face. Then you tried to smile at him. Eyes wet, nose red, and you assembled a smile. Like you'd built one in advance for whoever came through the door so they wouldn't have to deal with the crying. Like you'd gotten efficient at this.

That ate at him. He couldn't name it more precisely. Something about the apologizing, and then immediately the smile, in that order, bothered him in a way he didn't have a word for.

He stepped inside and let the door close. "You don't need to be back out in thirty seconds."

"It's unprofessional."

"You're a resident. First one?" He meant the loss. You understood, nodded once. "Then it's biology. Not a failing."

He wasn't good at this. He knew that. There was a box of tissues on the shelf nearest him and he handed it to you, because it was the only object in reach that might approximate the gesture of offering something, and you looked at it and then laughed — barely, a wet sound, but a real one.

"That's not what I—" he started.

"No, I know." You took one anyway, turned it over in your hands. "Thank you."

He stood there another minute. Couldn't leave. Watched you put yourself back together the way you apparently did everything — methodically, without drama, heel of your hand to your eye, one slow breath, and then back. Like a person who had practice.

He went back to his charts and was sharp with two nurses and a second-year before he'd made it to the bay, and didn't connect the two things until weeks later.

Then was the case of the blueberry muffins. In a container with a lid that didn't close properly, and every time there was one sitting on the counter near the coffee maker, and every time an attending found their way over within twenty minutes. He'd eaten four of them across separate occasions. He never planned to acknowledge this.

You hummed when you were focused. A different song every shift, always half-familiar, always just past where he could name it. It was maddening in a way that defied professional articulation.

Every patient remembered your name. Not just remembered — asked for you specifically, used it. He'd had a seventy-three-year-old man with a hairline hip fracture ask him to send back "the nice one, who explained the scan thing." He'd known immediately. He'd sent you. He'd told himself this was about patient outcomes.

He started cataloguing things. Unconsciously, the way you develop a reflex. The way you always sat down to explain a diagnosis — never stood over them. The fact that you took notes by hand on rounds and had told him, unprompted, early on, as if expecting to be corrected, that you retained it better that way. He hadn't corrected it. The snack bars you kept in your coat pocket and distributed to nurses around hour eight without making anything of it. The way you said thank you to orderlies. The way you phrased bad news — he'd noticed the phrasing, catalogued it, thought about it.

He had no use for any of this information. He kept it anyway.

There was a morning, somewhere in the middle of all of it, when he'd been post-call and running on three hours and you'd appeared at the nurses' station with coffee you handed to him before he'd asked, or looked like he needed it, or given any outward indication whatsoever that he was capable of human wants.

"How did you know I take it black?" he said.

"I didn't." You were already walking away. "I just figured if you were you, you probably didn't want anything done to it."

He'd stood there for a moment with the coffee in his hand.

He'd been annoyed about it. The presumption of it, the casual intimacy of the gesture, the fact that you'd got him right. He'd been annoyed about it right up until the moment he'd taken a sip and thought, with a clarity that three hours of sleep had done nothing to dull, that he was in actual trouble.

The Torres chart hand-off happened on a Tuesday. You came up behind him at the nurses' station and he smelled the muffins before you'd said anything.

"Torres hand-off. She's been stable since fourteen hundred hours, no fever. I flagged a note about the blood pressure trend — it's within normal, I just wanted to document I'd been watching it."

"I can read."

"I know you can read." Still pleasant. "She also wants me to tell you you have a nice voice."

"She's seventy-one and on morphine."

"She said it before the morphine." You set the chart down. "There's a muffin on the counter."

He took the chart and didn't look up, and he stood there for a moment after you'd gone and thought, with some irritation, that he'd been tracking Torres's blood pressure every two hours all shift. He hadn't flagged it. He fixed the formatting error at the top of page two — not because it was egregious, it wasn't — and didn't tell you about it. He told himself this was efficiency and moved on before he could disagree with himself.

Jack waited until the lounge was empty. In retrospect, Robby should have taken that as a warning.

They were both doing charts. Fourteen minutes of workable silence, which was the best kind, and then Jack said without looking up, "Kowalski was at the nurses' station again."

Robby said nothing.

"Third time this week. Ortho. No clinical reason to be down here three times in a week." A pause. "He keeps asking about her."

"Her who?"

"Your her."

"She's not — she's a resident. She's on shift."

"That's not what he's asking." Jack closed his laptop. That was always the tell — the deliberate setting-aside, the signal that you were in a conversation now, predetermined. He looked at Robby with the patience of a man who has decided to wait you out. "You want to say anything about that?"

"I don't have anything to say about Kowalski."

"No. But you've been short with her."

"I'm short with everyone."

"Not the same short." Jack leaned back. "You corrected her on a splint she did correctly. I checked afterward."

Robby set his pen down. Picked it back up. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I don't want you to say anything." Jack opened his laptop again. Closed it. "You know what I think?"

"No. But I suspect you're going to—"

"I think you've been so busy being her attending that you forgot she's going to leave and be someone else's problem in about eight months." A pause. "And I think that bothers you."

Robby looked at the coffee. Then the chart. Then some middle distance between the two.

"He's going to ask her to dinner. Kowalski."

The coffee in Robby's mug was still warm. He looked at it.

"Let him," he said.

Jack made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Sure," he said, and opened the laptop for the last time.

He went to the attending lounge because it was past two in the morning and he needed somewhere to sit that wasn't the nurses' station, and you happened to be there when he opened the door.

Asleep in the chair by the window. Your chart was still open in your lap. Pen loosely between your fingers. At some point, the sleep had simply won.

He stood in the doorway for a moment.

There was a warmth in his chest that was entirely inconvenient and he looked at it sideways, the way you look at something too bright. You'd been here since seven that morning. He knew this without meaning to know it — knew which admits you'd taken, what you'd ordered for the woman in bay three, that you'd eaten something from the vending machine at fourteen hundred because you'd complained about it to Dana with the mournfulness of someone deeply wronged by a sandwich. He'd started logging your schedule without any conscious decision to do so. That was a recent development he hadn't examined closely.

He should go to the couch. Do his own charts.

He stood there another moment. You looked cold. He picked up the green blanket — the ones you sometimes used, which he had no reason knowing — and draped it over your body. Tucked under your feet for good measure. 

Then he stepped back and eased the door shut, very quietly, and stood under the fluorescent light of the hallway, and thought: oh.

The acknowledgment of something he'd been refusing to file anywhere useful for long enough that the refusal had become its own noise. Oh. Right. He understood now why Jack had closed his laptop.

He was reviewing a discharge summary in the corridor, and you stepped out of the lounge with the green blanket under your arm and walked directly into his eyeline. He wasn't staring. Sure, he wasn't. 

"Were you out here when I fell asleep?"

"Yep." 

"You didn't sleep?"

"I checked the lounge. You were in there."

"That's not an answer."

He'd underestimated you in that specific way, in the beginning — the quiet refusal to be redirected. You did it without any sharpness, without confrontation, like you'd noticed it and decided not to. It surprised him the first time. It had never stopped surprising him, exactly.

"I didn't want to wake you," he said.

You stopped. Something crossed your face that he couldn't quite catch the shape of. "That was actually very considerate of you."

"You sound surprised."

"A little." You tucked the blanket more firmly under your arm. "You've been different lately."

"I'm professionally consistent."

"Dr. Robinavitch." Very patient. "I watched you make a first-year cry over a documentation error."

"His documentation was wrong."

"Mine had a formatting error on the Torres file. Page two. You didn't say anything."

He said nothing.

"You fixed it yourself." Still not accusing — just noticing. "I saw the edit timestamp."

The corridor was quiet. A monitor beeped down the hall in its steady automated note.

"You didn't have to do that," you said. Softer now. "I would've caught it."

"I know you would have."

A pause. You were looking at him with that look — the curious one, the one that felt like you were trying to work something out carefully, without making a production of it. Like he was a thing worth figuring out. Like you'd decided to be patient about it.

He found he had nothing useful to say to any of that. You opened your mouth and he thought for a second you were going to say something that would require him to respond in kind, and he wasn't ready for that, not in a corridor at three in the morning with the green blanket under your arm and his chest doing what it was doing.

"Get some sleep," he said. "In an actual bed. Not a chair."

"Are you worried about me?"

"I'm concerned with your clinical function tomorrow if you're running on four hours in a—"

"Robby."

Just his name. Without the professional buffer of the title, and the way you said it — quiet, slightly tentative, like you were testing whether it was allowed—

"The blanket," you said. "In the lounge. Was that you?"

He looked at you.

You looked back, and there was nothing confrontational in it, nothing probing, just — curious, and underneath that, something that was almost gentle. Waiting.

"Go to sleep," he said, and walked back toward the bay.

He didn't quite remember, in the moment, how you got here.

That was a lie. He remembered exactly — you'd followed him into the on-call room with a consult chart, and you'd asked him something, and he'd turned around and you were closer than he'd expected, and the chart had ended up on the floor, and something that had been accumulating for a long time finally hit a pressure it couldn't sustain.

You'd kissed him first. Barely. More like you'd tipped toward him and he'd closed the remaining distance, which meant they were equally responsible, and he was prepared to argue this point at length.

Now your back was against the on-call room door and you were looking at him like he was slightly terrifying and very interesting, which was, objectively, the most appealing combination of expressions he'd seen in some time.

"Are we—"

"Yes."

"Okay." A breath. "Okay."

"Stop saying okay."

"What am I supposed to say?"

He pressed his mouth to the side of your neck and held it there — not moving, just breathing you in — until you went very still under him. He felt your pulse against his lips. He stayed there until you made a sound, small, involuntary, the sound of someone trying not to make a sound and losing the effort.

"Something more useful," he said against your skin.

Your hands found his collar. Fisted into it without quite pulling. "What do you want me to say?"

He pulled back enough to look at you. Already undone, and he'd barely started — the flush high on your throat, the way you were holding his shirt like it was the only fixed object in the room. Something settled in him that he recognised, distantly, as the opposite of the thing that had been sitting in his chest for months.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

You looked at him. Then sideways. Then back, with something stubborn in it underneath the flush. "You."

"More specific."

"Robby—"

"Dr. Robinavitch," he said, and watched your face cycle through several things.

"You cannot possibly be serious."

"I'm always serious." He undid the first button of your scrubs. "More specific."

Your breath came out uneven. "I want you to touch me."

"I am touching you."

"You know what I—" The thought didn't complete. He undid the second button and whatever you'd been about to say dissolved. "I want your hands on me. Properly."

"Properly," he said. "There you go."

He walked you back to the narrow bed and sat you on the edge of it. Then stood there for a moment — just looked. He had spent a professionally inadvisable amount of time not looking at you, deliberately, as a sustained practice, and he was going to allow himself a moment now that the situation had changed.

You looked back. Flushed, lower lip caught between your teeth.

He got your scrub top off, then the undershirt, then reached around and unclipped your bra. When you moved to cover yourself, he caught both wrists.

"Don't."

"I just—"

He pressed your wrists to the mattress, one on either side, gentle but deliberate, and held them there. You let him immediately. He filed that away. "Keep them there."

He took his time. He'd earned the right to take his time — all those months of being deliberately removed, of watching you from across the bay and looking back at his charts — he had accumulated a significant amount of patience that was now going to get spent in one place.

He put his mouth to your collarbone and worked down slowly, and every time you moved he said stay and felt you try, felt the effort of it in the tension running through you, your hands gripping the mattress. He got his mouth to your nipple and felt you arch up sharp, and he pulled back just enough.

"Stay still."

"I'm trying—"

"Try harder."

"Robby, please—" And there it was — the specific texture of your voice when you were overwhelmed, the thing he'd catalogued and refused to think about directly. The way it went soft and raw at the edges. Your eyes had gone glassy. "Please. I need—"

"Tell me what you need."

"You know what I need—"

"I do. I want you to say it."

You made a frustrated sound that turned into something else when he dragged his thumb along the inside of your thigh and stopped before it got useful. "I need you to touch me. Please. I need—please."

"Where?"

"You know where—"

"Where?" Quieter. Final.

"My cunt," you said, and your face went red saying it, and he pressed his mouth to your stomach to have somewhere to put the expression that wanted to happen. The slight mortification and the fact that you'd said it anyway. He was going to be thinking about that for a long time.

He pulled your scrubs down and the underwear followed, and he sat back on his heels and looked at you spread across the narrow mattress, flushed to your chest, thighs pressed together out of some residual instinct toward dignity, and thought with a startling clarity that you had absolutely no idea what you'd been doing to him.

He pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh and felt you exhale shakily. Pressed it to the other. Kissed up slowly, felt you start to tremble, your thighs trying to close around him.

"You're already so wet," he said against your skin, and heard you make a sound. "I've barely done anything."

"Don't say it like that —" you whined.

"I'm just statin' what I see." He pressed his mouth to you properly and felt you gasp, felt your hands go immediately into his hair. He worked you slowly, his tongue flat against your clit and then pointed, then flat again, and two fingers pressing inside you, curling — and you made sounds he was going to be hearing in his head for years, the pitch of them, the way they went higher when he changed the pressure. He brought you right to the edge, felt it in the way you tightened around his fingers and your thighs started shaking—

And he stopped.

"What—" The outrage of it, immediate and genuine. Your hips chased nothing. "I was so close, I was right—please—"

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you to make me come," you said, without hesitation this time, and your voice was wet at the edges and your eyes were wet, actual tears on your lashes, and he pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee and held it there for a second.

"Please," you added, smaller. "Please. Robby."

He put his mouth back, and this time he didn't stop. He held your hips down with his forearms and kept the pressure steady and relentless, worked two fingers inside you in a rhythm that he'd figured out about four minutes in and was going to use mercilessly, and you came hard — shaking, properly shaking, both hands fisted in his hair, his name said so many times it became something else. He kissed your inner thigh through the end of it and felt you go loose by degrees.

He straightened. You had tears running down your temples. He kissed them away without entirely deciding to, and you laughed weakly.

"I'm just bein' thorough." He got his scrubs off, found the condom from the pocket he'd put it in on a hope, and looked up to find you watching him with red-rimmed eyes and an expression of dazed, complete attention.

"Stop looking at me like that," he said.

"Like what?"

He didn't answer. He settled over you and paused — his forearm beside your head, his weight on his knees — and just looked at you for a moment.

"Robby." Breathless. "Please."

"I've got you," he said, quietly, and pressed in slow.

He felt you exhale under him, felt you shift to pull him deeper, felt your legs wrap around him before he'd done anything. He set a pace that was, he'd admit only to himself, not particularly controlled — the months of it had a way of making themselves felt when the situation finally changed. He pressed his mouth to your ear and told you exactly what you felt like — and he was precise about it, anatomical in a way that made you shiver, hot and tight and so fucking wet that he'd had to think about something else when he'd first pushed inside you — told you what he'd been thinking about, in terms that left nothing abstract.

You made a sound into his shoulder that he was going to think about for a long time.

"You've been thinking about this?" you managed.

"At length."

"How long?"

"Longer than is appropriate." He pressed deeper and felt you gasp. "Considerably." He pulled back and pushed in again, slow, deliberate in the way that he could feel you registering — the way your breath caught, the way your nails pressed into his back. "You want me to tell you how long?"

"Yes," you said, slightly desperate.

"When you had the Torres admit. You were at the nurses' station and you leaned over to get a chart and your scrubs—" He stopped for a second because the memory had found him at an inconvenient angle. "I had to go chart something."

"You left because of me?"

"I left before I did something professionally unsound." He pressed a hand to the back of your thigh and pushed it higher, changed the angle, felt you make an embarrassingly gratifying sound. "Stop talking."

"You were the one who—"

"Stop talking," he said, and moved, and you did.

You cried through the second orgasm — actual tears, the way he'd half-expected, your face buried in his shoulder, both arms around his neck, holding on. He kissed the side of your face. The corner of your eye. Felt you clutch at him like you'd decided he was staying.

When he followed he was considerably less composed than he'd planned, face in your hair, your name said once, very quietly.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He understood this approximately fifteen minutes later when he woke to find you beside him, awake, looking at some mid-distance point with the expression of someone slowly processing a sequence of events and finding it, on the whole, acceptable.

"You fell asleep," you said.

"I rested my eyes."

"For fifteen minutes."

He looked at his watch. "Thirteen."

"Fifteen." You turned your head. Still flushed. He was not going to have feelings about that. "Should I—" You gestured vaguely toward the door.

"In a minute." He pulled you back before he'd consciously decided to, and you went without resistance, settled against him like you'd considered the geometry and found it reasonable. "Stop thinking so loudly."

"I'm not thinking loudly."

"You are." A pause. "Say it."

"I was just going to say." You seemed to be choosing words with some care. "This doesn't have to be weird."

"It's not weird."

"You've been weird about me for a while."

He looked at the wall for a moment. "Months," he said.

You lifted your head. Looked at him. He looked back with the equanimity of a man who had made a decision and was now on the other side of it.

"Months," you repeated.

"Don't make it a thing."

"You had a crush on me." The laugh was already happening, quiet, against his shoulder. "You've been making my shifts difficult because you had a crush."

"I don't have a crush. I'm almost fifty."

"You made a first-year cry."

"His documentation—"

"Was wrong, yes." You were laughing properly now, helpless, into his skin, and he let it happen and did not find it as irritating as he should have. "You fixed my formatting error. You ate four muffins."

"I ate one. Maybe two."

"Dana counted. She has a tally."

He absorbed this.

"Dana has a tally," he said.

"Apparently she's been running it since March."

He sat with that for a moment. The cart with the squeaky wheel went past outside, its regular circuit, the one maintenance had been promising to fix for weeks. He'd started timing the rounds. He wasn't going to tell you that.

"Robby," you said, quieter.

"Mm."

"The blanket." A pause. "It was you."

He said nothing.

You pressed your face back into his shoulder. He felt you smiling — actually felt it, the shape of it against his collarbone — and didn't say anything about it.

"Thank you," you said, very small. "For not waking me up."

He didn't answer.

You settled more completely against him. Outside, the hospital kept going — someone called down the hall, a monitor beeped its steady note, the cart made another pass. He listened to the intervals and thought this was probably fine. More than probably.

A thought occurred to him, belatedly. "Did Kowalski ask you to dinner?"

A pause.

"Last Thursday," you said.

"What did you say?"

Another pause. Longer. He could feel you deciding whether to make him ask twice.

"I said I was busy," you said.

"Were you?"

"No." You shifted against his shoulder. "But I had a feeling I'd be busier."

He didn't say anything. Outside, the cart went past again with its squeaky wheel.

"Robby," you said, half-asleep already.

"Go to sleep."

"Everyones's going to know."

"Hmm."

A pause. "Does that bother you?"

He thought about that for a moment. Dana had apparently been running a tally since March. Dana had apparently noticed before he had. That was its own kind of information about the past several months that he chose not to examine too closely.

"No," he said.

"Is that okay?"

He looked at the top of your head. "Go to sleep," he said.

You weren't nervous until you saw Javi. That was the problem.

The ceremony had already started. People were seated. Music was playing somewhere behind you. Everything was happening exactly the way it was supposed to.

Then you looked up.

And there he was. Standing at the end of the aisle in a suit that honestly should've been illegal. Javier Peña never looked uncomfortable around politicians, cartel members, armed suspects, or DEA supervisors. A wedding, apparently, was his breaking point.

His jaw was tight. His hands were clasped in front of him. And every few seconds he glanced toward the crowd like he was looking for an escape route. Until his eyes found you. Then everything else disappeared. The nervousness vanished from his face so fast it almost made you laugh. His shoulders relaxed. A small smile appeared. Just for you.

By the time you reached him, your own hands were shaking. "Don't laugh," you whispered as the officiant continued talking.

"I'm not laughing. I'm smiling."

"Same thing."

Javi looked down for a second, trying and failing to hide it. "No, it's not."

You squeezed his hand.

Immediately his fingers closed around yours. Strong. Warm. Familiar. The kind of touch that said I've got you without needing the words.

For a moment neither of you paid attention to whatever was being said around you. You were too busy looking at him. At the stupid smile he couldn't get rid of.

At the fact that Javier Peña, who spent most of his life pretending he didn't need anybody, was looking at you like he couldn't believe this was actually happening.

"You okay?" you whispered.

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "Yeah," he said quietly. Then his smile grew a little wider. "Just trying to figure out how I got this lucky."

thank you for reading!

💌 @idknananchimaybe @theeverodriguez @mothmanuwu @pascalispunkbr @reasonablyluminousquill @justmasblack @indiegirlunited @saralovesjoelmiller @picketniffler @canonisoptional @katyispunk @daltoncharm @kirsteng42 @borinquenasoy @cuteanimalmama @negramurguera @senoratess @misstokyo7love @suestormnotcheatingversion @lizette50 @grxnde-dwt @harriedandharassed @somedayheaven @ningaispunk @ladyofmidlo72 @bardot49 @scarlettval2 @goonersquad101

The night was quiet, the noises of the city fading into the background. The breeze carried a chill and you shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket to keep them warm. Then you felt it. A presence intruding on the perimeter you’d set in your mind. Behind you, moving closer. A steady, silent approach. But no sense of danger came with it.

You didn’t look right away. If magic had taught you anything, it was patience. You sat perfectly still, tracking the movement until a huff of breath came from directly behind the bench. Only then did you turn.

The wolf was enormous, easily twice the size of any natural animal. His coat was dark with flecks of gray scattered throughout. His shoulders were broad and muscled, his head massive. He stared for a moment before moving around the bench to stand in front of you. His ears were forward, his tail low and swinging in a slow, measured rhythm. Not aggressive. Not even cautious. If you had to pinpoint the behavior, you’d call it attentive.

You kept your hands in your lap now instead of your pockets and watched him. He stood close enough you could feel the heat radiating off of him, could smell the clean, wild scent of him. He held your gaze. His eyes were dark brown, almost black in the moonlight and full of awareness and assessment that told you this was no mere animal. There was no threat, simply…recognition.

You stared at one another for one beat, then two. Then he lowered his head and laid the full weight of it in your lap. He was solid, warm. The whine that accompanied the action was a low, plaintive sound that vibrated through you. He watched you with those soft brown eyes. Waiting.

Your hands hovered for a moment before sinking in the thick fur. In that second, you felt something slide into place inside of you with a deep, instinctive knowing. You shifted your hold and began to scratch behind his ears.

He exhaled, a full body release that softened every line of his body. His weight settled more firmly against your legs, his eyes half closing. As your attention continued, he made a small satisfied noise in the back of his throat. His eyes held a human quality in them that was unmistakable. Intelligence and a focus that didn’t belong on anything living solely on instinct.

He had been looking for you, you were almost certain. He’d crossed the park with a single-minded determination and had found you sitting on the bench. Then he’d put his head in your lap like he was coming home.

You knew what this was. Felt it the moment you touched him and the universe suddenly seemed right, complete. You tilted your head. “You’re my mate.”

The wolf lifted his head from your lap. For a moment he just looked at you, his dark eyes steady and intent. And then he whined again, louder this time, with a hint of desperation that wasn’t there before. Before you had time to attempt to figure out what he wanted, he lowered his muzzle and closed his teeth around your wrist.

Your breath caught. His jaws were enormous, capable of crushing bone. But his teeth didn’t press, settling against you with extraordinary gentleness. The pressure was so light it was almost absent. It was just the faint weight of his mouth and the light scrape of a canine against your pulse. Then he tugged.

Not hard. Just enough to say come with me.

“Okay, okay,” you said as you stood.

He released you immediately, leaving not a mark behind. He turned away from the bench and took three steps before he stopped and looked over his shoulder, those dark eyes finding yours. Checking.

You followed.

He led you out of the park and into the city. He moved with purpose, keeping a steady pace that had you taking wide strides to match it. Every half-block or so he would glance back, making sure you were still there. Still following. At crosswalks he paused, waiting for the light even when the street was empty. His nose constantly twitched as he picked up scents from the air. He stopped at lampposts and fire hydrants, sniffing, tracing whatever trail led him on.

You walked past closed storefronts with their security gates pulled down, past a bar with sound spilling from inside. A man stood just past the door nodded at you as you passed, did a double-take at the wolf, then shrugged and went back to his cigarette.

The wolf led you through blocks you didn’t know, turning corners and leading you down questionable alleyways, though you didn’t fear. Between your own abilities and your wolf tour guide, you figured you were safe enough. Then, suddenly, the hospital rose into the night sky in front of you.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The building was massive. The wolf led you around to the ambulance bay. He stopped at the edge of the pavement, right where driveway turns to walkway and turned to you.

The he shoved his head hard against your hip. The push was insistent, not rough as he nudged you toward the glass doors of the ambulance bay. You put a hand flat on top of his head. “Do you know someone here?”

He let out a frustrated whine and shoved harder. His entire weight leaned into your hip now, steering you toward the doors.

“We can’t just walk into the hospital. I’m pretty sure there are rules about wolves roaming the halls.”

The wolf sat down and stared up at you. His dark eyes were unblinking. You looked down at him. He looked up at you. The standoff lasted a good minute.

“Fine,” you said, finally.

You walked up to the doors and they slid open. A man in black scrubs with a Dunkin cup in one hand glanced over at the sound. He frowned as he saw you standing there. He moved closer. “Can I help you?”

You pointed at your companion, who was still sitting on the concrete right where you’d left him, watching the exchange with what you would have sworn was amusement.

“Does anyone here belong to him?” you asked.

The man’s brows raised and he grinned as he looked at the wolf. “This is fantastic. Just hold on one second.” And with that, the man who never introduced himself disappeared into the halls of the hospital.

You turned back to the wolf. He was still watching you, his tail wagging in slow arcs.

“Well, that was not helpful in the least.”

He blinked at you and you could have sworn he was laughing.

A low concrete wall ran along the edge of the ambulance bay, keeping the minimal landscaping at bay. You settled onto it, the cold seeping through your jeans and the wolf was there before you even fully found your balance. His head dropped into your lap with the certainty of a creature that had decided your lap belonged to him now. You didn’t question it as one hand found the soft fur under his chin and began to scratch.

A low, rumbling vibration of contentment came from him. One of his massive paws joined his head in your lap. You scratched under his chin and waited. The night had grown colder and the warmth of the wolf against your legs was welcome. “Would you like to see a trick?” you asked after a moment.

His ears flicked forward and his gaze met yours. You held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with running through his fur and produced a small ball of blue light you ran over fingers and back again. His tail wagged enthusiastically as he huffed out a breath. High praise, you were sure.

The door slid open and a man in scrubs stepped outside. His gaze found you and you waved a hand through the air to dismiss the light. He took in the scene before him. You on the wall, the enormous wolf with his head in your lap, your hand scratching under the chin before occasionally drifting up to get the spot behind his ears. His face split into a grin wide enough to show teeth and crinkle the skin by his eyes. The laugh that came from him was part surprise and part pure delight.

He walked over to stand in front of you and the wolf lifted his head from your lap just enough to look at the man who reached out and ruffled the fur between his ears with a casual affection.

“Hey, brother,” he said to the wolf. Then he looked at you, still grinning and extended a hand. “Jack Abbot. Night shift attending.” You shook his hand and he said, “Might I ask who you are and how you know our friend here?”

You told him your name before you explained everything. The park. The moon. The wolf finding you on that bench and declaring you were his in the most fundamental way possible. Then you explained about the bond between the two of you.

Jack’s grin grew impossibly wider with every sentence. By the time you finished, he was practically vibrating, his eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like triumph.

“He led you here?” Jack asked. “Just…follow me human, we’re going to the hospital?”

“Basically.”

Jack looked the wolf. The wolf looked back at Jack and you could have sworn they were silently communicating about something. “This is incredible,” Jack said, and he wasn’t talking to you. He was talking to the wolf who lowered his head back into your lap with what could only be described as smug satisfaction. “Absolutely incredible. I’ve been working with this man for years and I never—” He stopped, shook his head, and the grin came back full force. “Never mind. This is perfect. This is absolutely perfect.”

He watched you for another moment before leaning forward and dropping his voice. “So, you up for a little fun?”

The wolf in your lap made a small curious sound, his ears flicking forward.

Jack’s grin didn’t waver as he waited for your answer. The anticipation on his face was infectious and entirely terrifying.

Robby walked through the doors of the ED at ten the next morning, three hours into day shift as was the routine when he was scheduled the night after a full moon. Jack always covering the extra time without complaint. Robby was exhausted as he always was after a run, but he felt oddly invigorated.

Jack was at the nurses’ station, sitting as he typed at the computer. He looked up as Robby dropped his bag beside him and a grin spread across his face.

“Morning,” Robby said with a lifted brow. “You seem in oddly good spirits. How was the shift?”

Jack’s grin didn’t budge as he shrugged one shoulder. “Same as always. Nothing remarkable.” He paused, his head tilting slightly, the amusement in his expression increasing. “How was your run?”

Robby ran a hand through his hair, feeling the residual stiffness in his shoulders, the soreness in his muscles that came from a night spent as something other than human. “Good. Really good, I think.”

He remembered fragments. The park. A rabbit. Moving through the city. The feeling of something pressing, urgent. He tapped his temple with one finger. “Nothing. The usual black hole. But I feel like…something happened. Something important but I can’t fucking place it.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, his eyes crinkling at the corners as that grin somehow got wider. He reached out and clapped Robby on the shoulder. “Langdon’s been holding down the fort. Have a fantastic day, brother. I’m out.” Jack grabbed the bag that Robby hadn’t noticed at his feet and headed toward the doors without a backward glance.

Robby frowned after him. That was…odd. Jack Abbot was many things. Subtle was not one of them. Whatever had that expression on his face was something he was savoring and Robby was almost certain it was going to somehow bite him in the ass.

You arrived at PTMC just before noon, checking in at the front and giving your name before being let through. A blonde glanced up as you moved through the chaos toward the central hub. “Dana?” you asked, making an educated guess based on what Jack had told you.

Her gaze flicked over you from head to toe and one side of her mouth curled up as she said your name. With a nod, you confirmed your identity and she smiled wide. “Jack filled me in, said you’re here as part of Gloria’s new initiative to increase the presence of magical healing in the hospital, right?”

You nodded again. It was Jack’s idea. The program was real enough and you actually were a witch trained in healing magic. He’d submitted your name himself this morning and texted you when he got approval. The best cover stories were the most truthful ones, after all.

Jack convinced you to spend a day with Robby as a human before telling him who you were to him. Something about driving his best friend crazy before letting him in on the secret. He’d seemed so giddy at the idea you’d agreed without much argument. It was unlikely Robby would remember anything about the night before, anyway. Getting to know him this way seemed infinitely preferable to just showing up with a wave and saying, “Hey, I’m your mate. How are you doing?”

Robby stood in North Four with a med student and a third-year resident, watching as the student conducted a neuro exam. His arms were crossed over his chest as he observed. The resident was correcting a small error the student had made when Robby’s spine straightened.

A scent drifted to him. Warm and layered and completely out of place in an emergency department. Something rich and complex that smelled like rain, the earth and a note he couldn’t name but that pulled at him all the same.

His chin lifted and his nostrils flared. His focus narrowed to a single point, that scent and the direction it had come from. “Finish the assessment. Let me know if you have any questions,” he announced to the room in general.

He didn’t wait for a response. He was already moving, following the scent through the department before he had fully processed what he was doing. The scent led him past staff and countless patients until finally, there you were.

You stood beside Dana, one hip leaning against the counter. You were saying something while Dana listened intently.

Robby stopped when he was maybe fifteen feet from you. Close enough his eyes registered little details about your appearance, about the way you held your hands. Close enough that the scent swamped him.

He knew you.

The certainty was bone deep and inexplicable. He had never seen you before in his life, yet every instinct he possessed insisted that he knew you as well as he knew his own name. There was no memory attached to the recognition, just the raw, incontrovertible fact that he knew you.

Dana glanced over and saw him standing there. Her eyebrow lifted along with the corner of her lips. “Robby.” He stepped closer and she introduced you by a name that meant nothing to him. “She’s part of Gloria’s new program. Here to observe only today.”

You turned to fully face him and your eyes met. “Hi.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Hi.”

He was still trying to figure this out, this familiarity, this pull when you lifted your left hand. A flick of your fingers and a small ball of blue light appeared. You let it run over your fingers and back again before another flick had it vanishing from sight. It was the kind of thing a witch did without thinking, the magical equivalent of clicking a pen.

For a moment, Robby was completely lost to you. A feeling of security that he didn’t understand at all flowed through him. He was all the more certain that he knew you. That you were important. This was driving him insane.

Realizing that he’d been staring in silence for far too long, he cleared his throat.  “I should…Patients. I have patients.”

He made himself turn around. Made himself walk through the halls and find another resident to observe, another med student with a question. Anything he could focus on besides you.

He failed miserably.

For the rest of the afternoon, he found reasons to be wherever you were. When you were at the hub, he appeared with a question for Dana he already knew the answer to. Each time, his eyes found you, watching you make notes or talk to some of the staff. He slowed his pace as he passed a bay where you were holding the hand of a small fae child that was awaiting the arrival of her parents. When you were in the break room, he had a sudden need for coffee despite the four cups he’d already had that day. When work pulled him away, he immediately sought you out when he finished, needing to know where you were and if you were safe.

The department continued around the two of you. Traumas came in. Labs were ordered. Consults were called for. Students were taught. And through it all, that scent pulled at him. It was mouth watering and maddeningly familiar. But every moment spent in your presence brought him no closer to understanding.

Jack arrived ten minutes before his shift was due to start. The rest of the night shift was filtering in as well, day shift starting their handoffs. He found Robby at the hub, a tablet laying on the counter in front of him that he was absolutely ignoring. In fact, he hadn’t looked at it in ten minutes. He leaned against he counter, arms crossed as he watched you talk with one of the nurses, hands moving. Perlah was laughing and you were smiling, the expression making Robby’s chest feel tight.

Jack stopped beside him. He looked at you, then to Robby and back to you. Then he laughed, the sound drawing Robby’s attention away from his staring. “You are so far gone,” Jack said. He still had that stupid grin on his face.

Robby shook his head and huffed in irritation. “I can’t focus. I feel like I know her from somewhere. I’ve been like this all day. It doesn’t make any sense.” He ran a hand over his beard, smoothing it down. “I should introduce the two of you. Maybe you can place her.”

Jack’s grin turned smug. “Oh, I already met her. You introduced us.”

Robby turned to look at him, the movement slow and deliberate. His body orienting with the same focused intent his wolf used when tracking a scent. “What?”

“Last night.” Jack leaned against the counter, mirroring Robby’s posture. “Found her in the ambulance bay just before midnight. Sitting on the wall with a very large wolf’s head in her lap.”

Robby went perfectly, utterly still.

“She was scratching under his chin, behind his ears. Like she’d known him for years. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And he was letting her. Head right there in her lap, eyes half-closed, making these little content noises. You know the ones.” His voice had dropped to a lower register, almost gentle though the mischief was still present.

Robby knew the sounds he was referring to, the satisfied rumbling sounds his wolf made at his happiest. When he felt safe.

“He led her all the way here from some park downtown. Said he put his head in her lap then whined at her until she got up and followed him here.” Jack paused, searching his friend’s face. “He brought her right to the doors and then sat down until she got Shen’s attention. He got me and there you have it.”

Robby’s mouth had gone dry. The pieces assembled themselves in his head with a slow certainty. The scent that had pulled him across the department, the recognition with no context.

“I’d only go to someone like that if…” he trailed off, the words hanging there for a beat before he said, “Oh.”

His gaze shifted back to where your conversation with Perlah had been joined by Princess. A warmth settled over him as he realized the scent he had been chasing all day had been following him first. From a park through the city under a full moon to the feet of his best friend.

You looked up, your eyes meeting across an emergency department filled with a scent he could finally, definitively name. Your gaze flicked to Jack and back to Robby and you smiled, warm and welcoming.

He did not look away.

You were at work this Friday evening, but not in the emergency department where you felt you belonged like a soldier in line. Tonight, you found yourself in the hospital’s cafeteria, which had been transformed in a wash of color and mood lighting that reminded you of a cheesy coming of age movie they used to show on Disney Channel. The overhead fluorescents had been covered with long, thick strips of colored fabric to alter their hue, streamers have been taped along the sides of tables and the walls, and music is controlled from a decorated DJ’s booth near the corner. Images of sea creatures and handmade decorations littered the cafeteria, making it appear as though a cartoon ocean swept through the place and left behind its evidence on purpose.

The PTMC’s prom night was, in your opinion, the cheesiest thing you’d seen in a long, long while.

The peds department—and the dozens of parents who’d spent their children’s entire lives within those walls—had recently approached Gloria with the idea of giving the kids a prom, given the majority of them were too sick to attend a real one. She’d been hesitant, the looming threat of a dwindling budget swinging over her head like a blade, but rumor was the idea of good press was too good for her to pass up. Thus, the moms had all gotten together while their children slept through treatments, spending their restless hours stitching together table runners and decorations and squawking over ideas they’d screengrabbed from Pinterest.

Of course, prom night was a hunting ground for preteens with eyes for one another (even if some of them were confined to wheelchairs and bound to IV poles), and supervision was required. Names were drawn from each department, and lo and behold, your name had been picked from the hat. You had the sneaking suspicion this was payback from Gloria after you’d refused to give a statement to the press a few months back after a mass pileup event.

You shifted back and forth on the balls of your feet as you watched the scene before you, hands held restlessly behind your back. Pop music you faintly recognized from the radio and fan edits you picked up from passing the interns on their breaks thumped in your ears—all mom–approved, of course. You stood by yourself near the door leading into the hall, fingers twisting in the back of your jacket over your scrubs. Despite the break you tried to look at this as, you were antsy to get back to the Pitt, to throw yourself back into the fray with your regular coworkers. You had always thrived on pressure and high stakes, a constant steady of calmness you weren’t able to control.

Maybe that was why, since your first year of your residency, you’d become Doctor Robinavitch’s right hand.

It wasn’t really a secret Robby held you closer than the other residents and interns. He barked your name like a rehearsed speech when he needed a steady hand he could trust, made sure you were among the watching eyes when he demonstrated a new technique. When he wasn’t around, people usually looked to you for direction; by extension, you were Robby. At his hip, at his side, your hands under his when everything was on the line and your scalpel wasn’t cutting deep enough.

You’d tried to tell yourself, these years, it was just professional. He was your senior attending, for god’s sake. The only reason he kept you so close was because he trusted you, because you were good at your job, because he wanted to see you succeed. But between shifts… those incidents posed a different perspective. A drive home here or there. A late coffee shared in the early, unholy hours of the morning after you’d both clocked off and were too wired to go home despite the aching in your bones, your backs, your hearts. You’d cooked him dinner once, on his birthday. Kosher.

He hadn’t told you until months later that he’d been so touched you even remembered his birthday, he didn’t want to spoil your effort by admitting he hadn’t followed kosher rules since he was a kid.

Your heart had become soft for your senior attending, despite how much you’d attempted to toughen it out, to force yourself to acknowledge he was old enough to be your father, to remind yourself he was your boss and nothing would ever happen. Still, when times were quiet like now and your mind was unburdened with charts and vitals and an order of which patient got priority, you allowed yourself to fantasize over the what-ifs you held so dear.

You watched as, across the cafeteria, a mother and father insisted on taking a picture of their son before he joined his friends by the sugar-free refreshments table. The boy’s head was absent of hair, his brow bones naked, and he clutched onto an IV pole with one hand while the other tugged at the collar of his suit with an exasperated glance to the camera presented toward him. He offered a half-hearted smile, clearly embarrassed, and once he was dismissed, he quickly skittered himself and his pole toward where a group of other children waited.

“Hey.”

You glanced up, having been too lost in the prom and your own private thoughts to realize someone had been approaching you. Your heart gave something like a shortened, excited couple thumps behind your ribs as you watched Robby come to settle beside you, arms crossed loosely over his broad chest. He’d had to lower himself to near your ear to be heard over the music and cacophony of the prom, and as he straightened himself, he gave a small tilt of his head toward you.

“Hey,” you said, your shoulders relaxing slightly as you stepped closer to be heard. “What are you doing here? Don’t they need you in the Pitt?”

Robby gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder, the stethoscope slung around his neck glinting in the pink light that played with shadows across his tired features. “They’ll be fine for a few minutes,” he said. “It’s mostly frat kids piled up from a hazing thing.”

“I’ll trade you.”

“Oh, come on.” He shifted his gaze out across the cafeteria, watching as a few kids awkwardly danced, moving their bodies in their gowns and tuxes they were so unaccustomed to wearing in comparison to their hospital sheets. “You’re telling me you’re not having the time of your life down here at the bottom of the sea?”

You felt a smile tug your lips upward as you followed his gaze. A girl carefully spun around another in her wheelchair despite an overprotective parent calling for them to be careful. Above them, from the ceiling, clear plastic baubles supposed to resemble bubbles had been dangled from fishing line and swayed with the shuffling underneath.

You said over the music, “I’m more of a black and white theme girl, to be honest.”

“Oh, so you like the classics.” Robby gave you one of those exhausted, gentle smiles he seemed to reserve only for you, the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling softly and the apple of his throat bobbing once. “And yet you never seem to be around when it comes time for the annual charity balls.”

“Like you are, either.”

It was true, as much as you were hesitant to admit it. You and Robby were both in your element when wrist–deep in bloodied wounds and extracting bullets from flesh, but formal, public events in which eyes would be upon you seemed to scare you both off like animals from a trap. You were alike in that way, preferring to work behind the scenes and shy from the spotlight when it began to swing in your direction. This—standing on the sidelines in the shadows—was where you were both comfortable.

For a long few minutes, the pair of you stood there and watched only half–vigilantly as the peds kids enjoyed their prom. Exhausted parents clinging to hope sat at the plastic–covered tables along the far wall, phones held up in recording and chins planted in chins as they watched their babies. As tacky as you found the entire party, you had to admire their hard work and resilience. It wasn’t easy, you were sure, being in their shoes.

Beside you, Robby spoke again. Just as you did in the ER, you snapped up to pay attention, hoping he didn’t notice how quickly you jolted to. “You ever go to prom?” he asked.

“Hah.” You shook your head, a rueful smile playing your lips. “No. It was never really my scene.”

“You’re kidding.” Robby glanced down at you, shifting his weight as he fixed you with one of those incredulous stares he gave when he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “I would’ve figured you were prom queen or something.”

The idea made you laugh. Actually laugh, your hand coming up to wave. “Oh, absolutely not,” you replied over the music as it thrummed and thumped and hummed through the reverberating cafeteria. “No, I, ah…” You hesitated for just a few moments before you shook your head. “I wasn’t ever very popular in school. Didn’t have all too many friends. I guess I didn’t really see the point of wasting all that money on a dress and going when no one was going to hang out with me.”

It was a bit of a pathetic admission, and you immediately turned away, feeling heat rising up your neck. Good god, you seriously didn’t just tell him that. Could you get any more desperate?

Robby was quiet for a moment, and all you could do was look at how closely your shoes were fidgeting next to his there on the shimmering tile floor. “That’s too bad,” he said finally, arms flexing themselves beneath his scrub sleeves before settling again, still crossed. “But I see the reasoning.”

You lifted your head, gaze lingering for a fraction of a moment on a child hunched over a book at one of the tables instead of mingling with the others before you looked up at him. God, how badly you wanted to reach up and touch the scruff of his beard on his jaw, to let your hand rest on the nape of his neck and thread your fingers through his short hair. “Did you go?”

At your reciprocated question, he gives something like a low chuckle of a laugh, nostalgia flickering behind his dark eyes despite the tinted light from overhead. “Yeah,” he mused, reaching up to scratch briefly at his stubbled throat, drawing your attention there. “Drank too much spiked punch, threw up outside the gym, and then went back in and danced with my girlfriend like nothing happened. Didn’t understand why she didn’t want to kiss me.”

A soft bark of laughter escaped you. “Can’t fathom as to why she didn’t want to stick her tongue down your acidic throat,” you said, then mentally scolded yourself for picturing sticking your own tongue into his mouth and licking up the sounds he most certainly would gruff out from the feeling.

“God, what a shitty night that was.” Robby shook his head, watching the little prom for another long few moments. After what seemed to be both an eternity and just a few seconds, he turned his head over to face you. He studied you long enough that you looked at him questioningly, your heart climbing up your esophagus. He hesitated for a moment, then gave another rough sound of amusement and extended a hand between the two of you.

Amused and slightly confused, you furrowed your brows and gave a small smile. Nonetheless, you placed your hand in his, rough callouses sliding against your skin. Your smile widened with both alarm and thrill, you gave a small gasp when he attempted to pull you closer. “Wh–Robby, what are you doing?”

“Oh, come on,” he said, his eyes soft like he was tiptoeing a line you each had been caressing oh so carefully these last months or so. “When are we going to get another chance to fix our crappy prom experiences?” He nodded his head at you. “Or, I guess, lack thereof.”

Instinctively, you glanced over your shoulder toward the cafeteria, your insides suddenly dancing with the nerves that someone would see you. Not that you were doing anything wrong—you weren’t, not really. Just two coworkers playfully taking part in what was supposed to be a fun night, a night for forgetting medical woes and mounting anxieties and the inescapable knowledge of what was coming. No one seemed to be paying you any mind. Everyone’s attention was on the kids… especially when the DJ switched tracks and a slower, sappy pop love song began to croon over the speakers.

Robby tilted his head to the side and you wanted to melt right there before him. “See?” he teased you over the annoying wail of the singer’s rasp. “They’re even playing our song.”

Finally, you forced your nerves back and gave a small, nervous smile, allowing him to pull you gently closer. Your free hand reached up to his shoulder. His found your waist, touching only a necessary, respectful amount. No more, no less. God, how you wished it was more. More, more, more, harder, rougher, closer, tighter. “I wasn’t aware we had a song.”

As your and Robby’s feet began to gently move—not dancing, not really, just sort of swaying yourselves back and forth—he nodded his head in what looked like defeat. “Well, if we did,” he said, “it wouldn’t be this crap.”

You laughed again. You’d been doing that a lot lately around him. Even after long, grueling shifts when all you wanted to do was curl up and forget everything bad in the world, everything that let people get so, so hurt and scarred and landed them in your trauma rooms. Despite everything, despite his own demons that flickered in his darkened gaze sometimes when no one else was looking, he still managed to make you laugh. How ironic. How perfectly and wonderfully delightful.

Neither of you said anything more. You only rocked gently back and forth, clutching each other gently, carefully, so mindful of that final line you’d been leaning across for what seemed forever now. The music carried your heartbeats as one, and, as the lyrics droned on and the beat bounced back and forth, refusing to pick a tempo, you felt yourself drifting a few inches closer. Shuffling, bringing your chest to ever so kindly press against his. In response, his hand on your waist drifted to the small of your back and encouraged you even closer, ever closer. Your fingers slipped to the base of his neck, thumb gently tracing the line of his scrub collar.

You were sure Robby was able to feel how violently your heart was pounding. There was no way he couldn’t pick up the beat–beat–beat of your frantic pulse against his own. Was his jumping, too? You couldn’t tell beyond your own, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know the answer. Your skin was lining with goosebumps and when your hips pressed to his and his grip tightened carefully around yours, you couldn’t take it any more.

“Robby…” you heard yourself murmur, just barely audible over the song beginning to wind its way toward a closing bridge. You weren’t even sure he heard you. You didn’t know if you wanted him to hear you.

But then—impossibly, amazingly, perfectly—you felt him press his lips to the top of your hair. “I know, sweetheart.”

I know, I know, I know.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think of any consequences of what you were about to do, you tilted your head up and connected your lips to his. It was short, too short, but you wanted to give him an out if suddenly you’d read everything wrong and you’d jumped too far over that line. Yet when you tried to pull away, Robby’s lips chased yours, reconnecting your mouths before they even had a chance to part. Sensations like fireworks rocketed through your veins when you realized, yes, fuck yes, he wanted it, too. You hadn’t been imagining this, you hadn’t been delusional, you hadn’t been—

Robby gave a sound from the back of his throat and pressed his lips against yours a touch harder, the hand on your back pressing you even closer to him. He wanted more. More of this, more of you. And by god, did you want to give it to him.

But you were at work. Not only at work, but at a prom for the peds kids. This was their time, not yours.

Reluctantly, you pulled yourself away and panted softly as you peered up at him. Your eyes found his through the pink and blue lighting, and, just like when you were working as a well–oiled pair of cogs in crisis, you were able to read one another’s meanings. Later. Later.

I will have you later.

Robby’s throat bobbed once in that perfect way it did, his eyes flicking over you in a way that made your heart patter. “…Let me drive you home tonight?” he said.