It wasn’t intentional, at first. The notes were mostly functional—reminders about groceries, schedules, patients one of you needed to follow up on. But they bled into softer territory quickly. Encouragement. Sarcasm. A shared language built in 3x3 squares of neon.

Good luck today. You're a miracle in scrubs. (check the leftover lasagna before you thank me. It’s kind of a war zone in there) I love when you sing along to the radio in the shower. I wasn’t singing. The shower was. Sure

By month two, there was an entire corner of the fridge reserved for them, layered like scales, curling at the edges.

Some mornings, he’d stumble out of bed to find his thermos with a note taped to the lid:

Be nicer to Whitaker. He’s trying.

Other nights, Robby would get home late and find one on his pillow:

Welcome home. You smell like hospital. I’m still glad you’re here. I love you.

He’d stand there for a moment, reading the words, the weight of the day falling off his shoulders. You’d be asleep by then, curled up on your side, hair slightly mussed from the pillow, the soft rise and fall of your breath the only sound in the room.

He’d lean down, brushing a kiss to your temple, careful not to wake you—but still, you’d smile, faint and sleepy, like your body knew he was near even before your mind did.

Sometimes, he’d whisper something only the walls could hear—missed you today or you’re everything—then set his phone to silent, take a shower, and crawl in beside you, the note tucked into his journal.

The ritual became a comfort. A constant. Something grounding when the days were long and the shifts were brutal. When you barely saw each other except in passing, there were always the notes.

Until the day you had the worst shift of the year.

It had been back-to-back traumas. A code blue that didn’t end well. A young patient who reminded you too much of someone you used to know. You didn’t cry, not in the moment. Not until you got home, peeled off your coat, and saw the Post-It on the inside of the fridge:

Soup’s in the fridge. Eat first. Then fall apart if you need to. I’ll be home before midnight – M.

You’d pressed your thumb over his name like it could hold you together. Ate the soup. Didn’t fall apart.

Not until you saw the follow-up note stuck to your pillow:

You don’t have to be strong for me. Just be.

You left your reply in the bathroom mirror, scribbled while brushing your teeth:

I love you. (also, we’re out of toothpaste)

He never brought it up. Just replaced the toothpaste. Kissed your forehead like it was all part of the same conversation.

One morning, months later, Langdon accidentally opened your lunch container in the fridge and found a note stuck inside:

Remember to eat. (yes, I know you will forget) This is me pretending to be surprised ~OoO~

Langdon had stared at it. Then took a picture. Then texted Dana, who texted McKay, who dragged Collins into it.

By the time your shift ended, the entire department was in on it.

You returned from rounds to find a Post-It stuck to your locker:

If he doesn’t marry you, I will. - Dana

Robby’s handwriting appeared below in green ink:

We’re taking applications for flower girls - Robby

Collins passed you in the hallway and grinned. “Power couple energy.”

McKay gave you a thumbs-up and said nothing. Langdon winked. Mel smiled shyly. 

You shook your head, embarrassed but smiling. Your heart full.

You never asked how they knew.

You didn’t need to.

It was a Wednesday night when Robby found you standing in front of the fridge, rereading the corner where you kept them. The notes were a riot of color—blue, yellow, green, pink—some faded, some brand new.

He stepped behind you, sliding his arms around your waist. Rested his chin on your shoulder.

"You keeping all of them?"

You nodded. "Even the one where you said the leftover stir fry was cursed."

"It was cursed."

You leaned back into him. "I like them. All of them."

"Even the stick figure one where I drew you doing a laparotomy with laser eyes?"

You laughed. "Especially that one."

He was quiet a moment longer. Then whispered, "I’ll keep writing them. For as long as you’ll let me."

You turned in his arms and kissed him, soft and slow.

"That better be a promise, Robinavitch."

"Sticky note vow," he whispered.

Joan had just gotten back from Kurt's cabin, and she was teasingly denying you any info on the Sunnyvaler. You thought your night was gonna be spent drinking, smoking, teasing Joan, and pining over the slashers of the horror movies you'd brought until the stupid capture the flag game was over. Hell, you were positive Kurt didn't even know that you'd snuck a portable TV and your VCR. You'd already guessed that Shadyside was going to lose, and you weren't exactly looking forward to helping pick up the campers morale. You mean, that's what Tommy and Cindy were for, right?

You didn't think you were going to end up running barefoot through the woods in your pajama shorts and top, chasing Joan and fleeing an axe-wielding killer. An axe-wielding killer named Tommy Slater. Virgin, Mr. Responsible, good-boy Tommy Slater. The same Tommy Slater that had carried your suitcase, but had only arched a brow as to why it was so heavy. The same Tommy Slater that picked up the slack whenever you and Joan decided to goof off. The same Tommy Slater that you thought was a total babe, even before he had blood all over his face.

You and Joan made a sharp left behind some of the brush, and you both crouched as low as you could. You tried to quiet your breathing, both of you holding hands over your mouths. You were scared out of your wits, your mind running a mile a minute, and you were also- God, you knew you were fucked when you thought that guy from that new Halloween movie was hot, and when you'd fantasized about the caller from Black Christmas. You were famous for your love of horror movies, with some of the kids, some of the asshole Sunnyvale kids, nicknaming your cabin 'the Witch's Cabin'. Yeah, those kids were so creative.

But this, even for you, was a new low. This wasn't a stupid movie where the killer was about five inches big on your screen, and the blood was nothing more than corn syrup. This was real.

You peaked your head out from the brush, looking all around you in the dark. You didn't see anything, but you weren't going to be stupid. You looked all around to make sure, studying the dark for any sort of movement. As quietly as she could, Joan whispered,

"Is he gone?" And you nearly wanted to throttle her. God, if this was a horror movie, she'd already be dead. Still, you answered her.

"I think so." You said. You didn't see anything, couldn't see anyone. You sighed, leaning your head back against the tree. Joan did the same, before she nudged you in the side,

"How's that for a horror movie?" She said, and you scoffed out a laugh. You were still taking deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down from more than just adrenaline.

"I was just thinking about that actually," You started. Joan was one of your closest friends, and definitely the closest at Camp Nightwing. You knew you could tell her anything, so you didn't hold back and said, "Is it bad that I'm turned on right now?" You asked her, and she laughed. She laughed. The sound was loud in the dark, and it didn't matter if she slapped a hand over her face to muffle the sound. You already heard a twig snap. You stared at eachother, eyes wide, and then you heard another. He was coming closer, slowly. But, he didn't know where you were. It wasn't like he didn't have the entire night to find out, however.

You were both frozen, staring at eachother as you tried to think of what you could do. You could stay here and hide, and hope that he didn't find you. Or, you could run and hope to outrun him. Both didn't seem like great options, and like at least one of you would end up getting axed.

Well, there was one way to help you decide. You motioned for Joan to keep quiet, and carefully peaked out from your hiding place. There, a few feet away and facing away from you, was Tommy. Strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, handsome face, and tall figure with arms for days. Completely drenched in blood, just like his axe.

And, god, did a horrible idea strike you the second you saw him.

Maybe it was your lingering attraction towards him, or the fact that you were completely fucked in the head. But, you thought of a way to at least have Joan escape. You gave her hand a squeeze as you slid back behind the tree, and you looked at her. Silently, you mouthed,

"I have an idea." And she watched in shock as you moved to stand up. She was quick to shake her head and grab your wrist. She copied you, and silently mouthed,

"Are you crazy?" And you didn't say anything back. In your head, however, you thought, Completely. But, Joan was slow, and she was high. She'd need a headstart, and you had thought of one that you were sure, one way or another, would give her time. And, while you'd never admit it, this was sort of a dream come true. So, you just mouthed,

"When I go, you run. Head towards the mess hall, and stay low." And you hadn't given her time to convince you otherwise. You stepped out from behind the tree, and you walked towards Tommy's figure. He was looking around, looking for you guys in the wrong place. His back was turned and his steps were small as he searched for any signs of you before he picked a direction.

Typical Tommy, you thought. He was smart. He saw things as they were and he approached things with an even mind. He wouldn't run in random directions, especially if he was searching for you. He was also kind and understanding, or, at least, you thought he'd been. Sure, there were a few times when you watched him get frustrated. But, he always immediately acted like everything was fine, like nothing ever bothered him. And the same Tommy had chased you with a bloody axe. Part of you didn't want to admit that the moment you opened the door and saw him like that was a moment where you thought he'd looked hotter than any before. That you were more attracted to him now than you had been in the past few months. And what exactly were you hoping would happen? That virgin Tommy Slater would decide he'd rather fuck you then chop you up? Well, a girl could dream, but that didn't mean you had to test to see if it would actually happen.

That was the last bit of your internal monologue, and fear bubbled up inside you when you realized you were right behind him. You'd been ducking behind trees and hiding whenever he looked around for you, but this was it. You were right behind him. It was now or never and it was better for you to move first instead of letting him. God, this was a stupid idea, you thought.

You reached out, and tapped his shoulder. He jumped, and swung around. Before he could even think to swing the axe in his hands, you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. You yanked him forward as hard as you could, and you clamped your lips down on his.

And this was about the end of your plan. You kissed him hard, willing him to kiss you back. To not decide to throw you on the ground and chop you up. Even if the fear of it all was making the heat in your belly grow. You ignored the taste of blood on his lips, the dried feeling of it on his face as you ran a hand over his cheek.

Tommy was surprised, or you figured he was. He completely froze for a solid second, his lips unmoving and rigid under yours. It made panic strike through you, and you pulled back. Distantly, in the back of your head, you thought that maybe you should start running.

Instinctively, you shuffled your feet back when he dropped the axe, but Tommy was grabbing you. He grabbed you by your shoulders, and he slammed you against the tree towards your left. It knocked the breath out of your lungs, but Tommy was holding you by the throat and capturing your lips before you could breathe.

Your head was swimming, from both the lack of air and from the fact that your plan had...worked? Either way, you didn't have much time to think about it. His mouth was on yours, his kiss deep and passionate despite his lack of experience. His tongue was even sliding into your mouth and making the fire in your stomach roar to life. You reached to grip his shoulders and pulled him closer, locking a leg around his hip to keep him close. Tommy let out a moan from the way the front of your pants brushed together, and you let out a squeak when your feet were suddenly off the ground.

You knew Tommy was strong. You'd seen him roll logs around camp, split firewood, and grab those twenty pound bags of flour two at a time off the top shelf with ease. Still, it hadn't prepared you for him to lift you up and wrap your legs around his waist.

He pressed you hard against the tree, rolling his hips against yours and moaning into your mouth at the friction. The noise sent a shiver up your spine, and you dug your nails into his shoulders when you felt the rough fabric of his jeans rub against you through the thin layer of your pajama pants. You let out a whine, and you could practically feel Tommy tense at the sound.

His hands moved, trailing down from where they held you up at your thighs to your ass. He gripped the flesh, kneading it in his hands and squeezing hard enough to make another sound escape you. If you didn't know any better, you'd say Tommy liked the sounds you made.

He pressed his hips against yours once more, before he jolted you up to hold you with one hand and the combined support of the tree. When taking his pants off with only one hand proved to be too difficult, the redhead dropped you. You had to catch yourself, and your ears were filled with the sound of a zipper. So much for foreplay, you thought, just as Tommy spinned you around to pin your front against the tree.

You had to catch yourself again, and you gripped the bark as you felt the chilly night air where your shorts and underwear had just been. His warm hands replacing the fabric that'd been on your hips, and the thick head Tommy's cock pressed against your entrance.

Your mouth fell open as you felt him start to press inside. He was thick, thicker than you thought he'd be. There was a moment of pain as he pressed past your tight ring of muscles, but the slickness between your legs was enough to ease the slide. Your eyes practically crossed as you braced yourself on the tree, the man behind you filling you up inch by inch. You let out a choked sound as he thrust himself the rest of the way inside, his arms wrapping around your waist and his head buried into your shoulder. He was deep. So deep you could practically feel him in your bones. You tried your best to relax, but you couldn't help but clench around him. You could hear his heavy breaths, his panting as he canted his hips forward. As if he was trying to get deeper.

And then you felt one of his hands reach up and tangle into the roots of your hair, and his warmth left your back.

Whatever grace period he'd given you was over. You felt the slide of him pulling back, and then him thrust his hips so hard it practically punched a moan out of you. He fucked you slow and hard, his hand gripping your hair and yanking it whenever he felt like it.

You had to use one of your arms to keep yourself from being pressed up completely against the tree, and the other hand you bit on to try to muffle your cries.

He gripped your hip, tugging you back to meet every thrust. The slap of skin against skin was all you could hear, accompanied by the sound of how wet you were for him. He ran his hands all over you, reached under your shirt to palm the mounds of your chest, twisted your nipples between his fingertips to give them a nasty tug. He mouthed at the back and side of your neck, his breathing heavy in your ear as he gripped and grabbed you however he liked. And it just made you wetter and wetter. All he had to do was adjust his hips, change your position in just the slightest way, and you nearly fell from how hard your legs twitched. It was like an explosion of pleasure up your spine the feeling of him hitting your g-spot. You let a cry of,

"Fuck!" And he paused for a moment and he- Laughed? You could hardly believe the sound. It was a deep chuckle, an almost proud sound, before he resumed a pace that made his previous one seem languid. His hips moved fast, hitting the spot over and over again so you had no relief. And, it took an almost embarrassingly short amount of time for you to feel that coil tightening inside of you.

You grabbed the tree in front of you, trying to anchor yourself as Tommy ruined you. You could feel yourself getting closer and closer, each thrust pushing you further and further towards the edge, until you finally said,

"I'm gonna cum! I'm gonna- fuck, I'm cumming," It was nothing but babble, and Tommy didn't slow. Even as your walls tightened and clenched around him, he didn't stop. He wrapped his arms around your front, reaching up to grab you by the throat, and pressed you flat against the tree. He thrust deep, until every inch was inside you and rolled his hips so you could barely think. You could feel the hot gush of his cum inside you, filling you up and drenching your insides, and Tommy thrusting through it. He came right with his mouth by your ear, so you could hear every sound he made. Every pant and hitch of his breath as he milked himself inside you. And, when he finally stopped, when he finally had enough, he pressed a kiss to your ear and pulled away from you all at once.

You fell. Without his support, you had no strength to catch yourself. Your legs felt like jelly, and your bones felt loose. You landed on your knees, and you tried to catch your breath as Tommy did nothing to help you back up. He put himself back in his underwear, zipped his pants back up, and buttoned them. You managed to find your pajama shorts and underwear, and you watched him as he flicked his hair from his face. Before he leaned down to get his axe. He picked it up, holding it with both hands, and you watched him warily. You were in no condition to run, so the only thing you could do was watch him as he came back over to you.

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