ItsNikkiBitch

She doesn’t need to.

Her fingers are warm and steady as they curl gently around your pulse, a habit she can’t seem to break. She tucks the blanket higher over your shoulders before you can protest.

“You’re cold,” she says quietly.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, though your voice is softer than you remember it being.

Dana hums, unconvinced, and adjusts the blanket anyway. She keeps her hand on your arm a second longer than necessary, then finally looks at Frank. Her eyes flick over his face, taking in the tension there, the way his jaw is set too tight.

“We’ll take you to the attending room,” she says. “Nice and easy.”

Frank nods. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t move. His hand tightens on the rail just slightly.

As the bed starts moving again, Dana walks alongside you for a few steps, her presence grounding, familiar. Other heads lift as you pass. Conversations trail off. A resident pauses mid-sentence. A nurse stops charting and watches you go by, concern etched plainly across her face.

No one asks what’s wrong.

No one asks how long.

They already know enough to be gentle.

The hallway stretches longer than it ever did when you walked it on tired legs, coffee in hand, complaining about another overnight. Each doorway you pass feels like a memory you don’t quite have the energy to open. The lights overhead hum softly, steady and indifferent.

You blink slowly, eyes tracking them.

“Still too bright,” you murmur.

Frank leans closer immediately. “Want me to ask them to dim it?”

You shake your head just a little. “No. I like it.”

He watches you for a beat, then nods. “Okay.”

The turn down the corridor is subtle, but Frank recognizes it instantly. His chest tightens.

The attending room.

Your attending room.

The door opens, sunlight spilling across the floor in a way that feels almost unfair. Warm. Normal. Exactly how it’s always been.

As they wheel you inside, you let out a soft breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Your shoulders ease, just slightly.

“I forgot how quiet it is in here,” you say.

Frank swallows. “You used to hide in here,” he says quietly. “Said it was the only place that felt… still.”

You smile faintly. “It was.”

They transfer you carefully, hands gentle, unhurried. Someone adjusts the pillows until your neck is supported just right. Dana steps forward again, checking the IV, smoothing the blanket, making sure nothing pulls or pinches.

Frank notices it then.

Your badge.

Clipped neatly to the IV pole.

Your name. Your photo. The edges worn soft from years of use.

He stares at it for a long moment, throat tightening, before his gaze drifts to the whiteboard.

Your name is written there in careful block letters.

Nothing else.

Under Care Team, someone has written: All.

You follow his gaze and give a small huff of a laugh. “That feels like a lot.”

Frank leans down, pressing his forehead gently to your temple. His voice is low, rough. “It isn’t.”

Dana steps back, giving you space but not distance. “I’ll be nearby,” she says softly. “Both of you. Take your time.”

She leaves the door cracked when she goes.

Frank finally pulls the chair closer and sits, but he stays perched on the edge, body angled toward you, like he might need to stand at any second. He doesn’t let go of your hand. He brings it to his chest instead, pressing it there like he needs you to feel that he’s still solid. Still here.

“You okay?” he asks, for the third time.

You look at him—your husband, still so new, still learning how to love you in the middle of something like this—and nod.

“I’m home,” you say.

And for now, that’s enough.

———

There’s a knock at the door.

Not loud. Not formal. Just a soft tap against the frame, like whoever it is already knows the answer and doesn’t want to intrude.

Frank looks up first, instinctive, shoulders tightening. His hand doesn’t loosen around yours.

The door opens slowly.

Whittaker steps inside, one hand still on the knob like he’s unsure whether to commit to crossing the threshold. He looks different without scrubs—less armored somehow—but his eyes give him away immediately. He’s already braced for this. You can see it in the way his jaw is set, the way he takes you in all at once and then deliberately looks away, like he needs a second to recalibrate.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” you answer, your voice thin but warm. “You look uncomfortable.”

That earns you a short huff of a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “That tracks.”

He steps further into the room, careful with his movements, like the space around the bed is fragile. He glances at Frank, nods once—an unspoken acknowledgment, a thank you for being here, for not leaving.

“How are you feeling?” Whittaker asks, because it’s the only question he knows how to start with.

You shrug slightly. “About how I look.”

“Still honest,” he says. “Good.”

Frank watches the exchange quietly, thumb still tracing slow circles into the back of your hand. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t move. He just stays—solid, present, exactly where you left him.

Whittaker pulls the chair closer but doesn’t sit right away. He hesitates, then finally lowers himself into it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I kept meaning to come by sooner,” he says. “Didn’t want to… crowd you.”

You tilt your head. “You wouldn’t.”

He nods, accepting that. His gaze drifts briefly to the IV pole, the badge clipped there. He swallows, then looks back at you.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I still have one of your notes.”

Frank’s hand stills.

You blink. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Whittaker says. “From that night in trauma when everything went sideways. You stayed late and rewrote my assessment because my brain just… shut down.” He shakes his head slightly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You were drowning,” you say simply. “So was I.”

He smiles faintly at that. “I kept it. Not because it was perfect—because it reminded me how to be decent when things get ugly.”

There’s a pause. The kind that sits heavy but doesn’t suffocate.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say after a moment.

Whittaker nods, eyes flicking briefly to Frank again. “Me too.”

Frank finally speaks, his voice low but steady. “Thank you for coming.”

Whittaker meets his gaze fully now. “There was never a question.”

Silence settles again, but it’s different this time. Warmer. Shared.

After a few minutes, Whittaker shifts, standing slowly. “I won’t stay long,” he says. “Just wanted you to know—” He trails off, then exhales. “You mattered. You still do.”

You smile at him, tired but genuine. “So do you.”

He nods once, presses his lips together like he’s holding something back, and steps toward the door. Before he leaves, he glances back at Frank.

“She’s in good hands,” he says quietly.

Frank doesn’t answer with words. He just tightens his grip on you, like proof.

The door closes softly behind Whittaker.

Frank leans closer, brushing his thumb along your knuckles again. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m just… glad people came.”

“They’ll keep coming,” he says immediately. “As long as you want them to.”

You squeeze his hand, eyes drifting toward the window where the light is beginning to shift.

For now, you’re still here.

And he is too.

———

There’s another knock.

This one is quieter somehow. Hesitant. Like whoever’s on the other side already knows this isn’t a normal visit and doesn’t want to get it wrong.

Frank looks up again, but he doesn’t tense the way he did before. He just waits.

The door opens and Mel steps inside.

She pauses just inside the doorway, eyes immediately finding you. Her face softens in a way that’s almost instinctive, like she’s already recalibrating herself to your pace, your energy, the moment. She doesn’t reach for you right away. She doesn’t rush the bed.

“Hey,” she says gently.

“Hey,” you answer. Your voice lifts a little for her, like seeing her pulls something warm up out of you.

Mel smiles, small and sad and fond all at once. “Dana told me you were here.”

You nod. “I wanted to be.”

She takes a few slow steps closer, stopping beside Frank. She gives him a brief look—kind, understanding, appreciative—before turning back to you.

“You look… comfortable,” she says, choosing the word carefully.

“I am,” you say. “It’s a good room.”

Mel glances around, taking it in. The light. The quiet. The badge clipped to the IV pole. Her gaze lingers there for half a second too long before she looks away.

“I always liked this one,” she admits. “Felt calmer in here.”

Frank shifts slightly, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. If anything, his grip steadies, like he’s anchoring both of you now.

Mel pulls a chair closer and sits. She doesn’t crowd you. She just leans in enough to be present.

“I heard you worked longer than you should have,” she says gently.

You huff a quiet laugh. “That tracks.”

She smiles back. “You were always bad at knowing when to stop.”

You tilt your head, studying her. “You never stopped me.”

Mel exhales softly. “No. I didn’t.” There’s no guilt in her voice—just honesty. “But I watched. I made sure you weren’t doing it alone.”

You nod. That feels right.

For a few minutes, the three of you sit in an easy quiet. Mel asks you small things—how you’re sleeping, if the light bothers you, whether you want the blinds adjusted. Frank answers some of them for you when your energy dips, seamlessly, like you’ve been doing this together for years instead of months.

At one point, Mel reaches out and smooths the blanket near your knee, a small, grounding gesture.

“You were good here,” she says finally. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightens just a little. “I tried to be.”

“You were,” she says firmly. “You cared. People felt that.”

Frank’s thumb stills against your hand.

Mel glances at him, then back at you. “I’m really glad you found each other.”

You smile, slow and tired but real. “Me too.”

She stays a little longer than Whittaker did. Long enough to tell you about a patient who asked for you last week. Long enough to let the quiet stretch without feeling awkward.

Eventually, she stands, careful and unhurried. “I’ll let you rest,” she says. “But I’m close. If you need anything.”

You nod. “Thank you for coming.”

She hesitates, then leans in just enough to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Always.”

At the door, she pauses, glancing back at Frank. “You’re doing good,” she tells him softly.

He swallows and nods. “I’m trying.”

When she leaves, the room settles again.

Frank exhales slowly, like he’s been holding something in. He leans closer, brushing his thumb along your knuckles.

“You tired?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit.

“Okay,” he says immediately. “We’ll rest.”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t stand. He doesn’t even shift in his chair.

He just stays.

And outside the room, Dana watches the door, already planning how she’s going to get him to take a break later—knowing it won’t be easy, and knowing she’ll do it anyway.

———

The room settles into a quieter rhythm after Mel leaves.

The light outside the window shifts, sliding lower, softer. The hum of the hospital continues beyond the door—muffled voices, a cart rolling past, a distant overhead page—but in here, time feels suspended. Like the world has agreed to give you a small pocket where nothing has to happen yet.

Frank stays exactly where he is.

He adjusts your blanket again, even though it doesn’t need it. Smooths the edge near your shoulder. Fixes the pillow behind your neck. Each movement is careful, deliberate, like he’s trying to make the room perfect enough that it might change something.

“You’re hovering,” you murmur, the faintest smile in your voice.

“I know,” he says. “I’m allowed.”

You don’t argue.

Minutes pass. Then more. Your eyes drift closed for a bit, not asleep—just resting. Frank doesn’t move when you do. He watches your breathing like it’s a monitor only he can read.

The door opens quietly.

Dana steps in.

She doesn’t announce herself. She doesn’t rush. She just takes in the scene—Frank in his chair, still angled toward you, your hands still linked, the room still and heavy in that particular way.

“How we doing?” she asks softly.

“Okay,” you say.

Frank nods. “She’s okay.”

Dana sets a paper bag and two coffee cups down on the counter. The smell of food fills the room, warm and grounding. Normal.

“Langdon,” she says gently. “You need to eat.”

“I’m fine,” he answers immediately.

Dana raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t moved in hours.”

“I don’t want to,” he says. His grip on your hand tightens slightly, instinctive. Possessive in a way that’s more fear than control.

Dana doesn’t push yet. She steps closer, lowers her voice. “She’s stable. She’s not going anywhere in the next ten minutes.”

Frank’s jaw tightens. “That’s not the point.”

You squeeze his fingers weakly. “Frank.”

He looks at you instantly.

“You can go get coffee,” you say softly. “Stretch. Come right back.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I’m not asking you to leave,” you whisper. “I’m asking you to come back.”

Dana watches the exchange quietly, then nods once. “Five minutes,” she says. “I’ll sit right here.”

Frank hesitates. You can see it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his eyes flick to the door and back to you like he’s measuring the distance.

“No,” he says finally. “I’m staying.”

Dana’s tone doesn’t change—but something firmer settles under it. “Frank.”

He looks up at her.

“You can’t take care of her if you don’t take care of yourself,” she says. “You don’t get bonus points for running yourself into the ground.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“I know,” Dana says gently. “That’s why I’m telling you to stand up.”

Silence stretches.

You watch him, your chest tight, your thumb brushing against his knuckles. “Please,” you say again. “For me.”

That’s what breaks him.

Not Dana. Not the coffee. You.

He exhales slowly, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “I’ll be right outside,” he says. “I’m not going far.”

Dana nods. “Good. I’ll walk you.”

He stands reluctantly, like his legs don’t quite trust him anymore. He leans down, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper.

Dana gives you a small, reassuring squeeze on the arm. “We’ll be back in a few.”

Frank lets go of your hand.

It feels louder than it should.

The door closes behind them.

The room is suddenly too quiet.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the hospital. Life continuing. Shoes squeaking on linoleum. A laugh somewhere down the hall. The world, still spinning.

You’re alone.

Only for a minute.

The knock comes softly.

You don’t even have to look to know who it is.

The door opens.

Robby steps inside.

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just stands there for a moment, taking you in. His face changes in slow motion—professional composure giving way to something far more personal. His eyes soften. His jaw tightens. He takes a breath like he’s bracing himself.

“Hey, kid,” he says quietly.

Your chest tightens at the sound of it.

“Hey,” you answer, your voice catching just a little.

He moves closer, slower than anyone else did. Like he’s afraid to rush you, afraid to break something fragile just by stepping too hard.

“They said you wanted this room,” he says.

You nod. “It felt right.”

Robby swallows. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It does.”

He pulls a chair close and sits, heavy and grounded and familiar. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You don’t need to. There are years in the silence. Hallways. Late nights. Hard conversations. Quiet support.

He finally looks at you fully. “You scared me,” he admits.

You give a tired little smile. “I’m good at that.”

“Always have been,” he says, but there’s no humor in it. Just affection. Worry. Something dangerously close to grief.

His eyes flick to the badge clipped to the IV pole. He stares at it longer than anyone else did.

“They never took that down,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t let them,” you admit.

Robby nods slowly. “Good.”

He leans back in the chair, hands clasped loosely, studying you like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he knows he’s running out of time and hates that he can’t do anything about it.

“You did good here,” he says finally. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightens. “I just wanted to help.”

“You did more than that,” Robby says. “You belonged.”

The door stays closed.

Frank isn’t here yet.

For now, it’s just you and Robby.

And the room feels smaller. Heavier. Like it knows what’s coming.

Robby doesn’t fill the silence the way other people do.

He lets it sit between you like it belongs there—like quiet is something to respect, not fix.

The light from the window has shifted while you’ve been alone. It’s warmer now, softer, slanting across the floor in a long stripe that doesn’t quite reach the bed. Dust floats through it in slow motion, catching and disappearing again. The IV pole stands just to your right, steady and upright, your old badge clipped to it like a stubborn little declaration.

Robby’s gaze keeps circling back to that badge.

Not because it’s unusual.

Because it’s you.

He clears his throat once, the sound small in the stillness, and folds his hands together in his lap. His posture is familiar—grounded, contained, like he’s holding himself in place. Like if he moves too abruptly, something inside him might crack wide open.

“You comfortable?” he asks at last, voice low.

You blink slowly. “Yeah,” you whisper. “As comfortable as I can be.”

Robby nods, eyes dropping briefly to your blanket, the way it rises and falls with your breath. He watches it like he’s counting. Like he’s learning the rhythm of you all over again.

“Dana told me you wanted to come here,” he says.

“I did.”

His mouth tightens slightly, not disapproving—just heavy with understanding. “Why?”

You take a breath, and it’s smaller than you want it to be. You feel the effort of it in your ribs, the way your body has started negotiating with you over every movement.

“Because it’s… home,” you say, and the word comes out softer than you expected. “Not more than Frank. Not more than—” You swallow. “But this place… it made me who I am.”

Robby’s eyes flicker up. “It already did that.”

You shake your head, just slightly. “No. Not until… after.”

He knows what you mean. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze drifts for a moment like he’s looking backward through time.

After your dad.

You shift your head on the pillow, trying to find a more comfortable angle. Robby notices immediately, leaning forward as if he’s going to adjust the pillow himself, then stopping. Letting you do it. Letting you have control over your own body, even now.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the blanket. “I didn’t get to say thank you,” you whisper.

Robby’s brows knit. “For what?”

You let out a faint breath that almost sounds like a laugh but isn’t. “Don’t do that,” you murmur. “You know.”

He goes still.

For a long moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the hospital and the soft, steady click of the IV pump. The silence isn’t empty. It’s packed tight with memory.

You look at him. Really look. The lines at the corners of his eyes. The familiar steadiness in his face that used to make you feel like you could survive anything as long as someone like him existed in the world.

“When my dad died,” you say quietly, each word careful, like you’re placing something fragile on a table. “I didn’t know how to be a person anymore.”

Robby’s throat bobs as he swallows.

“He was… everything,” you continue, voice thin but unwavering. “We were attached at the hip. It was always us. Always. People would joke that we came as a set.” You blink, eyes stinging, and the ceiling blurs for a second. “And then one day there was just… me.”

Robby’s hands unclasp. His fingers flex once, like he wants to reach for you and is stopping himself out of sheer restraint.

“I was sixteen,” you whisper. “I remember standing in the kitchen after the funeral and thinking, okay. This is it. This is what life is now. Like… the world ended, and everyone else just kept living in it.”

Robby leans back slowly, his shoulders settling as if he’s absorbing the weight you’re handing him. His eyes shine, but he holds it in, the way he always has.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” you say, voice trembling. “You didn’t know me. You weren’t—” You swallow. “You weren’t family. You weren’t obligated.”

Robby’s mouth tightens again, and this time it’s a fight. His voice comes out rougher than before.

“I wasn’t going to let a kid drown,” he says.

The words land in your chest like a warm, painful thing.

“I remember,” you whisper, “how you came to his room after… after it was clear. After they told us. You didn’t talk like a doctor. You didn’t do that thing where people say the right words but they’re not really there.” Your fingers curl tighter around the blanket. “You just sat with me. For hours.”

Robby’s gaze drops to your hands. He nods once. It’s small. Controlled.

“You asked me what his favorite music was,” you continue, the memory vivid enough that it sharpens your voice. “And I told you. And you… you put it on. Quiet. Like you were making sure he didn’t have to leave in silence.” Your breath wobbles. “I will never forget that.”

Robby blinks hard. “I remember the playlist,” he murmurs. “You had… everything on there. Every song he ever liked.”

You give the faintest smile. “I did.”

“And then,” you say softly, “after he was gone… you kept checking on me.”

Robby’s eyes lift to yours.

“You would come by when you didn’t have to,” you whisper. “You’d ask if I’d eaten. If I was sleeping. You’d tell me to take my coat off inside because it was soaking.” You swallow again, throat tight. “And I hated it. At first.”

That earns a quiet, surprised huff from him. “Yeah?”

You nod weakly. “Because it felt like if I let you… take care of me… it meant he was really gone. Like I was letting someone else step into a space that was his.” Your eyes sting. “I thought it was disloyal.”

Robby’s expression softens in a way that hurts to look at. “It wasn’t disloyal,” he says, voice firm. “It was survival.”

You stare at him for a moment, chest tight.

“You made it survivable,” you whisper. “You filled that empty hole without ever trying to replace him.”

Robby’s breath catches. He looks away toward the window like he needs distance from the words. Like they’re too intimate to hold in direct eye contact.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

Then Robby clears his throat again, and when he looks back, his eyes are wet.

“You know,” he says slowly, carefully, “I thought about your dad a lot after that.”

Your lashes flutter. “You did?”

Robby nods. “Yeah. Because of you. Because you—” He pauses, lips pressing together as he searches for the right words. “You carried him with you. In everything. The way you talked. The way you… fought for people. The way you refused to give up on anyone.” His voice roughens. “You didn’t just lose him. You made him… continue.”

Your breath trembles. “That’s all I wanted.”

Robby watches you, and something in him shifts. A decision. A surrender.

“And that’s why,” he says quietly, “when Langdon came to me…”

Your head turns slightly. Your eyes narrow just a fraction. “When Frank came to you?”

Robby nods once, slow. “Yeah.”

A faint, tired laugh slips out of you. “He did?”

Robby’s mouth twitches. “He did.”

You blink, surprised enough that it cuts through the heaviness for a second. “I didn’t know that.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Robby says softly. “He was… very serious about it being private.”

Your chest tightens, the tenderness of it spreading through you despite everything. “Tell me,” you whisper.

Robby exhales, long and slow, like he’s opening a door he hasn’t walked through in a while.

“It was after a shift,” he begins, voice steady but careful. “Late. The kind of late where the fluorescent lights start to feel like they’re buzzing inside your skull. You’d gone home early that night—you were tired. You’d been tired a lot, but you were still pretending you weren’t.” His eyes flick to yours. “You always tried to hide it.”

You give the smallest shrug. “I didn’t want anyone hovering.”

Robby’s mouth tightens. “Yeah. Well. He didn’t care.”

He pauses, letting the memory settle into the room.

“He waited until the hallway was mostly empty,” Robby continues, “and then he came into my office like he’d been rehearsing it. He didn’t sit down. Didn’t pace. Just stood there, shoulders squared, looking like a man about to walk into a storm.”

Your lips part slightly. You can picture it too well.

Robby’s voice drops, reverent in a way that makes your throat ache. “He said, ‘Dr. Robby— I need to ask you something.’”

Robby looks at you again, eyes bright.

“And before I could even tell him to relax, he says—” Robby swallows. “He says, ‘I’m going to ask her to marry me.’”

Your hand shifts faintly on the blanket, ring catching the light.

Robby’s voice softens even more. “And then he adds—like it’s the most important part— ‘I’m asking for your blessing.’”

Your breath catches.

Robby’s gaze drifts down, as if he can still see Frank standing there. “He didn’t say it like a courtesy. He said it like he meant it. Like he understood exactly what you’d lost. Like he knew what that aisle meant.” His mouth tightens. “He told me he wasn’t trying to replace your father. He said—” Robby’s eyes squeeze shut for half a second. “He said he just wanted to love you in a way that didn’t dishonor what you already had.”

Tears gather faster now, hot in the corners of your eyes.

Robby continues, voice rough. “He asked me what your dad was like. Not in a vague way. In a… he-wanted-to-know-him way. He asked what kind of music he liked. If he was the type to dance at weddings. If he would’ve cried.” Robby lets out a small, broken laugh. “I told him yes. I told him your dad would’ve cried before you even got to the altar.”

You laugh softly through the tears, because it’s true.

Robby nods, eyes wet. “Then he just… stood there. Quiet. Like he was picturing it. Like he was trying to imagine him there.” He swallows. “And then he said, ‘I know I’m not him. I know I can’t be. But I want to be the kind of man she can look at and feel safe.’”

Your voice comes out small. “He did that?”

Robby nods. “He did.”

You blink hard, chest heaving with the tenderness of it.

“And then,” Robby says, and his voice shifts into something deeper, more personal, “after you got engaged…”

You already know what he’s going to say. You feel it coming like a wave. Your fingers tighten around the blanket again, ring pressing into your skin.

Robby’s expression softens painfully. “You came to me.”

Your lips tremble. “Yeah.”

“You asked me to sit down,” Robby murmurs. “And you were shaking so hard you could barely hold the coffee cup. You kept trying to talk and you couldn’t get the words out.” His eyes glisten. “You cried before you even asked.”

You close your eyes briefly, the memory vivid enough to make your stomach twist. “I didn’t think I could do it,” you whisper. “I didn’t think I could walk without him.”

Robby nods, slow. “You said you swore you’d never get married because there was no one worthy enough to walk you down the aisle.”

A tear slides down your cheek.

“And then,” Robby continues, voice breaking just slightly, “you looked at me and you said, ‘I want you to.’”

He swallows hard.

“You asked me to walk you down the aisle,” he says again, quieter, like repeating it might make it less real. Like it still doesn’t fit in his hands.

Your eyes open, shining. “I wanted you to know what you meant to me.”

Robby’s breath trembles. “I didn’t know what to do with it at first,” he admits. “I just… stared at you. Like an idiot.” He laughs softly, broken. “And then you said— ‘I don’t have my dad anymore. But I have you. And I need you there.’”

You nod, lips trembling. “I did.”

Robby’s eyes fill. “I told you yes,” he whispers. “And I went home that night and I sat in my kitchen for an hour and I cried so hard I scared myself.”

You let out a shaky breath.

Robby wipes at his face quickly, as if embarrassed by the evidence, though he shouldn’t be. “I kept thinking,” he murmurs, “this is what fathers get.This moment. This honor.” His voice cracks. “And I didn’t deserve it.”

You shake your head immediately, weak but urgent. “You did.”

Robby looks at you, and something in him softens further—like you’ve reached into him and touched a place no one else has ever been allowed to.

“You want me to tell you about the day?” he asks, voice low.

Your breath catches. “Yes,” you whisper. “Every detail.”

Robby nods slowly, like he’s bracing himself to walk back into it.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, kid.”

He shifts in his chair, leaning forward, forearms on his knees. His eyes go distant, seeing another room, another time, another version of you—healthy, glowing, laughing. A version he still holds somewhere in his chest.

“The morning of the wedding,” he begins, voice soft, “I woke up earlier than I needed to. Couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking— don’t mess this up. Like I was walking into surgery.” He lets out a breathy, painful laugh. “I put on the suit and I checked myself in the mirror and I swear to God I stood there practicing how to look… normal.”

You smile through tears. “You’re not normal.”

Robby huffs. “No. I’m not.”

He lifts his gaze to you again, and his voice drops into something almost reverent.

“And then I saw you.”

Your chest tightens.

“You were in that room—” he gestures vaguely, like he can still see it, “—and you were in your dress, and you looked…” He swallows hard, eyes shining. “You looked like someone’s daughter. Like someone’s whole world.”

You inhale shakily.

Robby’s voice trembles. “You had that picture of your dad in your hands. The one you kept in your locker for months. The one you told me you couldn’t stop looking at when you got scared.”

Your fingers twitch faintly on the blanket.

“You pressed it to your chest,” Robby continues, “and you whispered something to it. I didn’t hear what. But I knew.” His voice cracks. “I knew you were talking to him.”

Tears spill down your cheeks now, slow and unstoppable.

Robby sits there with you in it, not rushing you, not pulling you out of it. He just stays, the way he always did.

“And when it was time,” he murmurs, “you looked at me and you said, ‘Don’t let me fall.’”

You choke softly. “I remember.”

Robby nods. “I told you, ‘I won’t.’ And I meant it.”

He takes a long breath.

“I offered you my arm,” he continues, voice steadying as he pushes through, “and your hand was shaking when you took it. Not because you were scared of getting married. Because you were… missing him.” He swallows. “And for a second, right before the doors opened, you started crying. Quiet. Like you were trying not to ruin anything.”

Your voice is barely audible. “I thought I would.”

Robby’s eyes soften. “You didn’t. You were beautiful. You were brave.”

He pauses, letting the memory settle, letting you breathe.

“When those doors opened,” he says, voice hushed, “and the music started… you lifted your chin like you were walking into something you deserved. And I—” He chokes, clears his throat. “I felt like… for that moment… you really were mine.”

A sob breaks out of you—small, helpless.

Robby’s face crumples. He blinks hard, tears spilling now, uncontained. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, wiping at his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, voice shaking. “Don’t you dare be sorry.”

Robby shakes his head, laugh and cry tangled together. “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he admits. “To have someone look at you like you’re… their father.”

You reach weakly toward him. Your hand doesn’t go far, but it’s the intention that counts. Robby leans forward immediately and takes it, folding your fingers gently into his palm like he’s holding something precious.

“I never said it out loud,” you whisper. “But you were.”

Robby’s breath shudders.

“And then,” you say softly, because you need it said, because you need it remembered, “the father-daughter dance…”

Robby’s eyes close briefly, pain flooding his expression.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah.”

He takes a long breath, steadying himself.

“You danced with his picture first,” he says quietly, and his voice breaks. “You held it to your chest and you swayed by yourself, right there in the middle of the floor, and everyone—everyone—just watched.” He swallows hard. “And it didn’t feel awkward. It felt… right. Like you were giving him his moment.”

You nod, tears still falling.

“And then,” Robby continues, voice barely above a whisper, “you came to me.”

He looks at you, eyes red, raw.

“You took my hand,” he murmurs, “and you said, ‘Okay. Now you.’”

He squeezes your fingers gently.

“And I stood up,” he says, and a tear slips down his face, “and I walked onto that floor with you, and for those three minutes—those three minutes—” his voice cracks completely, “I didn’t feel like a doctor. I didn’t feel like a coworker. I didn’t feel like anything but—”

He can’t finish.

You whisper it for him, voice shaking.

“Dad.”

Robby’s face crumples. He bows his head over your hand, pressing his forehead to your knuckles like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I didn’t know I could love someone like that,” he whispers, voice broken. “And I didn’t say it then. I should have.”

You breathe, exhausted but steady.

“You’re saying it now,” you whisper.

Robby lifts his head slowly, eyes wet, and looks at you like you are the closest thing to a miracle he’s ever been trusted with.

“I love you,” he says, finally, plainly, like a truth he can’t keep inside anymore.

The words settle into the room like sunlight.

Your breath catches, and your voice comes out small, wrecked, relieved.

“I always knew,” you whisper.

Then, with all the tenderness you have left, you say it again—softly, devastatingly—like you’re giving him a title you’ve carried in your heart for years.

“Dad.”

And the room breaks with the weight of it.

Robby doesn’t pull away from you right away.

He stays where he is, forehead still resting against your knuckles, breath uneven, like he’s trying to relearn how to exist in his body. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are red, stripped of every professional wall he’s ever built.

“I never married,” he says quietly.

The words aren’t heavy with regret. They’re just… honest.

“I never had kids,” he continues, voice steady in the way it gets when he’s stating a fact, not a wound. “Never even came close.” He gives a small, almost apologetic shrug. “This job—” He glances around the room, the walls, the light, the place that has taken more from him than it’s ever given back. “—this job was always enough. It mattered. It felt important. It felt like what I was supposed to do.”

You watch him, breathing carefully, like every inhale is a negotiation now.

“I told myself I didn’t need anything else,” Robby says. “That wanting more would just… complicate things.” His mouth tightens. “And most days? I believed that.”

He looks at you again then. Really looks at you.

“And then you came in,” he says.

Your fingers curl faintly against the blanket.

“You walked through those doors with your dad,” Robby continues, voice lowering, slipping back into memory. “You were trying to be brave. I remember that. Trying not to cry. Trying to understand words no one your age should’ve had to hear.” He swallows. “And when it became clear he wasn’t going to make it… you didn’t fall apart the way people expect.”

You close your eyes briefly.

“You stayed,” he says. “You sat there and you held his hand like you were afraid that if you let go, the world might take something else from you too.” His voice wavers. “And somewhere in that moment—somewhere between explaining things I didn’t want to explain and watching you try to be older than you were—” He exhales. “—you became mine.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t plan it,” Robby says quickly, like he needs you to understand. “Didn’t decide it. It just… happened.” He shakes his head faintly. “I started looking for you in the halls. Making sure you were eating. Making sure you weren’t skipping school. Making sure you didn’t disappear.”

A small, sad smile tugs at your mouth. “You were terrible at pretending it was professional.”

He huffs softly. “Yeah. I was.”

Robby leans back in the chair, hands clasped together now like he’s grounding himself. “I never had a picture of you in my wallet,” he says, voice quieter. “No school photos. No birthdays. No scraped knees to patch up.” He pauses, then adds softly, “No bedtime stories.”

Your chest aches.

“But I had you,” he continues. “Showing up. Growing up. Becoming someone who didn’t just survive loss, but carried it with grace.” His eyes shine again. “I watched you choose this place. Choose this work. Choose to stay.” He swallows. “And I realized—too late, probably—that this was what having a kid felt like.”

Tears slide slowly down your temples into your hair.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whisper.

“I know,” Robby says. “That’s why it mattered.”

Silence settles, thick and sacred.

Then—softly, almost imperceptibly—the door opens.

Neither of you looks at it right away.

Frank steps inside without a sound, coffee untouched in his hand. He stops just inside the doorway, taking in the scene: Robby sitting close, your hands still linked, your face wet with tears, the air in the room heavy with something fragile and real.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Robby senses him before he sees him.

His shoulders tense. He glances toward the door and freezes when he realizes Frank has heard—maybe not all of it, but enough.

“Oh,” Robby says quietly, already shifting in his seat. “I— I was just—”

Frank sets the coffee down gently, like even the sound of it touching the counter might be too much. “It’s okay,” he says, voice low. Careful. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Robby stands immediately, instinctive. Protective. “I’ll give you some time,” he says. “I didn’t realize—”

Frank steps forward a half step. “Please don’t.”

Robby pauses.

Frank looks at you then, searching your face for permission, for guidance, for something solid to stand on.

Your eyes meet his.

You nod. Just once.

Robby exhales slowly, the fight leaving him all at once. He sits back down, this time a little farther from the bed, giving Frank space without leaving.

Frank moves to your other side, taking your free hand carefully, reverently, like he understands now that this isn’t a competition. It’s a circle.

Robby clears his throat, eyes wet but steady. “I was just telling her,” he says quietly, “that she was the closest thing to a child I ever had.”

Frank’s grip tightens gently around your hand.

“I know,” he says simply.

And for the first time, the room holds all three of you —

husband, father, and the woman who loved you both enough to leave a permanent mark.

———

The room grows quieter in a way that isn’t tied to sound.

It’s subtle at first—just a soft thinning of the air, like something essential is slowly withdrawing. The light outside the window dims another shade as the sun slips lower, stretching the shadows across the floor.

Your breathing changes.

Frank notices immediately.

It’s not dramatic. Not sudden. Just… different. Slower. Shallower. Like your body is making decisions without consulting you anymore.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning closer. His thumb stills against the back of your hand. “Hey. You still with me?”

Your lashes flutter. You open your eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—they’re startlingly clear.

“I am,” you whisper. Your voice is thin, but steady. Certain.

Robby straightens slightly in his chair, professional instinct rising even as his chest tightens painfully. He watches your breathing, your color, the way your fingers curl faintly in Frank’s grasp.

“You’re okay,” Frank says, more to himself than to you. “You’re doing okay.”

You turn your head just enough to look at Robby. Your gaze lingers there, soft and full.

“I’m glad,” you whisper, “that it was you.”

Robby swallows hard. “Me too, kid.”

You smile faintly at that.

Then you look back at Frank.

Your husband.

Still new. Still learning how to be you and Frank, even now.

“I don’t want you to be afraid,” you say quietly.

Frank’s jaw tightens. “I’m not.”

You lift your eyebrows just a fraction. You know him too well.

“It’s okay if you are,” you murmur. “Just don’t think it means you didn’t love me right.”

His breath stutters. He presses his forehead briefly to your knuckles. “You were loved,” he whispers. “You were— you are—”

You squeeze his hand weakly.

“I got everything,” you say. “I really did.”

The room holds its breath.

Robby leans in slightly, eyes locked on your face. He reaches out, resting two fingers gently against your wrist—not to measure time, not to intervene. Just to be with you.

Your breathing slows.

One breath.

Then another.

Longer between them now.

Frank’s chest tightens painfully. “Hey,” he whispers again, panic edging closer now. “Hey, sweetheart—”

You don’t respond.

Your next breath is shallow. Quiet.

Robby feels it before he sees it.

He waits. Just a second longer than the doctor in him wants to. Just long enough to be sure.

Then he looks at Frank.

Frank is already shaking his head, eyes fixed on your face, like if he refuses to look away you might come back.

“She’s gone,” Robby says softly.

The words land gently—but they still break something.

Frank makes a sound that doesn’t resemble a word. He presses his forehead to your hand, shoulders caving inward as the truth finally reaches him.

Robby reaches forward and stills the IV pump. Turns off the monitor.

The room goes silent.

No alarms.

No rush.

Just stillness.

Robby straightens the blanket carefully, smoothing it up over your chest, like he’s done a thousand times for patients—and exactly once for someone he loved like this.

“I’ll… give you some time,” he says quietly.

Frank doesn’t answer.

Robby hesitates, then rests a hand briefly on Frank’s shoulder. It’s steady. Grounded. The last thing he can offer in this room.

He steps out and closes the door softly behind him.

Frank stays.

He doesn’t move at first. Just sits there, forehead pressed to your hand, like his body hasn’t received the update yet. Like it’s still waiting for you to breathe again.

When the reality finally hits, it hits all at once.

His shoulders shake. A sound tears out of him—raw, broken, uncontrolled. He collapses forward, gripping the edge of the bed like it’s the only thing keeping him from disappearing with you.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he sobs. “I don’t— I just—”

The room absorbs it. Holds it. Doesn’t interrupt.

Down the hall, Robby walks on autopilot.

He doesn’t stop until he finds an empty room—dark, unused, the blinds half-closed. He shuts the door behind him and leans back against it, breath coming too fast now, chest tight and aching.

He makes it three steps.

Then his legs give out.

Robby slides down the door and collapses onto the floor, one hand clutching at his chest like he’s trying to hold his heart together.

The sob that tears out of him is guttural. Animal. Nothing like the quiet control he’s lived inside for years.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, though he doesn’t know who he’s saying it to. “I’m so sorry.”

His shoulders shake violently as he cries—head bowed, body folding in on itself, grief pouring out of him in waves.

Not a doctor.

Not a mentor.

Just a man who lost his daughter.

Tim is silent the entire drive, but you think you saw his hands moving to the beat of “I See the Light.” When you drive under the iconic Disneyland sign, he sighs heavily and reaches for his wallet.

“Here,” you offer, showing him the parking pass on your phone.

“How is it the ‘happiest place on earth’ if it’s also the most expensive place on earth?” Tim wonders.

“Are you going to be like this all day?” you joke, poking his arm.

He only sighs again, then pulls into your preferred parking structure. You’re not entirely sure why he agreed to come with you on your day off, but you’re glad he’s here, even if he does act grumpy all day.

“What are those?” Tim asks when you pull two sets of Mickey ears from your bag.

You pinch your brows, then reach for Tim’s forehead. He jerks away from you before removing a hand from the wheel to swat you away.

“If you can’t tell that these are ears, you may be really sick, Bradford,” you continue, squinting at him. “Do you know what year it is? Do you remember me?”

“I remember now why I should have said no to your invite,” he grumbles.

You smile as you push the headband behind your ears. Tim refuses the ears you brought him but doesn’t argue when you take his hand to walk into the park. He’s a complicated guy. Complicated yet predictable, because the moment you reach the security checkpoint, he’s complaining. You know – or at least hope – that it’s an act. If he truly didn’t want to come with you, he wouldn’t have.

“What do you like about it so much?” Tim asks on the tram.

“About Disney?” you check. Tim nods, so you explain, “Disney is like… It’s a chance to be a kid again. Or for the first time for far too many of us. There’s joy and laughter, and, yes, it’s expensive. But, to me, it’s almost like a glimpse into what life should be.”

Tim doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t get sarcastic about how life isn’t supposed to be ten-dollar churros and hour-long lines to ride something for three minutes. He simply nods, then allows you to take his hand as you approach Cinderella’s castle. His shoulders drop slightly, his eyes on you rather than the wonderland before him.

Tim follows you inside, trailing a half-step behind you to keep you in sight. Your first stop, you already told him, is the Mark Twain riverboat because the early morning serenity is like a slice of heaven in the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.

While on the boat, your bag shifts on your back, but you don’t worry about it, trusting that Tim is doing something. When he returns to your side, he has the ears on. Rather than speaking and testing your luck, you just smile and inch closer to him.

“What would you like to ride?” you ask after your morning with Twain ends.

“Whatever you want,” Tim answers.

“C’mon, Tim, I can’t do everything today. Pirates of the Caribbean is right there, Galaxy’s Edge is the other way. You have to pick.”

“I’m wearing the ears,” he argues. “That’s enough.”

You hum, then inquire, “Want some sugar?”

“What?”

You point to a snack cart, and Tim shakes his head.

“It’s 8:30 a.m.,” he points out.

“Tim, act like you’re seven years old, okay? What do you want to do?”

Tim sighs yet again, then gestures to the snack cart. He’s softening, not arguing as much and actually participating, but you have no idea why.

The lollipop you get is the size of your face, but you immediately thrust it into Tim’s hand. “Smile,” you instruct as you raise your phone.

He hesitates briefly, then raises the lollipop and smiles. You immediately make the picture your home screen, wondering how long it will last before Tim forces you to delete it.

After wandering through the park for a few hours, riding what you want and getting snacks despite Tim’s insistence that it would be cheaper to just get a meal, you find yourself in Galaxy’s Edge.

“Why is it blue?” Tim asks.

“Because it’s Blue Milk,” you say flatly. “It’s… it’s not bad. There’s also Green Milk.”

“Rebel activity reported,” a stormtrooper says, stepping to your side.

“Reported?” you repeat. “Not me. No order without the First Order, you know?”

He nods, then moves around you to see Tim. “We’re keeping an eye on you,” he says.

“Ooh, Tim, what will Sergeant Grey think?” you taunt.

The stormtrooper’s helmet swings toward you, then he nods once. “Stay sharp,” he adds as he steps back. “This area is crawling with resistance fighters.”

Tim rolls his eyes, then returns to your side.

“Favorite ride so far?” you inquire.

“Smuggler’s Run,” he mumbles.

“I knew it!” you cheer. “I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you know me and Disney. What next?”

“Up for a carousel break and then we can get some food?”

“You’ve been eating all day.”

“It’s Disney.”

Tim shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he walks beside you. The line for the carousel isn’t long, mostly parents with kids.

“’Scuse me,” a young girl says, tapping your leg.

“Sorry, sorry,” her mother calls.

“It’s okay,” you assure her.

“Is your husband Prince Charming?” the girl inquires, her Minnie Mouse ears crooked as she tips her head to look up at Tim.

His eyes widen, his mouth moves but no words come out. You smile and bend your knees to lower to the girl’s level.

“He is,” you answer softly. “And guess what?”

“What?” she squeals excitedly.

“He’s everything I dreamed of.”

She bounces excitedly, waves at Tim, then returns to her mother’s side. Her mom sighs and mouths Thank you, to which you nod.

“You alright?” you ask Tim.

“Yeah, just, um- you- and then she- and you said, um,” he replies incoherently.

“You have questions? About what I said?”

Tim nods.

Placing your hand over his heart, you lean toward him and answer, “Not until you act like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Tim licks his bottom lip, then reaches out to straighten your ears. “Whatever the princess wants.”

“Ooh,” you sigh, still in Tim’s space. “Good answer.”

Dana snorted and Robby’s lips twitched. They lasted about thirty seconds before you were all laughing. “Gifting Goblins?”

“Eh,” you said with a shrug. “Why not?” Noting you’d drawn the attention of several people around the hub you took the opportunity to make an announcement. “As you know Gloria said no Secret Santa this year.” You ignored the boos that went up from various staff members. “So you all get to be Gifting Goblins. You know the drill. Draw a name, make sure it’s not yours, then cross yourself off the list and take a sheet. First gift due by the second. If you do not get a gift by the second, please let me know. Don’t be an asshole and flake. Final gifts by New Year’s Eve this year.”

You placed everything on the counter and stepped away to let them have at it. The Pitt gift exchange was simple. Just do nice things for your fellow staff member throughout the month. A minimum of four little gifts though most usually did more, even if it was bringing a coffee in or whatever. The goal was to keep your identity a secret until the final gift. You set up a mailbox in the lounge where gifts could be left if so desired.

You pretended not to see Perlah and Princess exchanging names. You were supposed to keep the name you drew but people were always switching.

“Uh, question,” Trinity Santos said rocking on her feet in front of you.

“What’s up?”

She showed you the paper with Garcia’s name on it. “I thought it was for the emergency department only.”

You nodded. “With a couple of exceptions. Namely Garcia and Walsh. Did you want to trade with someone? Technically you’re not—”

“No,” she said quickly cutting you off. “This is fine. Really.”

“Good.” You gave her a small smile and patted her shoulder when she turned to go with a bounce in her step.

“Matchmaking again?” Robby asked, voice tinged with humor.

“And just how am I supposed to have manipulated what names people draw out of a bag, Robinavitch?”

He shrugged. “If anyone could it would be you.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and narrowed your eyes at him in annoyance. He just smiled at you. Idiot.

“What did you do now, Robby?” Jack Abbot’s question announced his presence.

You couldn’t stop the smile that crossed your face at the sight of one of your favorite people. “He’s accusing me of being able to control who picks what name.”

Jack looked affronted on your behalf. “You take that back. She would never.”

Robby just made a sound of half-hearted agreement and wandered off to check on a patient.

“Brat,” you muttered under your breath.

Jack chuckled and you turned to find him scanning one of the info sheets for the gift exchange. “Gifting Goblins?”

“I wasn’t about to let Gloria kill our favorite tradition around here.”

“Good for you, sweetheart.”

It was an hour into the night shift when Shen approached Jack. “Abbot, I want New Year’s Eve off.”

Jack glanced up from the chart he was looking  at. “Take it up with Robby. He’s in charge of the scheduling, you know that.”

Shen rocked back on his heels. “I thought you might like to cover for me.”

Jack fully turned his attention to the other man. “And why would I want to do that?”

“Because I thought you might want to trade names,” Shen said and held up the piece of paper he’d drawn with your name on it. “She’s also covering for Lena that night.”

“Done,” Jack said, snatching the paper before handing over his own with Robby’s name on it.

“Awesome.” John smiled wide, gave Jack a nod and moved on to his next patient.

On December 1, Jack trudged into the ED at 18:45. Winter had arrived in Pittsburgh with a vengeance and his right leg was aching from the cold. He nodded greetings to those he passed on his way to store his bag then he headed for the breakroom. Coffee first, then handoff to see what fresh hell awaited him tonight.

The room was mercifully empty and Jack made a beeline for the coffee pot. It appeared to have been freshly brewed and he smiled a little as he poured himself a mug. His gaze drifted over to the mailboxes you had set up and his smile widened at seeing items in several of them. You tried so hard to make this a success every year and it always made you happy to see how into it people got.

Then he realized that his own box had something in it. Coffee temporarily forgotten he moved over to see what he’d gotten. A plain brown sack sat inside, his name written on the outside in block letters. He lifted it out and after confirming he was still alone, peeked inside.

Inside sat a dozen individual packets of trail mix, the expensive kind that were more nuts than filler. It was the blend he liked that had three different kinds of nuts, pumpkin seeds and dried cranberries. Lots of Omega 3 and protein. And tucked beneath them were half a dozen of his favorite protein bars. Not the brand he typically bought because they were cheaper and easier to find, but the ones he had to get from that one store across town.

Jack stood frozen, staring at the contents. It was such a simple gift but so specifically tailored to him that someone must have been paying attention to him. Very close attention.

“Well played, goblin,” he muttered to himself, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through his chest. He tucked one protein bar into his pocket for later and took the rest to his locker to stash away from greedy hands. The night shift hadn’t even started and it was already shaping up better than expected.

You arrived for your shift on the second with a bit of a bounce in your step. Everyone should receive their first gift by the end of the day. You hadn’t received anything yet, but that wasn’t unusual. When you arrived, you checked the list you’d left by the mailbox for everyone to check off that they’d received their first gift. Usually, you didn’t have to worry about anyone flaking after the first one.

There were a couple of names still to be marked off but a quick glance showed items for them in the mailboxes. But nothing in yours. You shrugged, there were hours left on your shift yet.

You didn’t think much more of it until you entered the breakroom at the end of your shift and still found nothing.

Oh.

It wasn’t like you could be your own Secret Santa Gifting Goblin. You sucked in a breath and straightened your shoulders. That was okay. Most of the fun for you was watching everyone else get doted on. And buying for your own recipient.

One of the benefits of running the exchange was you were in charge of making the name slips for everyone that signed up. And if Jack’s name happened to find it’s way into your pocket in the process, well, that was your business.

It wasn’t like you’d been planning your gifts since summer or anything. October maybe, but not before then. That would be pathetic.

You slid the strap of your bag further up your shoulder and headed toward the doors. You ran into Jack on your way out.

He stopped to greet you. “Hey. How was your shift?”

“The usual,” you said with a shrug. “No surprises waiting for you.”

“Good, good.” He nodded. “Get your first gift from your goblin?”

You did your best to maintain a neutral expression. “Oh yeah, a couple of days ago, already took it home.”

Jack frowned, his brow furrowing.

Before he could say anything, you gestured toward the door. “I should go. I need to run by the store tonight.”

“Yeah, sure. Be careful,” he said stepping aside.

“See you tomorrow,” you called over your shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind you.

Jack watched you retreat, his frown deepening. Then he spun on his heel and headed straight for the hub where Robby was chatting with Dana.

“Hey,” he interrupted, “were any flowers delivered here today?”

Robby and Dana exchanged a glance.

“Flowers?” Dana repeated. “Not that I saw.”

“Definitely no flowers,” Robby confirmed. “Why? You expecting some?”

Jack swore under his breath and pulled out his phone. “They were supposed to be delivered at noon. I confirmed it twice yesterday.” He scrolled to find the florist’s number, punching it with more force than necessary.

“This is Jack Abbot,” he said as soon as someone answered. He was lucky they were open late. “I placed an order yesterday for delivery to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center emergency department. Winter arrangement with red and white roses. It was supposed to arrive at noon today.” He paused. “Yes, that’s the recipient and the message for the card. No, it absolutely did not arrive. No, I don’t want a refund, I want the flowers delivered as promised. She starts work at seven tomorrow morning. As soon after that as you can, the earlier the better. Yes, I’ll hold.”

As Jack waited, Robby’s face split into a wide grin. “Flowers, huh?”

Jack glared at the pain in the ass he called a best friend. “Shut up, Rob.”

“Roses, too. Pretty elaborate for a gift exchange,” Robby continued undeterred. “Most people just go with candy or coffee. Maybe a gift card.”

“I said shut up.” Jack turned slightly away as the florist came back on the line. “Yes, I’m still here. First thing tomorrow, and I expect a substantial apology note attached. Yes. Fine.” He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

“So,” Dana drawled, “whose name did you say you drew?”

Jack gave her a flat look. “I didn’t.” He turned to Robby. “Let’s do handoff so you can get out of here.”

The next morning, a delivery person came through the main doors of the ED carrying a large arrangement of red and white roses exploding from a frosted glass vase, interspersed with pine branches, silver painted twigs and enough sparkly accents to make a showgirl jealous. A large note card dangled from the front with your name on it above, Sincere apologies from Allegheny Flower Shop.

“You can set those here,” Dana told him, clearing a spot on the counter for the flowers before calling your name over her shoulder. “Should have known he had her as soon as he said flowers,” she muttered to herself.

You appeared from around a curtain, eyes going wide. “Are those for me?”

Dana hummed in agreement and handed you the card. You opened it to find an apology from the flower shop along with a message that said: from one goblin to another.

You grinned then turned the vase so you could take in the entire arrangement. “They’re so pretty,” you said softly, your eyes getting suspiciously moist.

“Is something wrong?” Cassie asked as she came to stand beside you and smell the flowers.

You shook your head quickly. “No. It’s just…no one’s ever bought me flowers before. Not like this.”

“Never?”

“Nope.” You ran a finger over one of the rose petals. “One boyfriend said, and I quote ‘it wouldn’t have occurred to him’. Another didn’t see the point because they just die anyway. You get the idea.”

“You have shit taste in men,” Cassie observed.

You snorted a laugh. “Look who’s talking.” You buried your nose in the arrangement, inhaling deeply, eyes closed in pleasure. “These smell amazing.”

Across the room, Robby casually lifted his phone and snapped a photo of the moment, you surrounded by flowers, your happiness evident in the wide smile on your face. His thumbs moved quickly across the screen as he sent it to Jack.

Mission accomplished. She loves them.

Over the following days, Jack continued to find small, thoughtful gifts in his mailbox. One day was his favorite candy, another was a printout of a journal article about advances in prosthetic technology he’d been meaning to read but hadn’t found the time for. Then he’d gotten a vinyl Penguins decal for his new truck.

The next morning found him meeting a delivery driver at the bay doors to get the coffee he’d ordered for you. He sat the cup on the counter as he dug around in the drawer for a marker to write your name on it.

Finally locating a Sharpie, he reached for the cup only to find it missing. He looked up fully to see Robby taking a sip, his face immediately contorting into a grimace.

“This is not your usual order,” Robby said, staring accusingly at the cup.

Jack stared at him. “That’s because it was a gift, Robinavitch.”

Robby’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh. Oh shit.” He looked sheepishly at the cup then back to Jack. “Sorry, man. I only took one drink of it.”

Jack shook his head. “I am not giving her your backwash coffee, Rob.”

“It was barely a sip. And it’s still hot. She’ll never know,” he protested.

“I’ll know,” Jack replied flatly, taking the cup from Robby’s hand and dropping it in the trash with perhaps more force than necessary.

“That’s like eight bucks you just wasted.”

“Worth every penny to not be the guy who gives backwash coffee as a gift,” Jack retorted. He glanced at his watch. Not enough time to get another one delivered.

Robby rocked back on his heels. “So…Gifting Goblin duties not going as planned, huh?”

Jack gave him a look that would have silenced most people. Unfortunately, Robby was not most people.

“I’m just saying if you simplified things a bit, you probably wouldn’t have as many issues,” he continued cheerfully.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Jack asked.

Before he could respond, you appeared. You spotted Jack and your face brightened. “Hey! How was your shift?”

Jack sighed, giving you a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was fine. No problems at all.” He shot a warning glance at Robby who looked suspiciously close to smirking.

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” you said. “I’m sure you want to get home.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, grabbing his bag. “Have a good shift.”

You smiled and disappeared down the hall.

“Better luck next time, Romeo.” Robby patted his shoulder.

Jack briefly considered whether punching a colleague would get him fired, decided it probably would, and settled for accidentally stepping on Robby’s foot instead.

A couple of days later, Jack’s eyes trailed you as you walked into the ED to begin your shift. He waited until you ducked into the breakroom for your morning cup of coffee and followed you. Your back was turned to the door as you checked your mailbox. He stepped over to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee he wouldn’t drink.

“No way,” you said excited.

Jack glanced over his shoulder to see you smiling wide as you held the three books he’d given you to your chest. “Well, someone seems happy,” he said, turning to lean against the counter.

You turned to him with an expression of pure delight. “These have all been on my wish list for ages. And there’s a gift card to my favorite coffee shop.” You ran your fingers over the cover of the top book. “This is too much. The flowers were already—”

‘The point is to enjoy it,” Jack said, surprised by the softness in his own voice. He cleared his throat. “I mean, someone obviously thinks you deserve it. Don’t fret so much.”

You nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Yeah, you’re right.” You grinned at him. “I guess me and one of these books have a date at my coffee shop on my next day off.”

Jack felt a wave of satisfaction. He’d gotten it right. You were happy and he’d made that happen. He watched as you headed out to start your shift, a new bounce in your step. He waited until you were out of sight before allowing a small, satisfied smile to cross his face.

Twelve hours later, after completing handoff with Robby, Jack headed into the breakroom to get his coffee and check his box. A colorful bag was stuffed into his box and he veered over to check it. It was much heavier than he expected when he pulled it out, colorful tissue paper exploded from the top.

He glanced inside and his eyes went wide. His hand closed around the neck of a bottle and he pulled it out. A fifth of a high-end spiced rum, the kind he’d mentioned was his favorite once during a staff outing. Beside it was something soft and fuzzy. Jack reached in again and emerged with a stuffed parrot. It was bright blue and yellow with an elastic band on one foot, clearly designed to perch on someone’s shoulder.

Frowning now, he reached into the bag one more time and extracted a black eye patch. Jack stared at the items on the table in front of him. Rum. Eye patch. Parrot. The joke landed a second later and he completely lost it.

A bark of laughter escaped him, followed by another and suddenly he was collapsing on a break room chair, shoulders shaking with mirth. He’d just received a complete pirate kit to go with his ‘peg’ leg.

It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of humor he appreciated but most people were too afraid to direct at him.

“Jack? Are you okay in here?” Robby’s voice preceded him into the breakroom. He stopped short at the sight of Jack wheezing with laughter, tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

“What is so funny?” Robby asked, then noticed the items on the table. “Is that…is your goblin calling you a pirate?”

Jack, still unable to form words, simply nodded and pushed the items toward Robby who ran a hand down his face in exasperation.

“Isn’t this a little insensitive?”

This only sent Jack into another fit of laughter. He wiped tears from his eyes, finally regaining enough composure to speak. “Who cares? That’s funny as fuck.”

Robby looked uncertain. “You’re not offended? You don’t even know who gave it to you.”

“Why would I be?” Jack picked up the parrot and patted it on the head. “This is the first time anyone at this hospital has made a joke about my leg without immediately looking like they wanted to die afterward.”

He attached the parrot to his shoulder and held up the rum. “This is good shit, too. Not some cheap garbage.”

Robby hummed in thought. “They seem to really get you.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. They really do.”

The gift exchange continued with little trinkets. You discovered a handcrafted leather bookmark in your box embossed with your initials. Jack found a dark blue scarf made of the softest material he’d ever felt the day after he’d complained about losing his old one.

Each small token seemed more thoughtful than the last. A travel mug that kept coffee hot for hours appeared in your box after you’d spent a shift complaining yours was always cold by the time you got a chance to drink it. Jack received a small bottle of high-end curl oil that smelled like cedar and citrus.

Every gift was a message. I see you. I notice what matters to you. I’m paying attention.

One evening Jack limped slightly as he made his way into the hospital, the cold seeping into his joints and making his prosthesis feel like it was attached to a block of ice rather than his leg. Three straight nights of a winter cold snap had left him irritable and hurting more than he cared to admit.

He needed hot coffee desperately and headed toward the breakroom as soon as he took the handoff from Ketterman, the day shift attending. His box contained several items and Jack made his way over, looking forward to his evening brightening just a bit. He needed it tonight.

He pulled the items out one at a time. Two different types of unscented ultra-moisturizing lotion—the specialized kind meant for amputees that wouldn’t be greasy or leave any sort of residue. A small tube of nerve pain cream that he recognized as the medical grade variety. His fingers hovered over the items, a lump forming in his throat.

These hadn’t been grabbed from some drugstore display. These were specific products selected with knowledge and care. The kind of products he used but rarely discussed because he hated to acknowledge that vulnerability, that weakness.

Someone had noticed. Someone had seen him wince when the weather turned, maybe caught him massaging his residual limb during a quiet moment on shift and instead of politely ignoring it as most people did, they’d actually thought about what might help.

Jack swallowed hard, running his thumb over the label of the nerve cream. It was his preferred brand, the one that actually worked when phantom pain kept him awake at night. They had to have researched the best one because he knew for a fact he’d never mentioned that to anyone.

Something soft, folded into a square sat in the box behind where the lotions and cream had been. He lifted out what appeared to be a t-shirt. He shook it open and as the design came into view, his emotional moment shifted into unexpected laughter.

The shirt was white with a simple illustration. A cat was lying under a rainbow with text that read I’M FUCKING FINE. THE REST OF YOU NEED THERAPY.

It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The dark, cynical humor he appreciated mixed with the surprisingly thoughtful leg care products. Whoever his goblin was they understood both parts of him. The part that hurt and the part that used humor to cope with it.

He stashed everything in his locker except the shirt which he put on under his scrub top. A smile played at his lips every time he remembered what was written across his chest as the night wore on.

The next morning, when Robby arrived to take over Jack was waiting at the hub.

“You look like you’re in a suspiciously good mood,” Robby commented, setting down his coffee. “Nothing major overnight?”

“Surprisingly quiet,” Jack confirmed with a shrug then grinned. “Want to see what my goblin left me?”

Robby raised his brows. “Sure, but if it’s an actual peg leg I’m calling HR.”

Jack glanced around to make sure no patients were nearby, then pulled up his scrub top to reveal the shirt underneath.

Robby leaned in to read it and then his face split into a grin. “Oh my god.”

“Right? It’s fucking perfect.”

“Your goblin is deranged,” Robby declared, shaking his head but still smiling.

“Isn’t it great?” Jack asked, letting his scrub top fall back into place.

“Suits you,” Robby admitted. “Though I’m pretty sure Gloria would have an aneurysm if she saw it.”

“Just another service I provide,” Jack replied, gathering his things to head home. His leg still ached, but somehow it bothered him less today.

You were pulled directly into a trauma when you arrived for your shift the next day and it took a couple of hours before you could even grab a coffee, never mind checking the boxes.

Inside yours was something rectangular wrapped in simple blue tissue paper. It was heavier than you expected as you pulled it out and laid it on the table. You unwrapped it carefully, then froze in disbelief. Inside was a set of navy blue Figs scrubs. Brand new in exactly your size.

“Oh no. That’s entirely too much,” you said aloud, running your fingers over the buttery-soft fabric.

Cassie entered the breakroom, peering at your gift and letting out a low whistle. “Holy shit. All I got was a McDonald’s gift card.”

You blinked, still staring at the scrubs and said absently, “You love McDonald’s”

Cassie grinned. “I know, but not more than Figs.” She reached out to feel the fabric, lifting the top to look underneath. She chuckled. “They got you the jacket, too. That’s a mint right there.”

Your stomach dropped. “I can’t keep these. That’s far too much.”

“You absolutely can,” Cassie argued. “You aren’t giving these back. I won’t let you.” She nudged your shoulder. “Just enjoy it. Someone obviously wanted you to have them and is using the exchange as an excuse.”

“But there’s a limit.”

“There is not. Not officially.” When you hesitated, she continued. “Look, if your goblin wants to spoil you, that’s their business. Don’t ruin their fun by being noble.”

Your fingers were still tracing the soft fabric. “They are really nice.”

“And they’re practical. It’s not like they got you diamond earrings or something. These are for work. You’ll wear them literally all the time.”

You considered this, a slow smile spreading across your face. “They are pretty amazing.”

“Exactly. Now try them on and tell me if I need to be more jealous than I already am.”

Two days later, you arrived for your shift in your new navy Figs. They fit perfectly, professional but flattering with just enough give to be comfortable during a twelve-hour shift. You felt good in them, and judging by Cassie’s exaggerated pout when she saw you, you looked good too.

“Not fair,” she grumbled. “But I did have a fantastic breakfast sandwich this morning.”

As you headed to the nurse’s station to check in, you passed Jack and Robby finishing up their handover. Jack’s sentence trailed off mid-report as he caught sight of you. His eyes tracked from your shoulders down to where the perfectly tailored pants met your shoes then back up again. A small, appreciative grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Morning, gentlemen,” you said, heat flooding your cheeks at his obvious appraisal.

“Morning,” Jack replied, voice a touch lower than normal. “New scrubs?”

You nodded.

“They look…” Jack paused, choosing his words carefully. “Professional.”

Robby snorted. “That’s not what your face just said, but okay.”

Jack shot him a look then turned back to you. “They suit you.”

“Thank you,” you replied.

A moment of silence stretched between you until Robby cleared his throat dramatically. “And on that note, we have patients to see and Jack has a home to go to. Right, Jack?”

Jack nodded, still looking at you. “Right. Have a good shift.”

As he walked away you caught yourself watching his retreating form wondering if you were imagining the extra attention and really hoped you weren’t.

The ED on New Year’s Eve was always busy. Drunks with varying degrees of alcohol poisoning and injuries from falls, a steady stream of car accidents as the night progressed and the inevitable chest pains from people who overexerted themselves shoveling snow.

As the night progressed, the department filled with the typical casualties but the staff maintained a festive atmosphere despite the chaos. Several people had brought in finger foods that were set up in the lounge and Jack had brought in several bottles of sparkling grape juice.

He kept watching the clock. Not because he was eager for the shift to end, but he wanted to make sure he gave you your gift before midnight. He couldn’t stand you thinking you’d been forgotten again.

At 23:45 during a brief lull, Jack found himself at the hub where you were updating a chart.

“Hey, got a minute?” he asked.

You looked up with a smile. “For you? Maybe even two minutes.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up in response. From his pocket he withdrew a simple white envelope. “It’s more an IOU than a gift,” he explained as he handed it to you.

“You were my goblin?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’ve already done too much, Jack. I don’t need anything else,” you argued.

“Just open it.”

You carefully opened the seal and pulled out a simple white card with snowflakes embossed on it. Inside were the words Dinner for two at Del Frisco’s.

For a moment you simply stared at it, then you looked up with wide eyes. “That’s really too much.”

He shook his head. “It’s not. But I’d like to be the one to take you.”

The statement hung in the air between you for a long moment.

“Like…” You trailed off as you searched his face.

“Like a date,” he confirmed, a quiet confidence in his tone that thankfully failed to betray the rapid beating of his heart. “You can say no of course, but I’d love it if you didn’t.”

A slow smile spread across your face, transforming your tired features into something that made Jack’s chest tighten. You reached into your scrub pocket and pulled out your own envelope, holding it out to him with a grin.

“What’s this?”

“Your final Gifting Goblin present, Dr. Abbot,” you replied, eyes dancing with mischief.

“You were my goblin?”

You nodded and warmth flooded him at the thought that it had been you that so perfectly captured him with your gifts.

He tore open his envelope with considerably less care than you’d shown yours. Inside were two tickets to the Carnegie Museum of Natural History.

“You remembered,” he said softly, looking at the tickets with genuine surprise. He’d mentioned that the museum was one place he hadn’t been that he really wanted to see in the city. Once. Months ago.

His eyes met yours, a pleased smile forming. “Two tickets, huh?”

You matched his smile as you echoed his earlier words. “Yeah. I’d like to be the one to take you. You can say no of course, but I’d love it if you didn’t.”

Jack’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sweetheart, that sounds like a date.”

“It is.”

From down the hall someone began counting down to the new year. Others quickly joined in.

TEN! NINE! EIGHT!

Jack moved around the counter placing one hand on the back of your chair, the other on the desk as he leaned into your space. “So, museum first, then dinner? Make a day of it?”

SEVEN! SIX! FIVE!

“That sounds perfect,” you replied, eyes locking onto his.

FOUR! THREE! TWO!

He traced the line of your face with the back of one finger before leaning closer as shouts of ONE went up.

“Happy New Year, baby,” he said, lips brushing yours before he closed the distance.