Just Being Me

Y/N could safely declare that none of the men she’d gone out with in the past even came close to measuring up to Robby. He’s punctual to the millisecond, an overflowing river of compliments, and she hasn’t touched a single door handle when they’re together since they started dating. Perhaps it was the increase in age from her previous partners, perhaps it was just her finally finding the right guy, but either way, she’d been gifted a real gentleman and she had no intentions of regifting him anytime soon.

And therein lies the problem; Robby was a little too gentlemanly, and it was starting to drive her crazy. In the nearly six months they’d been together, the farthest they’d gone was making out on one or the other’s couch like horny teenagers, because Robby would always stop before things could escalate, claiming he wanted to respect her.

Not that Y/N was fully complaining, because Robby’s an EXCELLENT kisser and has had her melting into a puddle in his lap and underneath him on multiple occasions. But she wanted more than fevered kisses and over-the-clothes touches, and while she certainly appreciated him being respectful, she could see in his eyes that he craved her, and she wanted to be disrespected. In the bedroom, anyway.

She told the girls (plus Dennis) this when she was a couple glasses of rosé deep during Girls’ Night at Trinity and Dennis’ place, and all of them were shocked. Trinity nearly choked on her margarita and said, “Wait, you’re saying that you and Robby have been going out for almost half a year, and haven’t boned even ONCE?!?!”, while leaning against the back of the couch, which made Y/N cringe at her choice of phrasing.

She said, “I hate the wording of that and would prefer literally any other colloquialism, but no, we haven’t had sex yet. He always stops right at second base. Says he wants to ‘be respectful’,” using finger quotations and pitching her voice down as low as she physically could to mimic Robby’s gravelly tone to the best of her ability before taking another sip of wine, an eye roll punctuating her statement.

Dennis offered Y/N the big bag of pretzels from his spot on the floor in front of her. “At least he respects you. Can’t say that about most guys our age. Maybe he’s trying to be mindful of your age gap and power dynamic,” he suggested, trying to play Devil’s Advocate, and was met with murmurs of reluctant agreement from Victoria, Mel, and Samira. 

Trinity scoffed, “Oh, whatever, Huckleberry. I’ve seen the way he looks at her from across the ED. If that man doesn’t want to eat her alive, I’ll eat my stethoscope,” and chugged the rest of her drink to make her point.

Samira swirled her vodka cran in her cup where she sat cross-legged in front of the ottoman and added, “Yeah, I have to agree with Trin here. Jack was the same way before we started sleeping together. He wanted to be respectful of the age gap and the attending-resident thing and all that shit, but once the dam broke, he–” 

“Railed you into the next millennium and hasn’t stopped since?” Trinity cut her off, making Victoria let out a squeak of disbelief into her Dirty Shirley and Mel turn bright red behind her can of ginger ale.

Y/N cackled out loud, and Dennis murmured, “Jesus, Trinity…” into his Monster can. 

Samira nodded in resignation. “Yes, that. But I had to really lay it on thick to get it through his head that I didn’t care about any of that. It probably helped speed things along when I wore that red dress to the bar,” she added, taking a sip of her drink to hide her smirk.

“Oh, the mesh one?! Yeah, I’m surprised he held it together long enough to get you out of there. I thought he was gonna traumatize some poor bar patron just trying to use the bathroom,” Trinity chuckled, making Y/N cackle harder at the memory of Jack’s face when he first clapped eyes on Samira in that dress, and how quickly he proceeded to nearly throw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes to get her out of the bar. 

Mel quietly said, “I just told Frank I wanted to have sex, and that was that,” which made everyone’s head whip over to her as she casually sipped from her can with a shrug.

Y/N rolled her eyes and said, “Well, Frank is just like that. He needs to be led directly to what you want, he can’t clock a subtle hint worth any type of damn. I’m allowed to say that, he’s like my brother. It’s why you two work so much better together than he and Abby did, she was always trying to do those mind game things on him and then get mad when he couldn’t figure it out. He can’t comprehend indirectness, and she never understood that,” chugging her wine to wash the bitter taste of the words from her mouth.

Mel nodded. “That makes sense. But like Samira said, you might have to lay it on a lot thicker for Robby than you have been. Him and Abbot are weirdly very alike, so you may have to take a similar path to show Robby you want more than just making out, even if you still like the making out. Wait… do you?”she asked, making Y/N throw her head back with a groan. 

“Holy shit, yes! My brain practically melts out of my ears every time! But I can’t help but wonder how mindblowing actually having sex with him would be if just making out with him leaves me dumber than a brick.”

Victoria drummed her fingers on the coffee table, and asked Y/N, “What were you gonna wear to the next bar outing?”

“My floral halter top and jeans probably, why?”

Victoria shakes her head with a wrinkled nose. “Nope, not gonna cut it, we need to take you shopping. If you want Robby to get his head out of his ass and finally crack you like a walnut, you need something that’ll knock him on his ass first.”

Trinity let out a pleased hoot. “Damn, Crash, didn’t think you had those vocab words in you! But yeah, we need to make you look so hot that Robby won’t be able to ignore how badly he wants you anymore.”

The others nodded their assent, Y/N shrank into herself a little bit. “Are you sure I can’t just spell it out for him?”

Samira leaned forward in her seat and said, “Angel, at this point, I think you have to show him exactly what he could have been getting his hands on this whole time.”

Mel said, “Have you tried telling him before?”, and Y/N nodded sheepishly as she realized what was being insinuated: if telling Robby she wanted to have sex hadn’t worked before, it probably wouldn’t start working now.

Mel patted her thigh matter-of-factly. “Well, I guess that settles it. Next girls’ night is a shopping trip!”, earning joyous whoops from the gathered ladies (and Dennis).

Once the all-important shopping trip had occurred and Y/N found herself in possession of a dress that could barely be called that, Trinity’s plan (which had been dubbed “Operation Get Angel Laid”) was put into action.

Step 1: Make sure Robby was planning on attending the next Pitt group outing to the bar. Easy enough, considering all Y/N had to do to convince him to go was smile at him and ask him nicely (Victoria says he’s “down horrendous” for her, and she isn’t wrong).

Step 2: Insist on getting ready with her friends at Trinity and Dennis’ and carpooling to the bar to keep The Dress™ a surprise. Also easy, because Robby was well aware that Y/N loved the ritual of getting ready for a night out with friends and would be an utter fool to try and convince her otherwise, so he was perfectly happy to meet her there.

When it came time for Step 3 (Walk into the bar and make her boyfriend’s brain melt out through his ears), Y/N found herself suddenly very self-conscious of what she was wearing, but with the combined power of Trinity’s gentle egging on (and another glimpse at Robby’s text of “See you soon, Angel”), she gathered her courage and walked through the front door of the bar like she owned the place.

Meanwhile, Robby was sitting at the bar with Jack and nursing a bourbon on the rocks while he waited for Y/N and the others to arrive. Jack said, “I’m just saying, brother. The way she looks at you is nothing short of ravenous. How have you not given her what she clearly wants yet?”, which made Robby’s face scrunch up in resignation and embarrassment before he said, “It’s… complicated,” while staring into his glass.

Jack stared at him incredulously, and was about to give a snarky retort, but then his eyes landed on the door and who was among the group of people walking in. Instead he let out a whistle and murmured, “Brother, you are absolutely fucked,” with a shit eating grin on his face, making Robby wrinkle his eyebrows at him in confusion.

He turned around to see what he was looking at while saying, “What are you talking ab-...?”, but the words died on his tongue when he saw Y/N, because he was, in fact, absolutely fucked. Her hair was pulled into an elegant french twist, her makeup was done to perfection (no doubt Trinity’s handiwork), and once he processed what she was wearing, he almost fell off his barstool.

A black mini dress with a silk skirt hugged her hips and upper thighs, then the rest was made of sheer mesh save for a built-in bandeau made of the same fabric as the skirt so as to not reveal her breasts to everyone in the bar, yet he could still see the upper swells and a generous amount of cleavage.

A black leather jacket hung over her arm and strappy black stilettos adorned her feet, and he was sure he turned beet red when she turned around to do a head count and he saw that the back of the dress was equally as sheer as the front.

Jack clocked Robby’s reaction almost instantly, and he quipped, “Godspeed, Robinavitch,” before clapping him on the shoulder and walking over to Samira, who smiled and kissed his cheek before following him back over to a booth near the bar.

She murmured, “Don’t look now, but somebody has brain matter leaking onto the ground,” as she passed Y/N with a wink. Y/N’s ears heated up at the comment, but she kept her composure as she purposefully avoided looking in Robby’s direction, even though she could feel his eyes on her.

Trinity managed to turn her gleeful cackle into a mischievous giggle, and she said, “Oh, that is the face of a man whose brain is currently in a puddle on the floor. Go get him, Angel,” before gently nudging her in Robby’s direction.

Y/N schooled her face into a neutral expression, then turned her head and pretended like she just saw him (and that she didn’t notice that he looked like he wanted to devour her). She almost faltered in her nonchalant manner when she looked at him, though, because he looked good enough to eat. 

He was wearing a waffle knit Henley in a shade of navy blue so deep it was almost black with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows and the buttons undone to reveal a peak of chest hair and the chain of his Star of David, dark jeans, and logger boots, his hair artfully messy the way he knows drives her bonkers. Y/N steeled herself before she beamed at him, then strode over to him like the picture of casual confidence, draping her jacket and purse over the barstool next to him once she’d reached him.

She said, “Hi, Robby,” and pressed a quick but enthusiastic kiss to his cheek like she was blissfully unaware that he was practically losing his mind.

Robby smiled at her and said, “Hey, Angel. You look… wow,” which made her giggle and say, “Do I?”, before giving him a playful twirl.

He let out a low appreciative whistle as he took her in up close, then said, “Oh, yeah. Wow,” before he pulled her onto his lap, securing her with an arm around her waist.

Y/N smiled innocently and said, “I was kinda nervous about wearing it. Trinity talked me into getting it when we went shopping with the girls and Dennis the other day, but I’ve never worn anything like this before. You’re sure I look okay?”, flashing her doe eyes at him like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

Robby licked his lips, then said, “I’m positive, Angel. You look gorgeous,” kissing her cheek and purposefully rubbing his beard against her skin to make her squeal and thump his chest.

Y/N lavished in Robby’s hands and his undivided attention on her for a while, then came time for Step 4: Ignore him and see how long it takes him to crack under the pressure. “Maneater” by Nelly Furtado came on over the speakers, so she quickly scrambled off of Robby’s lap with a delighted shriek and called, “Mira! Trin! Mel! Come dance with me!”, as she made her way over to the makeshift dance floor.

Samira and Mel promptly abandoned Jack and Frank respectively, and Trinity joined them from the other end of the bar where she’d been trying and failing to convince Dennis and Victoria to do shots with her.

Robby kept his eyes on Y/N the whole time she was dancing, taking long sips of his bourbon that had long since gone warm and quietly fuming whenever he saw another man’s eyes linger on her for a tad too long. Y/N, on the other hand, was having a grand old time dancing with her friends, especially since Trinity kept updating her on how Robby’s demeanor was shifting every few minutes and assuring her it wouldn’t be long before he was hauling her out of there to finally have his way with her.

Y/N took a break from dancing to get a drink, and instead of returning to where Robby was keeping his vigil over her, she just walked up to the section of the bar closest to her to flag down a bartender, and Robby would’ve been a dirty liar if he said his jaw hadn’t clenched or his grip didn’t tighten on his now fully empty glass.

Jack and Frank had wandered over to him by that point to watch over their respective ladies as well. Frank said, “Looking a little heated there, Boss. You okay?”, but Robby didn’t respond, too busy trying to telepathically explode the male bartender Y/N was chatting with as he made her drink.

Frank followed his eyeline, and when he realized what he was looking at, he said, “Ohhhhh, okay. She’s playing Hard To Get,” making Jack smother a chortle in his Old Fashioned and Robby say, “What?!”, as he turned around to look at him.

Frank said, “Just because I can’t tell when a woman’s doing it to me doesn’t mean I can’t clock when it’s happening to someone else. Think about it, Robby. She showed up in that half-assed excuse of a dress, let you get handsy with her for maybe ten minutes, and now she’s been ignoring you for, what, the last half hour? She wants you bad, and she’s waiting for you to do something about it.”

He took a sip from his bottle of Iron City and raised his eyebrows pointedly at Robby, who glared at him and said, “And what makes you say that?”

Frank shrugged again and said, “Mel gets a little gossipy when she’s had one too many lemon drops. She mentioned that Angel was complaining about you being a prude and not trying to get into her pants at their last girls night, despite you two being a thing for almost six months. Clearly she’s trying to take matters into her own hands since you’ve been too chicken shit to make a move,” making Jack actually bark out a laugh and lean against the bar for support.

Robby grumbled something incoherent about mutiny, then Frank said, “Look, all I’m saying is that you clearly want her, and she definitely wants you. I see it in the way she looks at you that whatever you guys have been doing isn’t cutting it for her anymore. So man up and give her what she wants, or I’m never gonna hear the end of it,” then clapped him on the shoulder and strode over to Mel, who let out a drunken squeal of joy and threw her arms around him when he offered her his hand for a dance.

Jack smirked, then said, “You heard the man, brother. Give Angel what she wants,” and wandered off to find Samira, leaving Robby to sit on the information handed to him on a silver platter: Y/N actually wanted him, and he’d been practically dangling himself in front of her like a carrot on a stick while trying to protect himself in the process. The thought hit him so hard it took everything in him not to bang his head against the bar top.

He thought he’d been keeping his pride intact by denying her advances, because he still couldn’t wrap his head around someone as brilliant and vivacious as her wanting to be romantically involved with a broken old man like him, let alone be intimate with him. Sure, he always made the lame excuse of how he respected her too much when she tried to push the envelope (and he did respect her quite a bit, though that's besides the point), but secretly, he was worried she’d see all of him and decide he wasn’t worth it. Now that he knew Y/N wasn’t just talk, Robby decided enough was enough. His Angel was going to get everything she wanted and more.

Another man who looked closer to Y/N’s age had sidled up next to her at the bar, and Robby could tell based on her body language that she was being polite but would have rathered if the stranger wasn’t talking to her. He stood up from his stool, threw a handful of bills on the bar, then stalked over to the two of them like a man on a mission (much to Trinity’s delight, as she proceeded to smack Dennis on the arm until he too was watching the show).

Y/N was politely avoiding the stranger’s (Tom? John? She didn’t really know or care) advances and keeping her replies as monosyllabic as she possibly could when his sleazy grin dropped off his face and he went slightly pale while looking at something (or rather someone) taller than her. She barely had time to react before a familiar pair of arms were snaking possessively around her waist and the unmistakable combination of bourbon and woodsy aftershave flooded her senses, and she couldn’t help but smile as she melted into the embrace.

Robby murmured, “Hey, Angel. Missed you,” and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his thumb rubbing a line over the mesh covering her stomach.

Y/N giggled to herself, then said, “It hasn’t even been an hour yet,” while craning her neck up to look at him, amusement all over her face. 

He smirked and said, “Tell me about it,” before leaning down and capturing her lips with his in a slow kiss, a hand coming up to cradle her jaw. Y/N sighed happily against his mouth, and turned around to press her chest against his and rake her nails across his scalp, causing a low groan to escape him that she swallowed greedily.

They broke apart to catch their breath and found the random man had graciously removed himself from the equation, so Y/N said, “Any reason in particular you felt the need to mack on me out in the open like that?”, with a teasing eyebrow raised.

Robby quirked an eyebrow right back at her and said, “What, a guy can’t bestow affection upon his gorgeous girlfriend in public anymore?”, a hand wandering down to squeeze her ass as a smirk spread across his lips.

Y/N bit her lip in thought, then looked up through her lashes at Robby. “Would you dance with me, Mikey? Just one song, pretty please?”

He let out a playfully resigned sigh. “Now, how could I ever say no to you when you look at me like that, Angel?”, a fond smile creeping onto his face.

Y/N squealed happily, then pulled him over to the dance floor just as “Need to Know” by Doja Cat started to play, much louder than any of the previous songs. Y/N shot a quick look over at the booth where Trinity, Dennis, and Victoria were sitting, and all she received in return was Trinity holding up her phone with a shit eating grin, a snap finger gun from Dennis, and a double thumbs up from Victoria.

That’s when she noticed the TouchTunes on the wall near the bar, and all the pieces clicked together. Robby didn’t notice, so Y/N just pulled him against her and started swaying her hips to the beat of the music. His hands found a resting place right above her ass, and he could practically feel the heat coming off of her through the sheer fabric of her dress.

Robby cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard this song,” which made Y/N grin seductively.

She said, “Really? It’s one of my favorites,” as she continued dancing and singing along to the explicit lyrics.

Robby would have been deeply in denial if he couldn’t feel himself getting harder with every swing of Y/N’s hips and every dirty word leaving her mouth, so he just held her tighter and tried his damndest to keep it together.

When the bridge of the song arrived, Y/N turned around so her ass was flush against his groin and continued grinding her hips, making him stifle a groan as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his large, calloused hands gripping her tighter like she’d disappear in a puff of smoke if he let go. She snuck a hand back to scratch her nails over the base of his neck, and he let out a growl right in her ear as she sang out:

“Tryna see if you could handle this ass

Prolly give his ass a panic attack.

Sorry if I gave a random erection,

Prolly thinkin' I'm a telekinetic

Oh, wait, you a fan of the magic?

Poof, pussy like an Alakazam

I heard from a friend of a friend

That that dick was a ten out of ten!”

Robby could feel the logical parts of his brain shutting down and the feral, possessive gremlin he kept locked away clawing its way to the surface as he held her against his raging boner, attaching his lips to her pulse point just so he had something to do with his mouth. He ground his hips to meet hers, and her singing faltered slightly at the feeling of the bulge in his pants nudging against her ass, a barely perceptible gasp escaping her lips.

The song drew to a close, and a random top 40 song came on right after, but neither of them paid it any attention. Y/N turned back around to face Robby and murmured breathlessly, “Have I ever told you how much I love it when you wear waffle shirts?”, while running her hands up his arms teasingly.

Robby took a deep breath. “Do you, now?”

Y/N nodded and said, “Mmmhmm. You look so cozy. But also edible,” before leaning in and playfully nipping at his bicep.

Robby jumped slightly, then chuckled darkly and said, “Angel…,” in a warning tone, but Y/N ignored him and proceeded to leave a trail of nibbles up his arm to his neck and jaw, then capped it off by biting his bottom lip before pressing a searing kiss to his mouth. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped him as he kissed her back, and he gripped her hips so tight she could feel him everywhere, a spike of pride surging through her at how much she was affecting him.

Just when she tried to slip her tongue into his mouth, Robby pulled away. She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout and whined, “Mikey…,” but her protestations died when she saw that his pupils were so dilated that his eyes looked black in the dim light of the bar.

He growled into her ear, “Go grab your shit, I’m taking you home,” and Y/N couldn’t help the simultaneous rush of giddiness and lust that washed through her as she scampered over to the bar to snatch her jacket and purse off the barstool where she left them.

She caught the eye of her friends as she trotted back over to Robby, and all of them were exchanging high fives and shooting her encouraging grins and hand gestures, Trinity the most excited of all of them. She swore she saw Jack handing a wad of bills to Frank, but she chose not to dwell on that as she took Robby’s outstretched hand and he practically dragged her out the door of the bar and to his car (Step 4, check).

The whole ride back to his place, Robby’s hand never left Y/N’s inner thigh, rubbing teasing circles against the soft skin there and driving her insane with need. Not a moment after they pulled into his driveway and Robby had killed the engine, Y/N pounced on him and pressed her lips to every bit of exposed skin she could reach before connecting with him in a hungry kiss.

Robby groaned into her mouth, and the sound went straight to her core as she let out a whimper and held him tighter. He managed to pull away long enough to say, “I’m done being respectful, Angel,” then dove right back in and slipped his tongue along the seam of her lips.

Y/N let him in without hesitation, and his hand came up to cup her jaw while hers buried themselves in his hair almost of their own volition. Robby murmured between kisses, “You have no idea what you do to me, Y/N.”

She replied coyly, “I think I have an idea,” as a hand slid down to palm him over his jeans.

A true blue moan escaped him, and he grabbed her hand to halt her ministrations before saying, “Inside. Now,” and getting out of the car.

Y/N scrambled to get out of her seat, and when she went to open her door, Robby was already there. He grabbed her hand, and the two of them bolted to his front door like a pair of mischievous schoolchildren, Y/N giggling her head off the whole way.

Robby connected his lips with hers again, then pressed her against the solid wood of the door, making her moan into the kiss when he slotted one of his thighs between her legs. She managed to pull away long enough to whisper, “Dr. Robinavitch, unless you’re bent on committing a public indecency violation, I’d suggest we go inside before this goes any further,” against his lips, a ghost of a laugh escaping her as she did.

Robby rested his forehead against hers and said, “You might have a point there,” before releasing her from his grasp and unlocking his front door, tugging her inside once he’d gotten it open.

Y/N let out a squeal of laughter only to have it smothered by his lips on hers once more, making her hum happily against his mouth as she cradled his face in her hands.

Robby broke away to toss his keys and wallet into the bowl he kept by the front door while kicking off his boots, and Y/N flung her jacket and purse haphazardly to the side just in time to be gently dragged to Robby’s bedroom by the man in question. He backed her up against the foot of his bed, and started trailing kisses from her lips down to her neck while murmuring, “You knew exactly what you were doing showing up to the bar in this flimsy excuse of a dress, didn’t you?”, between each press of his lips to her skin.

Y/N laughed breathlessly and replied, “Only bought it so you could take it off, Doc,” a rush of want jolting through her when Robby growled into her neck and turned her around so her back was facing him.

He started to pull down the zipper of her dress, but he only got it halfway down her back before she turned back around and said, “You’ve been actively denying me this for months, Robinavitch. I get to have my fun first, then it’ll be your turn. Okay?”

Robby stared at her with a shocked look on his face, but when she just raised an eyebrow at him, he relented and said, “Yes, ma’am,” morbidly curious as to what she had in mind.

She ran a finger up his arm and said, “As delicious as you look in this shirt, it needs to go. Like… now,” which made Robby freeze, and Y/N could see the anxiety on his face even in the dim light of the bedroom.

She stepped closer. “Mikey… let me show you how badly I’ve wanted this. Please?”, her hand coming up to stroke his cheek affectionately.

Robby melted into her touch, and he nodded before pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it to the side, leaving his upper half bare before her. Y/N’s eyes widened, and she halted in unbuckling her heels to say, “Mikey, you’re so pretty,” as she ran her hands up his chest.

The tips of his ears turned red before he mumbled, “You don’t have to lie to me, Angel. I know I’m not in my prime anymore,” and scratched the back of his head while avoiding eye contact with her.

Y/N’s heart squeezed a little at his self-deprecation, and she shook her head. “I don’t lie about things like that, Michael. Come here,” then patted the comforter.

Robby hesitated, but one look into Y/N’s adoring eyes had him folding almost instantly, and he did as she asked, sitting up against the headboard and waiting to see what she’d do next.

Y/N finished removing her shoes, crawled up the bed until she was straddling him, then she held his face in her hands like she was holding her entire world (she was) before looking him directly in the eyes. “Michael Robinavitch, you are so pretty that it physically hurts sometimes. Every freckle, every scar, every curve, every square inch that makes you who you are is absolutely beautiful to me,” her thumb stroking the salt and pepper strands of his beard absently as she spoke.

Robby’s ears turned pink again at her words, and he brought his hands up to rest on her waist, just to convince himself she was really there and not a figment of his imagination. He cleared his throat and said, “Really?”

“Really.”

She nodded before leaning in and pressing a kiss to his forehead. A smile came to his face in spite of the tears welling up in his eyes, and he said, “I feel the same way about you, Angel,” which made her smile back before planting another kiss on the tip of his nose.

Y/N proceeded to trail kisses from his cheek down to his neck, where she started nipping and sucking at his skin as she went lower and lower down his body, delighting in the little grunts and moans she elicited from him whenever she applied a little too much pressure. She made her way down his deliciously hairy chest after coaxing him to lay down fully, leaving a trail of bite marks and hickeys in her wake until she got to his soft belly, feeling almost a little too self-satisfied at the obvious bulge in his pants.

She said, “Yeah? Do you like it when I leave my mark on you, Dr. Robinavitch? Want everybody to see just how much I want you? See how pretty I think you are?”, between kisses before scraping her teeth along his happy trail, which made him moan and throw his head back into the pillows.

Robby groaned out, “Angel, you’re gonna be the death of me,” which made her grin like the cat that got the canary.

“Maybe later. You’ve still got some work to do.”

His head snapped back up at the sound of her undoing his belt buckle, and she said, “Do you believe me now when I say I think every part of you is beautiful?”, with an eyebrow raised.

Robby said, “I do, Y/N. I’m sorry for not letting you show me sooner,” his hands fisting the comforter in anticipation.

Y/N smirked, then said, “Then my work here is done. I’ve had my fun. Your turn,” before pulling the french pin from her hair and letting it tumble free.

She sat back on the balls of her feet, then handed the pin to Robby, who took the silent hint and carefully set it on the bedside table. She said, “Care to do the honors, Doc?”, while turning around to present the half-undone zipper of her dress to him like an offering.

Robby chuckled darkly, then said, “It would be my genuine pleasure, Angel,” before sitting up and kneeling behind her, running his hands up her barely concealed back.

He pulled the zipper down the rest of the way, then laid her down on the bed, and Y/N let Robby slide the dress off of her and toss it onto the floor. She giggled when his eyes practically popped out of his head once he saw that the only thing she was wearing underneath it was a pair of lacy black panties, and she joked, “See something you like?”

Robby rasped out, “Oh, yeah. Seeing a lot of things I like,” before settling himself over her and pressing a kiss to her lips, making her sigh against his mouth and run her hands over his shoulders tenderly.

He kissed his way down her body (spending a little extra time on her breasts, of course) until he reached the hem of her (admittedly, completely soaked) panties, and he looked up at her with his dark brown baby cow eyes almost pleadingly.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, and she said, “I said it was your turn, didn’t I?”, making him groan gratefully before sliding the garment down her legs and flinging it over his shoulder to potentially join her dress and his shirt on the floor. Robby pressed a kiss to each of her thighs, then proceeded to bury himself in her core and devour her like she was his last meal on Death Row.

Y/N let out a debauched moan and buried her hands in his hair while whining, “Holy fuck, Mikey!”, which made him grunt against her and tug her legs to rest over his shoulders so he could get even deeper, adding his first two fingers into the mix as well.

For a time, the only sounds that filled the bedroom were Y/N’s breathless moans and the squelching of Robby’s fingers and tongue working at her center, with the occasional groan of delight from Robby whenever Y/N tugged at his hair a little too hard.

The combination of his diligent ministrations and the scratch of his beard against her skin had the telltale wave of pleasure building inside of her in no time, and she whimpered out, “Mikey, I’m so close, holy shit!”, while clawing at his scalp with her nails.

Robby let out a grunt of pain into her core, and he rasped out, “Yeah, can feel you squeezing my fingers, Angel. Take what you need, Gorgeous,” before wrapping his lips around her clit and sucking.

Y/N fell over the edge into oblivion with a wordless cry, gripping Robby’s hair so tight she might as well have been trying to rip it out, but that only spurred him on as he worked her through the aftershocks. He ran his hands up and down her shaking legs while murmuring, “So sweet, Angel. Did such a good job for me, Honey. I can’t believe I made you wait this long for me to make you feel good. I’m a huge fuckin idiot, and I’m so sorry, my gorgeous girl,” making her whine at the praise and clench around nothing.

It didn’t go unnoticed by Robby, and a downright wicked smirk spread across his face before he said, “Oh, you like that, don’t you? You like it when I tell you how good you are, huh?”, then sucked his fingers clean of her release while making direct eye contact with her.

Y/N moaned at the sight, then said, “Mikey, need you inside me. Please?”, running a hand through his hair and shooting him the best puppy dog pout she could muster after the earth-shattering orgasm she’d just had.

Robby smirked up at her from his position between her thighs and said, “I’m all yours, Angel,” before pressing one last kiss to her mons and getting off the bed to remove his pants and boxers.

Y/N propped herself up on her elbows to watch him, and she tilted her head slightly as a pleased smile played across her lips. Robby looked up from tossing his belt aside to catch her staring at him with a mix of tenderness and hunger in her eyes, and his heart stuttered in his chest.

His skin flushed under her gaze, and he joked, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Y/N hummed contemplatively. “Nah. I prefer to live in the moment,” still not taking her eyes off of him.

He took a second to drink her in, and as he beheld the absolute wonder of a woman splayed out on his bed looking like she came straight out of a renaissance painting, he was struck by how incredibly lucky he was to be the only person who got to see her like that: completely undone by him and him alone.

Y/N quirked an eyebrow at his lapse in movement. “What, need to take a breather, Old Man?”

Robby chuckled with a shake of his head. “No, just… thinking about how gorgeous you are and how badly I want you,” Y/N’s cheeks going slightly pink at his words.

She recovered quickly, then she crooked her finger at him. “You better get to work then, Doc,” a wicked gleam in her eye as she bit her lip teasingly.

Robby’s eyes darkened, and he rumbled, “Yes, ma’am,” before shoving his jeans and boxers to the ground in one motion, letting his cock spring free from its confines. Y/N’s eyes widened, and he could have sworn she licked her lips, which made him smirk before he pulled his socks off and crawled up the bed to her.

He settled himself above her, then nuzzled his nose against hers. “Hi, Y/N.”

“Hi to you too, Michael,” she giggled back while bringing her hands up to cup his face, her thumbs absently tracing the crow’s feet by his eyes that appeared as he smiled down at her.

A lovesick expression spread across her face, and he felt something loosen in his chest at the sight of her looking at him like he was the only thing that really mattered. Robby felt like he’d been hit upside the head with a cast iron skillet, and he’s sure it showed on his face because Y/N’s eyebrows wrinkled in concern.

Before she could say anything, he blurted out, “Holy fucking shit, I love you,” instant regret flooding through him when she froze underneath him and her eyes grew to the size of saucers.

He opened his mouth to try and do damage control, but Y/N just tugged his face down to hers and captured his mouth in a searing kiss, letting what he’d said fuel her every move until he melted against her and kissed her back. She broke away to catch her breath, and she whispered breathlessly, “I love you, too,” a delighted giggle bubbling up in her throat as she stroked his cheeks with her thumbs.

Robby grinned and said, “Yeah?”, his voice breaking slightly as tears once again worked their way into his eyes. Y/N nodded happily and replied, “Yeah,” tears of her own welling up as she brought him back down for another kiss, unable to stop a happy little squeak from escaping.

Robby chuckled against her mouth, then pulled away to murmur, “Can I show you just how much I love you, Angel?”, as a hand snuck down to tease at her folds.

Y/N let out a whimper at the touch, then wrapped a leg around his waist to keep him right where she wanted him and said, “Yes, please!”

Robby let out a grateful groan, then lined up his painfully hard member with her center, and just the head breaching her entrance had her gasping in pleasured pain and clawing at his shoulders.

He grunted at the sting, then said, “It’s a little big, I know. I did my best to stretch you out, but you’re gonna have to breathe me in, okay?”, making her nod and take a deep breath as he slowly pushed inside of her until he was fully seated inside of her, both of them letting out euphoric moans at the feeling of finally being together.

Y/N squeaked out, “Big. Fuck!”, the power of cognitive thought completely leaving her body as she focused on not instantly falling apart now that Robby was finally balls deep in her like she’d been craving for months. Robby gritted out, “Fuck, Angel, you’re so tight! Going insane here, Gorgeous,” and Y/N could only keen in response.

They stayed as still as possible for a few moments so their pleasure wouldn’t overtake them too soon, then Y/N whimpered, “Dr. Robby, need you to fuck me. Please?”, and all thoughts flew out of Robby’s head at the sound of her using his title while she begged him.

He let out a low groan that she felt in her toes, then said, “Yeah? Need me to make you feel good, Dr. L/N?”, smirking when she moaned and nodded frantically in response.

Robby rasped out, “Use your words like a good girl,” struggling to keep it together, but Y/N didn’t notice and simply whined, “Please fuck me, Dr. Robby.”

Her legs tightened around his waist and her heels dug into the base of his spine, the action making her clench around him involuntarily. He buried his face in her neck and growled, “Good girl,” before starting to thrust into her.

Y/N let out a pathetic whimper and clawed at his back, eliciting a delicious grunt of pain from Robby as he gripped her tighter and snapped his hips against hers, latching onto her pulse point for the sole purpose of leaving a mark on her just like she’d done to him.

Robby husked into her skin, “Doing so good for me, Angel. Never gonna make you wait that long to feel my cock in this tight little pussy ever again, I promise, holy fuck!”

“So full, Mikey, god! Never gonna be able to use a toy again without wishing it was you, shit!”, Y/N whispered back, scratching at the back of his head in blind pleasure.

Another primal growl escaped him as he crashed his lips to hers in a desperate kiss, the sounds of skin on skin, two pairs of lips moving in feverish tandem, and the creak of the bed filling the room like a depraved symphony. Robby grunted out, “Keep squeezing me just like that, Angel. That’s my good girl,” and brought a hand down to rub tiny circles against Y/N’s clit.

The familiar knot in her belly started tightening again at the overstimulation, and she yelped, “Fuck! Mikey, I’m so close!”

“I can feel it, Honey. You’re doing so good, I’m right behind ya.” He drilled into her like his life depended on it, his rhythm faltering slightly with his impending orgasm.

Robby grunted out, “Fuck, I’m gonna come! Gonna let me fill you up, Angel?”, and Y/N could barely get out an, “Mmmhmm!”, as the pressure inside of her kept building and building.

Robby said, “Fall apart for me, Gorgeous. Need to feel you come on my cock, okay? I love you so much, Angel,” leaning down to take one of her nipples into his mouth.

The extra stimulation pushed Y/N over the edge, and she managed to whimper, “Love you!”, before she came apart with a scream of his name.

Robby could barely gasp out, “Good girl,” before he was following her over the edge, spilling inside of her with a long, low groan.

He collapsed on top of her once he was spent, and he nuzzled into her neck while they both tried to catch their breaths. Y/N traced a finger up and down his spine and mumbled, “Worth the wait, holy fuck.”

“Agreed,” Robby huffed out a laugh, his hand stroking across her thigh soothingly.

Robby carefully extricated himself from Y/N, kissing her jaw when she whimpered at the loss of him, then got up from the bed and went into his ensuite. He came back with a warm washcloth and set about cleaning up the mess they made together, whispering apologies whenever Y/N winced from oversensitivity.

Once he was done, Y/N held out her hand to wordlessly ask him for the cloth, so he handed it to her, an eyebrow raised in confusion. She sat up carefully, then proceeded to clean him up as well, his heart swelling at the simple act. She pressed a kiss to the center of his chest once she was done.

“I love you, Mikey,” she said, making him melt all over again before he said, “I love you, too, Y/N,” leaning down to kiss her gently on the lips.

Y/N hummed against his mouth, then once he pulled away, she said, “Mind helping me to the bathroom so I can pee? I don’t think I can walk,” which made him smirk proudly for about five seconds before she shot a withering look at him. Robby raised his hands in surrender, then helped her get out of bed and walk to the toilet.

Once she’d taken care of that and washed off her makeup, he helped her back into bed and said, “I’ll grab you a shirt and some boxers to wear. Can I get you anything else? Water?”

“I’m okay, Mikey. Just need you,” Y/N said, patting the space next to her to make her point.

Robby smiled and said, “Then I’ll make it quick,” before grabbing his discarded boxers off the floor to pull them on before rooting around in his dresser for a clean pair of boxers and an old Tulane Med shirt. He handed them to her with a smile, and she thanked him quietly before shimmying into the boxers and pulling the shirt over her head.

Once she was dressed, Y/N said, “Oh wait, I lied. Could you grab my purse from downstairs? My phone is in there, and I need to charge it,” so Robby nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am,” with a mock-salute before doing as she requested.

He came back into the bedroom and handed her purse to her with a, “Your belongings, My Dearest,” in a terrible British accent, which made her snort while taking out her phone and seeing that it was completely dead. She grumbled under her breath while plugging it in and leaving it on the bedside table to charge, tossing her purse to the side.

Once she was all situated, Y/N made playful grabby hands at Robby with a teasing pout on her face and said, “Be quicker,” which made him roll his eyes fondly and say, “As you wish, Angel,” before crawling into bed beside her and letting her snuggle up to him.

Robby kissed the top of her head, and she hummed contentedly before snuggling closer, a palm resting over his heart. They laid like that for a while just basking in each other’s warmth, then Y/N’s phone started doing its best impression of an earthquake on the side table from all the texts that started coming through.

Y/N grabbed her phone to see what the commotion was about, and laughed out loud when the first message she saw was from Frank: “You won me a lot of money, so thanks for that. Don’t give me details tho, I might throw up”. The other 30-notifications were from the group chat she was in with the other Pitt Girlies (and Dennis), where everyone was gossiping about how she was finally getting laid.

Robby tried to read the messages over her shoulder, but he didn’t have his readers on, so it was a moot point. Y/N simply replied, “Mission successful ;)”, to the group text and, “You’re welcome and noted”, to Frank before turning her phone off and settling back into Robby’s embrace.

Y/N said, “Everyone deduced what happened, so expect some high caliber razzing at work,” which made Robby say, “Oh, great. Love that,” his tone dripping with sarcasm.

But when Y/N just let out a giggle and nuzzled into the crook of his neck, he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything other than finally having the woman he loves in every way possible.

———————————————————————

The Pitt Taglist: @supernaturalsuperhero, @cinnxmxngxrl, @robinavitchslut

“Stacey, you’re with me,” you called out, heading toward the elevators.

Your new resident followed close behind. She had started only a few days ago, already making a name for herself as sharp and ambitious, with a full year of Ob-Gyn at Presby under her belt. She was a good doctor, undeniably smart, and—as you’d noticed—strikingly beautiful. You’d also witnessed the peculiar phenomenon of the Ortho-Gods suddenly finding reasons to do paperwork on the OB floor whenever she was on shift, a fact she seemed blissfully unaware of.

Once the elevator doors slid shut, you briefed her on the code you’d been called for. “It seems straightforward, but I want you to get a feel for the pitt.”

Stacey’s face lit up, her cheeks flushing pink. “I have to say something first.”

You braced yourself. You knew the drill: Yes, he’s my ex-husband. Yes, we have two kids. Yes, I still love him. But Stacey took the conversation in a direction you hadn't anticipated.

“I am like so excited for this. When I told my attending at Presby I was coming to PTMC, she said, ‘Lucky you, getting to learn emergency medicine from Daddy Robinavitch himself.’ And then, on my first day, I came downstairs and saw him, and... oh my god, he really is a daddy.” She spoke with a sudden, infectious confidence, looking at you with wide, excited eyes, treating you like a best friend sharing hot gossip.

But you weren’t her best friend. So you stared at her, your eyes widening. “Excuse me?”

Stacey froze, her face draining of color. “Oh my god. I don’t know why I said that. That was so unprofessional—I’m sorry, I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours—I—”

You scoffed, raising a palm to cut off her rambling as the elevator chimed. 

You stepped out into the chaotic hum of the central hub and led her straight to Trauma One. Inside, Robby and Langdon were already mid-discussion. Mel stepped back, allowing you to take the lead after a brief introduction to the patient.

“Can I take the lead?” Stacey asked, her eyes wide with eagerness.

You nodded with a small smile. She jumped into action, moving closer to the gurney to suggest courses of action and assessments (because those were definitely not orders).

“New kid on the block, huh?” Robby asked, his gaze shifting from the patient to you.

“Doctor Stacey Fox, meet the pitt. Pitt, meet Doctor Stacey Fox,” you introduced, unable to resist a little jab. “And this is Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief of Emergency Medicine. If you plan on sticking with emergency Ob-Gyn, he’ll be just as much your attending as I am.”

“Mom and Dad,” Langdon teased.

You ignored him, turning your focus back to the monitor. “Signs of pre-eclampsia?”

“No,” your student said, waving a hand. “But she’s forty-two. It’s a risky birth.”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because she’s… old?”

You stared at her.

“...er?” she tried, grinning weakly.

Beside you, Robby let out a sharp, amused huff.

“Because she could have gestational diabetes, pre-eclampsia, or placental complications,” you recited, your voice tight. “Any of those present?”

“None,” Dr. King added.

“Doctor Fox?” you prodded.

“No,” she said, her eyes darting nervously around the room.

Robby leaned in, his voice a low vibration against your ear. “Why don’t you take a break? I’ve got this.”

The glare you shot him could have scorched steel.

“There are other things I’d offer for your stress, but right now, a break’s my best,” he pushed, a teasing, lopsided smirk playing on his lips.

“Fine,” you snapped, taking a step back. “But I’m taking ER Ken.” You gestured with a single finger, and he quickly peeled away the extra layer of latex and scrubs on his way out.

Once you were safely out of the trauma room, Langdon leaned in. “Is Dad coming home soon, Mom?”

You reached the hub, frantically searching for a lollipop in the supply drawers. “Shut up!”

Langdon stepped into your path. “What’s up?”

“Did you know Presby calls him ‘Daddy Robinavitch’?” You gestured toward the room with your thumb once you’d finally unwrapped a lollipop and shoved it into your mouth.

Langdon cackled. “WHAT?”

Your skin crawled as you explained the elevator incident, and to your utter misfortune, he only laughed harder.

“Stop it!” You slapped his arm, though your heart wasn’t in it. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, you know exactly what to do,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes.

“Get back in there and smoooooch your husband.”

“Not funny,” you groaned.

“I’m dead serious!”

“So am I,” you muttered. “Daddy Robinavitch. I made him a daddy.”

Langdon’s expression softened, his gaze shifting to something behind you. “If it makes you feel any better, he only has eyes for you.”

You turned around and caught Robby watching you. His expression wasn't arrogant or teasing; it was raw, soulful, and heavy with a plea you knew too well. Your annoyance dissolved into a tender, involuntary smile.

You saw him turn back to the patient, supervising the procedure. Arms folded on his chest, shoulders squared. You noticed the difference when he looked at you and when he looked at the patient. He went from being your husband; a warm, soft, loving man. To the chief of Emergency Medicine.

When you returned, the room was filled with the thin, piercing wail of a newborn. A healthy baby boy was crying his lungs out, and Robby was carefully handing him to the mother.

“Great job, everyone,” you said, your voice warm.

Stacey beamed at you, her eyes sparkling.

“You taught me well,” Robby said, his voice quiet, his hand finding the small of your back.

Stacey’s eyes darted between you both, and as if on cue, her mouth opened to speak.

“We’re taking these two upstairs,” you said, overriding her before she could say another word. You instructed the nursing staff on the room number and follow-up care.

Robby signaled for you to wait a moment and your head turned to his side, granting you minimal privacy under the gawking eyes of the entire pitt.

“What got you so worked up?” he whispered into your ear.

You looked up at him, your gaze daring and sharp. “I’ll tell you later.”

One of his brows arched. A challenge.

You walked back toward the elevators with your student, the silence between you thick with tension.

“That was a great job,” you complimented her, softening your tone. “But you need to work on your bedside manner.”

“I know. That was awful. I’ve already apologized to the patient.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry to you, too.” Her entire face was red, “The whole… the ‘daddy’ thing. It won’t happen again.”

The elevator dinged, announcing your floor. You looked at her and smiled, the lingering heat from your interaction with Robby still buzzing beneath your skin.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said lightly. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard it.”

“Really?”

The elevator doors opened.

“No,” you said, a flash of confidence firing through you. “My kids call him Daddy, too.”

“Hey, Mrs. Lover-Girl. Look at you up and moving..” Santos jokes the second you’re in her line of sight and off the elevator.

“Follow. Now.” You grumble, desperate for a girl’s only confession. She pauses but shares a look with Javadi before quickly following you to an empty hospital room.

“What’s all this about?” Santos asks as Y/N practically yanks her insides the private room.

“I did the unthinkable..” Y/N mutters bluntly as she begins to pace.

“Ew. I don’t need to hear about whatever crazy sex thing you did to celebrate-“ Y/N quickly cuts Santos off.

“That’s just it! It wasn’t crazy!” Y/N hisses. Santos pauses at that, eyeing her closely.

“So it was like… Mild stuff?” She asks as she eyes her fellow resident.

“What?! No! Santos…” Y/N sighs heavily before wringing her hands together nervously. She looks around the empty hospital room, guilt coming on to her flushed face.

“I faked it.”

The words leave her mouth quietly. Like if she says them too loud, she’ll die. It’s quiet for too long. Too long for Y/N’s liking. Then finally, Santos speaks.

“You what?!” She asks, trying not to laugh.

“This isn’t funny! I swore when I got into this relationship, I’d never fake one ever again. I spent too much time in college doing that. Jack has always been attentive. I thought my faking days were over!” Y/N openly complains now, letting it all flood out. Santos shakes her head in disbelief.

“Then what the hell happened?!” She asks.

“A 12-hour shift and an entire bottle of wine at dinner, plus dancing! That’s what happened..” Y/N practically stomps a foot.

“Okay, okay. Just.. Breathe. Start from the beginning..” She urges as she moves closer to comfort Y/N. She’s been her best friend since those said ‘college days’. She’s seen the pieces of work Y/N has given a chance to, and yes, Jack was the best of them all.

“Trin, it was perfect. The dinner, the dancing, the food. The wine! Then we got home, and.. I felt so comfortable in the bed. He started kissing up on me, I thought I could fight through it, but…” She hesitates.

“But what?” Santos shakes her head.

“He loves taking his.. Time.” Y/N mutters before looking down at her own body to silently inform Santos of Jack’s little… Habit.

He really enjoyed ‘playing with his food’…

“Oh no..” Santos laughs quietly.

“Don’t laugh! I.. Usually I find it endearing. But last night, I.. I just couldn’t. So I.. Faked one, and told him I was too sensitive to keep going..” Y/N pouts.

“Hey, I’m sure you’re forgiven in the eyes of the relationship god.” Santos assures, a bit sarcastic for Y/N’s liking.

“It’s been two years to the dot, Trin. Is this our relationship now? We used to go all night. I’d have to call off for half the morning to sleep in!” Y/N points out.

“Yeah, I remember..” Santos sighs. “Welp! At least I don’t have to cover your shift anymore!” She smiles.

“Trinity!”

“Hey! You’re spiraling! You faked it one time. Your relationship isn’t doomed or stale. You’re just maturing together..” She finally shrugs.

Neither girl seems to notice the hospital room door open an inch or so. Jack had just gotten into work and was told Y/N was already in one of the rooms.

He’d felt a little off about last night, and.. A part of him had hoped to talk to her about it before her shift officially started. He couldn’t wait for their shared lunch time on the roof.

He pauses though when he hears her tense voice.

“Trinity. I faked an orgasm so I could sleep.”

Those words make his stomach drop.

The burning hand of embarrassment makes its presence known on his tight shoulders.

No.

No…

Jack knew there was something off about the way she’d moaned last night. He knew her body like the back of his hand. He’s 50, sure, but Jack Abbot took the act of intimacy extremely seriously.

But he also knew that deep down… The fear only his therapist knew he held on to, was coming true in this very moment. Y/N, in all her youth, had grown bored of him.

He was tasting her, and she was better off just going to sleep.

He felt so small in this moment as Y/N continues her conversation.

“Two years. Yesterday marked two years, and I did the one thing I swore I’d never do in this relationship!” She sniffles. Jack backs out of the room quietly.

He’d let her down. And he was gonna make things right…

“Hey. Y/N..” Santos whispers, all playfulness leaving her face now as she steps closer.

“I don’t.. I don’t want it becoming a habit..” Y/N worries quietly as Santos sighs heavily, hugging Y/N.

“It won’t. You won’t let it..” She assures her simply.

*

*

*

Y/N usually squeezed by on three power bars and a ton of water and coffee throughout her morning shift.

It was mostly so by 6:30pm, she could sneak off with Jack before his shift officially began. The two would grab something together, and it would count as their ‘lunchtime date’. Y/N looked forward to it everyday. Same time, same meet up location by the stairs.

But today, more than ever, she was really eager to see Jack. She hadn’t spotted him around at all. That was rare. Usually, Jack would show up early-ish, so he could help out where it was needed before going to nap upstairs on the sixth floor. No ED member was technically allowed up there, but.. Jack had made nice with all the nurses years ago. So they all turned the other way when he’d sneak upstairs to nap in an empty hospital room.

Y/N paces by the stairs as she waits to see him. She’d made up her mind that she’d just take what happened last night to her grave. And she’d never pull something like that again.

But after the ten minute mark, she begins to worry. Pulling out her phone, she texts Jack.

‘Where are you? I’m starving! 😭’

Not even a full minute passes when she gets her response.

‘Roof’

She stares down at the simple one worded text message, blinking slowly as she tries to figure out what that’s all about. Jack only texted that shortly if he was busy or upset.

With concern clear as day on her face, Y/N heads up the stairs and towards the rooftop of the hospital. The second she opens the metal door, she’s being grabbed by the waist.

“Oh!” She gasps as she’s yanked into Jack’s chest, his head finding the cork of her neck almost automatically. His stubble grazes her skin as he kisses her pulse point. She shivers involuntarily.

“Jack!” She breathes out as she pulls away a bit.

“I wanna fuck you, baby..” Jack whispers hungrily as he picks her up. She squeals at the suddenness of it all. “Right here. On the rooftop..” He continues as he catches her lips. She barely has time to kiss back.

“Mm.. Jack!” She pants a bit, head spinning as she tries to catch her breath. “Have you lost your mind?!” She whispers as he carries her to the railing.

“Look at the city, baby..” He urges as he moves back to her neck, kissing and licking her skin as he groans softly. She momentarily melts against the assault on her neck, moaning quietly before reality kicks back in.

Her boyfriend is trying to get busy with her on the hospital rooftop!

“Jack! What the hell has gotten into you?!” Y/N finally squeaks as she puts her hands on his shoulders to push him back slightly. His arms around her waist are the only thing making her feel secure as she sits on the metal railing.

He pauses at the confusion and seriousness of her voice. “I… I’m trying to be.. More exciting.” He says slowly, his tone sounding lost. Like he’d assumed this is what she wanted.

“More exciting?!” Y/N laughs. She can’t help it. Jack Abbot is the most exciting man she’s ever met!

“Yeah. I.. You’re getting bored.” Jack frowns a bit. Y/N stiffens slightly.

“Who.. Who said that?” She asks in shock. “Jack. I.. Every time we do it, it is more exciting than the last. I’d never get bored of you.” She assures as she touches his cheek tenderly. He looks down, jaw clenching slightly.

“Then why did you fake it..?” He whispers, voice coming out extremely quiet and raw. There’s this shame on his face that should be on Y/N’s. The guilt could swallow her whole just from looking at how sad her lover truly is.

“You.. How did you..?” She stammers softly.

“Does it matter? Were you ever gonna tell me?” He asks.

“Jack. Look at me..” Y/N frowns. Jack hesitates at first, but then he looks over at the only person who could ever hold the power to make him feel so small..

“I didn’t fake it because I was bored of you. I…” Y/N’s face grows hotter with embarrassment. “I faked it because I wasn’t able to keep up with you.” She admits.

“Y/N..” Jack sighs, thinking she’s just saying that.

“Jack, it’s true.” She assures, finally with her full chest. “You love going all night, and.. I.. Last night, I was really tired. So.. I faked it.” She mumbles sheepishly as Jack watches her closely, shoulders slumping as he realizes she’s telling the truth.

“You… Why didn’t you just tell me?!” Jack immediately fusses.

“You were in the middle of…” She trails off. “I didn’t wanna kill your mood.” She says softly.

“Baby.” Jack says firmly as he makes her look at him. “I’d rather you be all in it, than think you have to fake something like that.” He says simply as he looks her in the eyes. Y/N pouts slightly as she nods, letting his words assure her.

Once again, she’s reminded that even though she’s dated losers.. Jack Abbot is not one of them.

“I’m sorry you thought you had to go bigger to keep me. You have me, baby. And I’m enjoying the ride..” Y/N says sweetly, leaning in to peck his nose and lips softly in order to show she does find this man completely capable of rocking her world. Age difference and all..

“Mm.. I’m sorry I got crazy.” He chuckles. “Doing it on a roof? That’s…” He trails off as he eyes her, a sly glint growing in his eyes.

“Jack!” Y/N squeals bashfully as she realizes he’s still considering it.

“What?!” Jack defends with an innocent shrug. He eyes her, a smirk playing on his face as he steps closer, arms firmly around her waist.

“I’m still owed a big one.” He continues playfully as he looks her in the eyes, one of his hands moving between them and slowly slipping into her scrub bottoms.

“Jack! We have a 15-minute lunch break, we’re on a roof! Someone could se…” Her voice breaks slowly as she feels his magical fingers. Shakily, she grips his shoulders, panting softly as he watches with a cocky expression, loving the power he has over her.

“There you go.. Atta girl..” Jack whispers tauntingly against her mouth that slowly hangs open in silent pleasure. “You just look at the pretty city. I’ll take it from here..” He whispers before slowly dropping to his knees in front of her while she quickly grips on to the railing she’s still sat on.

Oh yeah, Jack Abbot.. Is so not a loser..

you don't even look up. "no."

there's a pause. you can feel him watching you now, that steady presence that commands the entire ER without even trying. dr. michael robinavitch. robby. the lead attending. the man everyone respects. the guy you're currently ignoring.

"come on," he says, his voice measured, controlled. "no need to act like this. it's been a long day for everyone."

you finally look up, meeting his eyes. they're dark, tired, but there's something else there too. curiosity. intrigue.

"and a longer day for me," you say flatly.

his jaw tightens. santos and dana exchange glances, suddenly very interested in their charts. robby steps closer, his arms crossed over his chest, black scrubs stretched tight across his shoulders.

"you need an attitude adjustment," he says, voice low.

you laugh- sharp, bitter. "no, i need to stop working with idiots."

the air shifts.

"HEY"

his voice roars through the station, loud enough that a few heads turn. your stomach flips, but you hold his gaze, refusing to back down. his eyes are blazing now, locked on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"don't bring that into my ER," he says, his voice dropping to something dangerous. commanding. "go clock out. grab your shit. meet me in the parking lot."

your heart pounds. "what—"

"now."

santos and dana are suddenly very busy with their computers. you swallow hard, your face burning, but you don't argue. you just grab your bag, clock out with shaking hands, and head for the exit.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

the parking lot is nearly empty, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the pavement. you spot his jeep immediately- dark, imposing, parked in the far corner away from the entrance.

he's leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed, watching you approach. his expression is unreadable, but there's a tension in his shoulders. a tightness in his jaw that makes your pulse race.

"get in the back," he says when you're close enough.

you hesitate. "robby-"

"get in the back."

you do. the door clicks shut behind you, and then he's climbing in after you, crowding you against the seat. the space feels impossibly small with him in it, his presence overwhelming.

"you done?" he asks, his voice rough.

"done with what?"

"being a brat."

your face flushes hot. "i wasn't-"

"yeah, you were." his hand comes up, fingers gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. "you've been snapping at everyone all day. giving attitude. testing me."

"i was tired-"

"i know you were," he says, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip with surprising tenderness. "twelve hours is brutal, baby. i saw it in your eyes the moment you clocked in." he pauses, his gaze softening. "but that's exactly why you need this. why you need me to take care of you."

your breath hitches. "robby-"

"you were being a brat," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "and you know what brats get? they get put in their place... they get someone who understands what they really need."

his mouth finds yours, needy and demanding, swallowing whatever protest you were about to make. his hands are everywhere. your waist, your thighs, sliding up under your scrub top. you gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours.

"this what you need?" he murmurs against your lips, his hand already working at the drawstring of your scrub pants. "just need some cock, huh? need to let go for a minute?"

"robby-" your voice is breathless, desperate.

"i got you, sweetheart," he says, and there's something softer in his tone now, something almost tender beneath the dominance. "i know you're exhausted- know today was too much. let me straighten this alllll out. let me take care of it."

your pants are yanked down, panties with them, and then his fingers are on you—rough, insistent, finding you already wet. he makes a low sound of approval.

"look at you," he mutters, his fingers sliding inside you easily. "all that attitude and you're soaked for me, hm? such a fucking brat."

you whimper, your head falling back against the seat as he works you open, his fingers curling just right. it's too much and not enough all at once, and you're already pushing back against his hand, desperate for more.

"that's it," he murmurs, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "take what you need, baby. let me take care of you."

you're close- so close- and then he's pulling his fingers out, making you whine at the loss. but then you hear the the rustle of fabric as he fumbles with the drawstring, and your stomach flips with anticipation.

"turn around," he orders, his voice rough. "hands on the seat."

you do, your heart pounding, and then he's behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other guiding himself to your entrance. he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and you both groan at the stretch.

"fuck," he breathes, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "so fucking tight, sweetheart. taking me so good."

he doesn't give you time to adjust. his hips snap forward, setting a brutal pace that has you gasping, your fingers digging into the leather seat. he's rough, demanding, taking what he needs- but his hands are gentle where they grip you, his mouth pressing soft kisses to your shoulder between thrusts.

"this what you wanted?" he growls against your ear. "wanted me to fuck the attitude out of you? put you in your place?"

"yes- fuck- yes- "

"such a brat," he mutters, but there's affection in his voice now, something warm beneath the dominance. "my brat. gonna make sure my girl remembers who's in charge here."

you're close again, that familiar heat building low in your belly, and he must feel it because his hand slides around to your clit, rubbing tight circles that have you seeing stars.

"come on, baby," he murmurs, his voice rough and broken. "let me feel you. show me you're sorry for being so bad. let go for me, sweetheart."

you shatter, your orgasm crashing over you so hard your legs shake. he follows right after, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a low groan, his arms wrapping around you protectively, holding you close against his chest even as he's still inside you.

for a moment, there's only the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven in the quiet of the jeep. he stays inside you, his arms wrapped around you like he can't bear to let go, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to the back of your neck, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

"you with me?" he asks softly, his hand stroking gently down your spine. "talk to me, sweetheart."

"yeah," you breathe, your voice still shaky. "yeah, i'm here."

"good girl," he murmurs, and finally, carefully- he pulls out, immediately reaching for the tissues he keeps in the door pocket. he cleans you up with surprising tenderness, his touch gentle and reverent. "you did so good for me. so fucking good."

he helps you turn around slowly, checking your face, your eyes, making sure you're really okay. his hands are soft on your waist as he settles you against his chest, his heartbeat still racing beneath your ear.

"here," he says, reaching for your scrub top that's bunched around your ribs. he helps you straighten it out, smoothing it down with care. then he's adjusting your pants, making sure you're put back together, treating you like something precious.

"you good?" he asks again, his fingers tilting your chin up so he can see your face. his eyes are dark and serious now, all that dominance melted away into genuine concern. "really good? i wasn't too rough?"

"no," you say, and you mean it. "it was perfect. i needed that."

"i know you did," he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "but next time you wanna act like that, just tell me. we can skip the attitude and go straight to this part."

you laugh, breathless and a little giddy. "noted."

he smirks, that commanding presence softening into something warmer. "now let's get you home before someone notices my jeep's been rocking in the parking lot." 🩵

“Hey,” you say, reaching forward to grab your cup as the machine finishes.

Dr. Mel King doesn’t answer immediately, which is enough to make you glance over your shoulder. She looks… off. Not wrecked. Not frantic. But quieter than usual, her energy pulled inward in a way that doesn’t fit her.

“Hey,” she replies after a second, moving toward the fridge like she forgot why she came in here halfway through getting there.

You straighten slightly, watching her, your tone shifting without making a big deal out of it.

“You good?” you ask, calm, easy, giving her space to either brush it off or step into it.

She huffs a small breath, pulling the fridge open and staring into it like the answer might be in there.

“Yeah,” she says automatically.

You don’t call it out. You just take a sip of your coffee and lean back against the counter again.

“Okay,” you reply.

A beat passes.

“My sister is sleeping with her boyfriend.”

The words come out flat, like she’s testing them out loud for the first time. You blink once, processing.

“Becca?” you ask gently.

She nods, still facing the fridge even though she’s not looking at anything inside it anymore.

“Yeah. Becca.”

You shift your weight, softer now.

“And… that’s upsetting because…?” you prompt, giving her room to define it instead of assuming.

She shuts the fridge and leans back against it, arms crossing tight over her chest.

“Because it’s… serious,” she says, searching for the right words. “Like, six months, meeting parents, talking about moving in, into the same apartment but still, that kind of thing.”

You nod slowly.

“Okay,” you say. “So not casual.”

“Not casual,” she echoes, shaking her head. “And she’s just… fine. Like this is what people do. Like this is normal.”

There’s something sharper in her voice now, something closer to frustration than hurt.

“And you don’t think it is,” you say.

“I don’t know,” she admits, her shoulders dropping slightly. “I just—” she exhales, running a hand through her hair, “it makes me feel like I’m… behind or something.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Behind?”

“Yeah,” she says, finally looking at you. “Like everyone else is out there having these relationships, figuring out their lives, and I’m just… here. Working. Existing. Not even close to any of that.”

That lands differently now. Not betrayal. Not heartbreak. Just… comparison. And that quiet, creeping feeling of being left out of something you’re not even sure you want yet. You push off the counter slightly, closing the distance just enough to make it feel less like a lecture and more like a conversation.

“You’re not behind,” you say, your tone even and certain.

She lets out a breath. “Feels like it.”

“I know,” you reply. “But that doesn’t make it true.”

She watches you, skeptical but listening.

“You’re in residency,” you continue. “You’re working hours that would break most people, you’re carrying patients, making decisions that actually matter, and still showing up every day ready to do it again. That’s not ‘behind,’ Mel. That’s… a lot.”

She shifts slightly, some of the tension easing out of her shoulders.

“And your sister choosing to be in a relationship,” you add gently, “doesn’t mean you’re missing something. It just means you’re in a different season.”

She huffs a small breath. “That’s a very nice way of saying I have no life.”

You smile faintly. “It’s a very accurate way of saying your life just looks different right now.”

That gets the smallest hint of a real reaction, the edge of a smile that doesn’t quite fully form but lingers.

“I don’t even know if I want that yet,” she admits. “That’s the stupid part.”

“Then it’s not stupid,” you say simply. “It’s honest.”

She looks at you again, something in her expression softer now, less defensive.

Before she can respond, “Trauma, five minutes out!”

Dana’s voice cuts through from just outside, sharp and immediate, pulling both of you back into the reality waiting on the other side. You glance toward the door, then back at Mel. You reach for your coffee, taking one last sip before setting it down.

“Hey,” you say, catching her attention again.

She looks at you, a little more grounded than she was a few minutes ago.

“It’s going to work out,” you tell her. “And if you need to talk, really talk, I’m here. Okay?”

She nods, small but real.

“Okay.”

“You’re not alone,” you add.

That lands. You can see it.

“Thanks,” she says quietly.

You give her a small nod, then turn and head for the door, stepping back into the noise and movement of the ED, but when you glance back once before leaving, he looks a little lighter. And for now, that’s enough.

******

The nurses’ station is one of those places that never truly quiets, even in the rare moments when no one is actively shouting for labs or calling out a blood pressure or chasing down a transport, because there is always the underlying hum of the department pressing in from every side, monitors chirping, phones ringing, printers spitting out papers no one wants, and somewhere beneath all of it the constant awareness that the next thing can go bad in a second.

You are charting and monitoring, which means your brain is split in twelve directions at once, one eye on the board, another on staffing, another somehow on room turnover and the attending coverage and which nurse is about to lose patience with which resident, your pen tapping once against the clipboard in your hand as you update something and then immediately move on to the next problem before the first is even fully solved.

That is why, at first, you almost miss the sigh. It is not quiet, exactly. It is theatrical enough that it cuts through your concentration, heavy and deliberate and meant to be heard, and when you glance up, you find Samira planted at the edge of the station, looking as though the world has specifically and personally offended her.

You keep working, eyes moving from the board to the chart in your hand and back again, but your voice softens with easy familiarity. “That was dramatic even for you. What’s wrong?”

Samira exhales again, this time with more purpose, leaning one hip against the counter and folding her arms across her chest in a way that tells you this is not a passing complaint but a full grievance she intends to air out.

“My mother,” she says darkly, as if that alone should explain everything.

You glance sideways at her. “That sounds promising.”

“It isn’t,” she says. “She is marrying some man from New Jersey and selling my childhood home.”

That gets more of your attention. You look up fully now, brows lifting slightly. “Marrying?”

“Yes,” Samira says, clearly offended by the concept itself. “As if she has completely lost her mind. She met him, what, a year and a half ago, and suddenly she is willing to unload the house I grew up in so she can move into his terrible little coastal fantasy or wherever the hell he lives.”

You cap your pen and set the clipboard down, giving her more of your focus now that you can tell this is not just irritation but something deeper, something tangled up in memory and change and the strange grief that comes when the places you thought were permanent start disappearing.

“You think he’s awful?” you ask gently.

“I think,” Samira says, lifting one shoulder with sharp, dismissive precision, “that any man willing to marry my mother at this stage in life is either deeply suspect or unbelievably dull.”

You cannot help it. You smile.

Samira catches it immediately and narrows her eyes. “Do not laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” you say, though your tone gives away that you are at least a little amused. “I’m just not sure you’re being entirely fair to this poor man who, for all you know, could be lovely.”

“He is from New Jersey,” she says, deadpan. “That already puts him at a disadvantage.”

You laugh outright then, low and brief, and shake your head. “Maybe your mother just wants company.”

Samira’s expression shifts, not much, but enough for you to see the sore spot under the annoyance. She looks away, gaze skimming over the board before she says, quieter and more cutting than before, “Doesn’t everyone?”

The question hangs there for a moment, fuller than the words themselves. You study her face, and then answer in the same calm, even tone you use with frightened patients and overtired residents and anyone else who needs steadiness more than reaction. “Yeah. I think most people do.”

Samira lets out a short breath through her nose and shakes her head. “Well, Dr. Robby clearly doesn’t.”

The words are out before she means to let them be, and you can tell instantly by the way she stiffens, the way her mouth presses flat as her eyes flick to yours in immediate regret.

“Oh God,” she says, straightening. “I didn’t mean—”

You stop her with a small shake of your head and a quiet look. “What did he do?”

She hesitates, and for a second you think she might backtrack, might give you some vague version of nothing, but then her shoulders slump a little and she looks more tired than irritated.

“He called me slow,” she says. “Again.”

Your expression changes before you can help it, not dramatic, not enough to inflame it, but enough that she notices.

Samira gives a humorless laugh and rubs her palm against the counter. “I was talking through fellowship options with him earlier. I said I’ve been thinking about geriatrics and before I could even really get through the pros and cons, he said I’d probably be good at it.”

You nod once. “You would.”

She looks at you sharply, and then continues, voice dry and wounded all at once. “That’s what he said too. But apparently because it’s a slower pace.” She pauses, then adds with bitter emphasis, “Because I’m slow. And stupid.”

You frown immediately. “Did he actually call you stupid?”

Samira rolls her eyes, though there is no real humor in it. “No. I added that part in myself.”

“Samira.”

“What?” she says, throwing one hand out. “It’s the implication.”

You hold her gaze steadily. “No, it isn’t. Not unless you decide it is.”

She looks unconvinced, and beneath that you can see the real injury of it, not just annoyance at Robby’s bluntness but the ache of someone who is already uncertain and does not need their fear translated back to them in the worst possible language.

You soften your voice. “You are not stupid.”

Samira looks down for a second, jaw tight.

“You are one of the best physicians in this department,” you continue, with enough certainty that she has to at least hear it even if she is not ready to believe it yet. “You listen when everyone else is talking over each other. You catch the things patients are actually trying to say instead of just the easy, surface version. Your bedside manner is strong because you reason with people instead of bulldozing them. You make them feel heard, and that matters more than some people in emergency medicine like to admit.”

She is listening now, even if she still looks skeptical, her arms crossed tighter as if holding herself together while you go on.

“And yes,” you say, gentler now, “those are all qualities that would make you good in geriatrics. They would also make you good in a dozen other specialties. Moving carefully is not the same thing as being slow in the way you mean it, and it sure as hell is not the same thing as being less capable.”

Samira’s eyes lift to yours then, and for the first time since she walked up, some of the brittle defensiveness slips.

“You really think that?” she asks, quieter now.

“I do,” you answer simply. “And I think you know it too. I just think you’re in one of those lovely moods where you’d rather believe the worst version of everything.”

That earns you a tiny exhale that is almost a laugh.

“Maybe,” she says.

You do not mention Robby again. You do not try to explain him, or soften him, or make excuses for what he may or may not have meant. You know better than to step into the middle of a frustration when what Samira actually needs is not defense of him but steadiness for herself.

So instead you say, “You do not have to choose your entire future based on one tired conversation in the middle of a bad shift.”

Samira tips her head, conceding the point without fully admitting it. “That is annoyingly reasonable.”

“I’m excellent at annoyingly reasonable,” you say, picking your clipboard back up.

That almost gets a real smile out of her. Before either of you can say anything else, a nurse calls her name sharply from down the hall, and Samira turns instinctively toward the sound.

“I have to go,” she says.

“Go,” you reply. “And Samira?”

She glances back.

“You are not slow,” you say. “You are thorough. There’s a difference.”

Her face shifts at that, some guarded, private thing in her eyes easing just slightly.

“Thanks,” she says, and this time it is sincere enough that you feel it.

Then she is gone, pulled back into the motion and noise of the department, and you stand there for a moment longer than you need to, watching her disappear into the hall, hoping that maybe, at least for today, she believes you a little more than she believes the voice in her own head.

******

The apartment is quiet in a way that feels earned. Not empty, not lonely, just still, the kind of stillness that wraps around you after a long day and asks nothing of you except that you breathe and exist and let your body catch up to everything it’s been carrying.

You sink deeper into the bath, the water still warm enough to ease the tightness in your muscles, bubbles clinging lazily to your skin as the soft, low light from the lamp in the corner casts everything in a golden haze that feels a world away from the fluorescent brightness of the ED. Your head had been pounding earlier, a dull, relentless ache that sat behind your eyes and made everything feel sharper than it needed to be, but now it’s faded, replaced by that heavy, post-shift exhaustion that feels almost like relief.

You close your eyes for a second. Just a second. And then the front door opens.

You don’t move, but your lips curve slightly, your body recognizing the sound before your mind fully catches up.

Robby.

A few minutes pass, footsteps, the quiet rustle of him setting things down, the familiar rhythm of him moving through the apartment, and then the bathroom door opens just enough for him to lean his head in.

“There you are,” he says.

You open your eyes, turning your head slightly to look at him, your expression softening without effort.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He takes you in for a second, his gaze dragging just slightly over the scene, the bath, the low light, the way you’re sunk into the water like you’ve finally allowed yourself to stop, and something in his expression shifts, the tension he walked in with easing just a fraction.

“Rough day?” he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

You let out a quiet breath, tilting your head back against the edge of the tub.

“That obvious?”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping fully into the room now. “You only do the spa setup when it’s been that kind of shift.”

You huff softly, not denying it.

“Your turn,” you say, glancing at him again. “How was yours?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair as he moves closer, eventually lowering himself down to sit beside the tub, one arm coming to rest along the edge near you.

“Gloria’s on me about resident scheduling,” he says, his tone edged with irritation. “Apparently I’m not ‘circulating coverage expectations clearly enough,’ which is her polite way of saying she thinks things are slipping.”

You wince slightly. “Oof.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat. Then you glance at him again, something more thoughtful slipping into your expression.

“I played Mom today,” you say.

That catches his attention. His brow lifts slightly, curiosity replacing some of the frustration.

“Oh yeah?” he asks. “To who?”

You shift slightly in the water, turning just enough to face him more directly.

“Your residents,” you reply.

That earns you the faintest hint of a smirk.

“My residents are adults,” he says.

“Debatable,” you counter lightly.

He huffs, but there’s no real argument behind it. “Alright. Go on.”

You take a breath, then start with Mel, explaining the break room conversation, the quiet way she’d admitted how out of place she felt watching her sister’s life move in a direction she wasn’t even sure she wanted yet, the comparison, the pressure, the way it had settled on her shoulders without her fully realizing it. Robby listens, his expression thoughtful, his posture relaxed but attentive. Then you shift to Samira.

His expression changes almost immediately.

“She told you that?” he asks, his tone sharpening slightly when you repeat her words about being called slow.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He exhales, already gearing up to respond.

“I wasn’t—”

“I know,” you cut in gently, not harsh, but firm enough to stop him before he builds a defense.

He pauses, watching you.

“You’re too hard on her though,” you continue, your voice calm but certain. “And before you argue, just, hear me out.”

He doesn’t interrupt this time. You lean your head back slightly, your gaze drifting for a second before settling back on him.

“She reminds you of you,” you say. “Back then. When you were still figuring things out and everyone around you was faster, louder, more decisive.”

His jaw tightens just slightly. You don’t stop.

“And instead of giving her room to grow into that, you push her like you were pushed,” you add. “Which worked for you, sure. But it’s not working for her.”

There’s a long pause. Robby doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, his hand slips into the water, warm fingers brushing gently against your shoulder, the movement absent at first and then more intentional, slow, steady, easing some of the tension you didn’t even realize was still sitting there.

It feels… really good. You let out a soft breath, your eyes closing briefly as you lean into the touch.

“That’s… a take,” he says finally, quieter now.

“It’s the right one,” you murmur, not opening your eyes yet.

His fingers continue moving along your shoulder, down your arm, the water shifting softly with each pass.

“You think I’m being unfair,” he says.

“I think you’re being you,” you reply. “Which is great for the department. Less great for someone who doesn’t operate like you do.”

Another pause. This one softer. Less defensive. You open your eyes again, glancing at him, catching the way he’s looking at you now, really looking, like he’s turning your words over instead of rejecting them outright.

“You gonna sit there all night,” you ask lightly, “or are you getting in?”

He snorts softly. “I hate baths.”

You tilt your head, one brow lifting. “You do.”

“They’re too hot,” he adds. “And I feel like I’m being boiled alive.”

You smile faintly. “Dramatic.”

“Accurate,” he corrects.

You shift slightly in the water, the movement sending a small ripple toward him as you meet his gaze.

“Yeah,” you say, softer now, a hint of teasing slipping in, “but you love me naked against you.”

That gets him. A small, reluctant smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, his hand pausing against your shoulder as he shakes his head.

“You’re not subtle,” he mutters.

“Never claimed to be,” you reply.

He studies you for a second longer, then exhales, already starting to push himself up from the edge of the tub.

“This is a terrible idea,” he says.

You smile, settling deeper into the water as you watch him.

“And yet,” you murmur, “you’re still getting in.”

He doesn’t argue that.

******

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft spill of light from the hallway and the faint glow from the street outside filtering through the curtains, the kind of quiet, intimate darkness that makes everything feel closer, warmer, more contained. You’re stretched out beneath him, the sheets tangled low around your legs, your skin still faintly warm from the bath, from the slow unraveling of the evening, from the way everything between you had softened and steadied after the conversation that needed to happen.

Now, though, there’s nothing soft about the way his hands move. Robby’s palms slide along your hips, firm and familiar, his fingers pressing into your skin as if he needs to feel you there, real and solid beneath him, the weight of him grounding and steady as he shifts just enough to settle between your legs.

“God,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice low and rough in a way that makes your chest tighten.

Your hands slide up his arms, feeling the tension there, the strength, the way he’s holding himself just barely in check as his mouth finds your collarbone, then lower, his lips warm against your skin as he traces a slow path downward. You tilt your head back slightly, your breath catching, your fingers tightening just a fraction against him as you feel the familiar pull of it, the way he knows exactly how to undo you without even trying.

“Robby—”

Your phone rings. Loud. Sharp. Completely out of place in the quiet of the room.

You freeze for half a second, your eyes snapping open as the sound cuts through everything, and Robby groans immediately against your skin, his forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder in clear frustration

“Don’t,” he mutters.

You huff out a breath that is half-laugh, half-exasperation, reaching blindly toward the nightstand.

“It might be important,” you say, even as your voice is a little breathless.

“It’s not,” he insists, his hands tightening slightly at your hips as if that might physically stop you.

You manage to grab your phone anyway, glancing at the screen.

“Mel,” you say.

That gets just enough of a reaction from him that he shifts back slightly, though not far, his body still close, still hovering over you in a way that makes it very clear he is not done with this moment. You swipe to answer.

“Hey, are you okay?” you say, trying to steady your breathing.

On the other end, Mel launches right in.

“Okay, so quick question, Becca just told me she’s using condoms but now she’s thinking about going on birth control and I don’t know if that’s overkill or responsible or—”

You blink, your brain taking a second to catch up as Robby leans back in, apparently deciding that if you’re going to take the call, he’s not obligated to stop what he’s doing.

“Mel,” you say, trying to focus, though your voice wavers slightly as his lips brush your skin between your breasts again, slower now, more deliberate, like he’s testing how much he can get away with.

“—because like, is that normal after six months or—”

“It’s—” you inhale sharply, your free hand coming up to press lightly against Robby’s shoulder, attempting to push him back just a little.

He resists. Of course he does. Not forcefully, not in a way that ignores you, but in a playful, stubborn way that makes it clear he’s not interested in surrendering the moment entirely.

“Robby,” you whisper under your breath.

He doesn’t stop. You try again, a little more firmly this time, shifting your weight just enough to create space.

“Hold on,” you say into the phone, your tone apologetic but strained. “Yes, Mel, honestly, it’s probably a good time for her to consider some form of contraception if she’s thinking about it more seriously.”

“Okay, because I told her that too, but I wasn’t sure if I was projecting or—”

Robby’s voice brushes low against your skin, barely above a whisper. His tongue dipped into your bellybutton.

“Hang up the phone.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh despite yourself.

“I can’t just—” you start, your words catching slightly as his hand shifts along your side.

“Yes, you can,” he murmurs, his tone equal parts amused and impatient. “You absolutely can.”

“—and I think,” you continue to Mel, valiantly trying to stay on track, “that it’s more about what makes her feel comfortable and in control of her choices than anything else—”

“Okay, yeah, that makes sense,” Mel says quickly. “I just didn’t want to tell her something wrong.”

“You didn’t,” you assure her, your voice softening as you finally manage to push Robby back just enough to look at him, your expression caught somewhere between exasperation and laughter.

He just looks at you. Completely unrepentant.

“Also,” Mel adds, “sorry, I know it’s late—”

“It’s fine,” you say, though your tone clearly suggests the opposite as your attention flicks back to Robby, who is very clearly losing patience. “I said you could call it you needed-hey!”

His hand reaches up. Fast. He plucks the phone cleanly from your hand before you can react, lifting it to his ear for the briefest second.

“Dr. King,” he says calmly, “you’re doing great. But you can talk to your friend tomorrow.”

And then he ends the call. Just like that. He tosses the phone onto the bed beside you, out of reach, before your brain can even fully process what just happened.

“Robby—” you start, half laughing now.

But you don’t get any further. Because he’s already back, his hand coming to your jaw, guiding your face toward his as he leans in and kisses you. This time there’s nothing distracted about it. No interruption. No hesitation. Just heat and certainty and the kind of focus that makes everything else disappear, his frustration from earlier folding into something sharper, something more deliberate.

Your hand comes up instinctively, tangling lightly in his Star of David charm as you lean into his chest, the last remnants of the interruption slipping away as easily as it came.

When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead brushing yours, there’s a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re done taking calls,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, your voice soft.

“Apparently.”

*****

The nurses’ station is chaos in its most organized form, a constant rotation of voices and movement and information being exchanged faster than anyone outside the department could follow, and somehow, in the middle of it, you’ve carved out exactly enough space to stand there with a plastic container of salad and a Diet Coke that’s already sweating onto the counter. You take a bite between updating the board, your eyes flicking up every few seconds to track movement, to anticipate what’s coming next, to keep everything just a step ahead of where it might fall apart.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not calm. But it’s yours. And for a brief moment, it’s manageable.

“Stealing five minutes?” Robby’s voice comes from just behind you, low and familiar enough that your shoulders relax a fraction without you realizing it.

You don’t turn right away, just lift your fork slightly in acknowledgment. “Trying.”

He steps in beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your side, his hand coming up almost automatically to rest against your back, fingers pressing lightly in a slow, absent rub that feels grounding without drawing attention. You don’t comment on it. Neither does he.

He reaches past you, grabbing your Diet Coke without asking, taking a long sip before setting it back down exactly where it was.

You glance at him sideways. “Rude.”

“Necessary,” he counters, already looking past you toward the board.

You shake your head slightly, taking another bite. “Have you eaten?”

He exhales, the sound half-dismissive, half-resigned. “I will.”

“You said that three hours ago.”

“I meant it then too,” he replies, his tone dry but not defensive.

You open your mouth to push it, to tell him to go now instead of later, but someone calls his name from across the station and his attention shifts immediately.

“I’ll get something,” he says, already stepping back. “Finish your rabbit food.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s a salad.”

“Same thing,” he tosses over his shoulder as he walks away.

You watch him go for a second longer than you need to, your expression softening just slightly before you turn back to your food and catch Samira staring at you. Not subtly. Not casually.

You pause mid-bite, lowering your fork slowly. “What?”

Samira doesn’t answer right away, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she watches the direction Robby just disappeared in, her expression caught somewhere between irritation and something more difficult to pin down.

“Why can’t he be nice to me?” she asks finally.

You blink. “I’m sorry—what?”

She turns to you then, frustration written clearly across her face. “Not like…that,” she says quickly, gesturing vaguely between you and the space Robby occupied a moment ago. “Not in a relationship way. I don’t want that.”

“Okay,” you say slowly.

“I just mean,” she continues, her tone tightening, “why does he have to be such a dick about everything?”

You don’t react immediately. You just listen. Because she needs to get it out.

“He cuts me off,” she says. “He corrects me mid-sentence, he pushes, he—he never just…lets me be right without making it feel like I barely got there.”

You tilt your head slightly, your fork resting against the edge of your container now, forgotten.

“And I know he’s like that with everyone,” she adds quickly. “I’m not special. That’s not what this is.”

You nod once. “Okay.”

“But he’s not like that with you,” she says, quieter now.

That lands differently. You don’t answer right away. Instead, you study her for a second longer, watching the way she holds herself, the tension in her shoulders, the frustration that’s not entirely about Robby, not entirely about work. And then something clicks. You set your fork down.

“Samira,” you say, your tone shifting slightly, more curious now than reactive, “when was the last time you went on a date?”

She freezes. Actually freezes.

“What?” she asks, like you’ve just changed languages mid-conversation.

“A date,” you repeat calmly. “When was the last one?”

She blinks, her gaze darting away for a second as she tries to recover.

“That’s not—what does that have to do with anything?”

You don’t let it go.

“When was it?” you press gently.

She hesitates. Then shifts.

Then finally mutters, “It’s been… a while.”

“How long is ‘a while’?”

She exhales sharply. “Months.”

You raise a brow. “Try again.”

She groans under her breath. “Okay, fine. Longer than that.”

You nod slowly, like you’ve just confirmed something.

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” you ask.

The reaction is immediate. Samira laughs. Not sharp. Not defensive. But bright and a little unexpected, her entire demeanor shifting in a way you haven’t seen before, something softer and more open slipping through.

“Are you serious?” she asks.

“Very,” you reply.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly looking a little less like the confident attending who walked into this conversation and a little more like someone caught off guard in a way she didn’t see coming.

“I mean… I wouldn’t hate that,” she admits, her voice lighter now, almost, dare you say it, hopeful. You smile faintly, something settling into place.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll think on it.”

She shakes her head, still smiling slightly. “This is ridiculous.”

“No,” you reply. “This is necessary.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no bite to it now.

“Go back to your salad,” she says, pushing off the counter. “Before you start trying to fix my entire life.”

“No promises,” you call after her.

But you’re already thinking.

******

Later that night, the world feels different. The park stretches out in front of you in soft shadows and dim lighting, the sound of the city muted by distance, replaced by the faint rustle of leaves and the steady rhythm of your footsteps beside his. Robby walks with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders looser now than they were earlier, the tension of the shift worn down into something manageable. You glance at him.

“I had a conversation with Samira today,” you say.

That gets his attention.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply. “She thinks you’re a dick.”

He huffs. “That’s not new information.”

You smile faintly. “No, but her reasoning was interesting.”

He glances at you. “Which is?”

“She doesn’t think you’re like that with me.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Which is, in itself, a response.

“She’s frustrated,” you continue. “And I think part of it is work, but part of it is… something else.”

Robby exhales, his gaze drifting ahead. “I’m not getting involved in my residents’ personal lives.”

You snort softly. “That’s rich.”

He looks at you. “What?”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you say simply.

His brow furrows. “How?”

You stop walking for a second, turning to face him fully.

“Your resident’s personal life?” you say. “Have we met?”

He blinks. Then exhales. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” you counter.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “It is.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer, then shrug slightly.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, starting to walk again.

He follows, his tone more cautious now. “What are you planning?”

You don’t answer right away. You let the silence stretch just long enough to make him feel it.

“You’re going to have to get involved,” you say lightly.

He groans. “No.”

“Yes,” you reply.

“With who?” he asks, already regretting the question.

You glance at him, a small, satisfied smile pulling at your mouth.

“Jack Abbot.”

You keep walking. Leaving him standing there for half a second longer than he intended, his entire expression caught somewhere between shock, disbelief, and the dawning realization that you are absolutely serious.

“Absolutely not,” he calls after you.

You don’t even turn around.

“Oh, it’s happening,” you toss back.

******

The bar is dim in that deliberate, after-work kind of way, low amber lighting casting everything in a soft glow that feels forgiving after the harsh brightness of the hospital, the hum of conversation blending with the quiet clink of glasses and the low thrum of music that no one is really listening to but everyone somehow feels.

It is not fancy. It is not curated. It is exactly the kind of place people from the ED end up in after a long shift, close enough to stumble to, loud enough to drown out the day, and just relaxed enough that no one has to pretend to be anything other than exhausted.

You slide into the booth first, Samira just behind you, her movements just a fraction tighter than usual, her shoulders held a little higher, her eyes scanning the room in that subtle way that tells you she is very aware of herself right now.

“Relax,” you murmur under your breath as you settle in, nudging her lightly with your elbow. “It’s drinks, not a deposition.”

She huffs softly. “I know.”

“You don’t look like you know.”

“I look perfectly normal,” she says, smoothing a hand down the front of her blouse like that proves the point.

You bite back a smile.nAcross from you, Jack slides into the booth with the ease of someone who has never once in his life been nervous about a social situation, his arm draping casually along the back of the seat as he glances between the two of you with open curiosity.

“This feels like a setup,” he says immediately.

You keep your expression neutral. “Does it?”

“Yeah,” he replies, leaning back slightly. “You don’t just ‘grab drinks’ with me. You have ulterior motives.”

Robby slides in beside him, slower, more observant, his gaze flicking briefly to you before settling back on Jack.

“You’re not that important,” he says dryly.

Jack grins. “See, that’s hurtful.”

Samira lets out a small, quiet laugh at that, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction.

Good. You glance at Robby. He glances back. There’s a flicker of something there, amusement, suspicion, the faintest hint of what are you doing?…and you ignore it completely.

“So,” Jack continues, turning his attention to Samira, “you got dragged into this too?”

Samira straightens slightly, her composure snapping back into place just enough.

“I was invited,” she says, her tone measured.

“Same thing,” Jack replies easily.

You watch the exchange, something in you settling as the conversation begins to move, to find its rhythm, Samira answering, Jack pushing, Robby occasionally cutting in with dry commentary that keeps everything grounded.

For a few minutes, it works. It actually works. Samira relaxes, her responses becoming more natural, her humor slipping through in small, sharp comments that catch Jack off guard in a way that makes him laugh. Jack leans forward slightly, more engaged now.

Robby watches. You listen. And then, it hits you. Not all at once. But enough. Jack doesn’t know. You see it in the way he talks to her, the easy, open curiosity, the lack of that subtle shift people make when they know they’re being introduced to someone intentionally.

You glance at Robby. He does not look back at you this time. Oh no. You narrow your eyes slightly. He absolutely knows. He just didn’t tell Jack.

You take a slow sip of your drink, considering your options. Then you set it down.

“Robby,” you say sweetly.

He looks at you immediately.!That was his first mistake.

“Come with me to get another drink,” you add.

He blinks. “You have a drink.”

“I want another one,” you reply.

“You’re fine,” he says.

Second mistake. You reach across the table, grab his wrist, and pull.

“Up,” you say.

Jack laughs immediately, leaning back to get out of the way. “Oh, this is good. This is very good.”

Robby resists for approximately half a second before standing, letting you drag him out of the booth and toward the bar, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement.

“What are you doing?” he mutters once you’re out of earshot.

You turn on him immediately.

“He doesn’t know,” you say.

“Who?” he asks.

“Jack,” you snap. “He doesn’t know it’s a date.”

Robby pauses. “Oh.”

You stare at him.

“Oh?” you repeat. “That’s your response?”

“I thought you told Samira,” he says.

“I did tell Samira,” you reply. “You were supposed to tell Jack.”

“I assumed he’d figure it out,” he says.

You laugh, incredulous. “He thinks this is a casual drink, Robby.”

Robby exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright. I’ll fix it.”

“You better,” you mutter.

There’s a beat. Then his mouth twitches slightly.

“You’re enjoying this,” he says.

You don’t even pretend to deny it. “A little.”

He shakes his head, already turning back toward the booth.

“Come on,” he says.

You follow him back, your expression carefully neutral again as you slide back into your seat beside Samira, who immediately glances at you with a subtle, questioning look. You give her the smallest nod. It’s happening. Across from you, Jack looks between you and Robby, already suspicious again.

“What did I miss?” he asks.

Robby leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his tone casual but deliberate.

“Jack,” he says, “this is a date.”

There’s a pause. A full, beat-long pause. Jack blinks. Once. Twice. Then looks at Samira. Then back at Robby. Then at you.

“…well,” he says slowly, a grin spreading across his face, “that explains a lot.”

Samira exhales, half-laughing, half-mortified, but there’s a softness in it now, something less tense, more real.

You sit back slightly, satisfied. Robby glances at you. You meet his gaze. And for a second it feels exactly like you hoped it would.

******

The apartment is quiet again, but this time it’s the kind of quiet that settles in after something good, something full, something that leaves you both a little lighter than you were before. You move through your routine slowly, deliberately, the soft glow of the bathroom light reflecting off the mirror as you finish your skincare, fingers moving automatically through the steps you’ve done a hundred times, your mind drifting back through the evening, the way Samira had relaxed, the way Jack had leaned in, the way Robby had watched you like he always does when you’re in your element.

By the time you step into the bedroom, he’s already there. Robby is propped up against the headboard, glasses low on his nose, a book open in his hands, one leg stretched out under the sheets and the other bent slightly as if he hasn’t fully settled yet.

You don’t say anything. You just climb in beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight as you slide close, turning into him instinctively, your arm wrapping across his chest as your cheek presses lightly against his shoulder.

He doesn’t look up right away. But his hand moves. Of course it does. It comes to rest at your side, fingers sliding slowly along your ribs in an absent, familiar rhythm as he keeps reading, the quiet intimacy of it wrapping around you in a way that feels just as comforting as anything louder or more deliberate.

For a few minutes, you let it be. The quiet. The steady movement of his hand. The soft sound of a page turning.

“Do you think Samira went home with Jack?” you ask.

Robby doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”

You tilt your head slightly against him. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“I’m not thinking about it,” he replies, his tone already edged with annoyance. “And I’m not talking about it.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound muffled slightly against his shoulder.

“Oh, come on,” you tease. “You’re not even a little curious?”

“No,” he says flatly, turning a page. “I am actively choosing not to be curious.”

You shift just enough to look up at him, a grin tugging at your mouth.

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun,” he counters dryly. “Just not about my colleagues’ personal lives.”

You laugh again, the sound lighter this time, and he finally glances down at you, the corner of his mouth betraying him with the faintest hint of a smirk.

“There it is,” you say softly. “You do care.”

“I don’t,” he insists.

“You absolutely do.”

He exhales, shaking his head slightly, but the tension in him has already eased, the irritation replaced with something softer, more familiar.

“Go to sleep,” he mutters.

“Make me,” you reply, settling back into him.

He doesn’t respond to that. Not with words, anyway. A few minutes pass like that, the quiet returning, the rhythm of his hand against your side slowing as the book begins to lose his full attention. Then, finally, he closes it.

The soft thud of it against the nightstand feels louder than it should in the stillness of the room, and the lamp clicks off a second later, plunging everything into a gentle darkness that feels more like a cocoon than an absence. He shifts beside you, turning fully this time, his arm sliding around you as he pulls you closer under the sheets.

“Are you done mothering for a while?” he asks, his voice lower now, closer.

You huff softly against him. “I can’t help it.”

“I beg to differ,” he replies, his hand moving up your back slowly, thoughtfully. “If you’re so busy taking care of everyone else… who’s taking care of you?”

The answer comes out before you even think about it.

“You are.”

The words land. And the room shifts. You feel it immediately, the way his body stills just slightly, the way his hold on you tightens just enough to register, the silence between you suddenly carrying more weight than it did a second ago.

Your breath catches, just a little. You hadn’t meant to say it like that. Hadn’t meant to say it so easily. You open your mouth, ready to backtrack, to soften it, to turn it into something lighter, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

Robby pulls you closer instead, his hand sliding up along your spine as he leans in and kisses you, deep and steady and grounding, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t overthink, just answers. You melt into it, your hand coming up to his face, fingers brushing along his jaw as his thumb presses warm against your back, his touch sure, certain. When he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is softer than you’ve heard it all day.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs.

Something in you goes warm and quiet all at once, like the words settle somewhere deeper than you expected, your thumb tracing slowly along his cheekbone as you look at him in the dark.

And then, because you are still you, you tilt your head slightly and murmur, “If I’m the mom of the ER… does that make you Dr. Daddy?”

“Absolutely not,” he says, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as you burst into laughter beneath him, your whole body shaking with it as he exhales in mock defeat.

“You walked right into that,” you manage between laughs.

“I did not,” he mutters.

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his expression caught between exasperation and something undeniably fond.

“You’re unbelievable.”

You grin, still breathless. “You love me.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“No, no, not for me, my patient,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Please, I wish it was for me.”

“Why do you need a condom for a patient?” you asked, amused almost. “Is he hot?”

“What? No? My patient, he's HIV but apparently very, very active and he doesn't have condoms. He says he-he prefers it without and I've explained everything to him but there's no condoms in the draw where we keep them!” explained Samira.

“We have a condom draw?” asked Trinity, taking only that as the necessary information from Mohan's ramble.

You handed her the chart. “You sleep with women.”

“What? So I'm not allowed in the condom draw?”

“It's for sex ed teachings, people who are young and having sex,” you shrugged. “Stuff like that. Come on, I can help you out.”

The nurses desk was practically vacant. Around you everyone busied themselves with greeting the nigh shift and getting them out, taking away patients like the changing of the guard. It was almost too early to be dealing with tough patients who wouldn't protect themselves.

You led the way around the counter, Mohan and Santos (who took an invitation for herself) followed you over to the desk as you reached down for Robby's bag, propping it up.

It was no surprise to them that you were reaching for his bag, reaching for his stuff like it was yours. What was Robby's was yours. The real surprise had been when Mel found the two of you eight months ago making out in the storage room, shrieking and dropping a bag of blood that then splashed all over you.

And obviously at the scream everyone ran over and found the two of you rather compromised and covered in blood. You still weren't really done living that down.

You fished around in Robby's bag, the owner somewhere not there to see as you brought out an opened box of condoms. “Here,” you said handing her a thick strip as Santos laughed.

Samira took them wearily, a small dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Won't you... miss these?”

“No,” you said, rocking on your heels, suddenly feeling the familiar creeping heat of embarrassment. “We have... more.”

Santos smirked. “Keeping Robby in shape, huh?”

Samira shuddered. “I really don't want to think about my boss like that, but thank you!” you said, waving the strip like it was a flag and rushing off before her patient could walk off. She was a good doctor, dedicated you knew and you were just happy to help her reach her potential.

Distracted by watching her leave you failed to notice Trinity sneak over to Robby's bag, peeking inside like a nosy cat.

“Hey!” you lectured, pulling the zipper shut on her hand.

“What? Just wanted to know what else you got in there? Does he keep a pair of panties? Vibrator if it gets quiet,” she teased.

You blushed, shaking your head and looking down to the bag. “You have no shame, that's your boss you're talking about.”

She made a pfft noise. “You're the one screwing him.”

Yes, you were. Proudly and happily.

Javadi slid up next to you, practically shoving you a tablet and asking for your advice. You were somewhere deep in your residency, one of the first they were introduced to on their hell of a first day. Not as scary as Robby, easier to talk to than Langdon. It was typical for the Pittlings and Mohan to come to you when they needed advice. You liked it really, as much as Santos teased you and as much as Mohan and Javadi doubted themselves.

“Hey Crash,” said Trinity, all but giddy with the new knowledge she had about Doctor Robby's contents in his bag. “You wanna know what's in this bag of secrets.”

“No,” you chastised.

Javadi's eyes lightened up. “Is that Doctor Robby's bag?”

“It doesn't matter,” you said, pushing it back down to your feet.

“Hey,” Samira joined the group of you again, handing you back the strip of condoms. “He said he can't take these.” The rest of the doctors and nurses hustled around the Pitt, un-knowing of the personal dilemmas being aired out.

You lifted your shoulders. “You needed condoms, those are condoms.”

“Yes but they're not the right size,” said Mohan. “He says they wouldn't fit, they're too big.”

Oh.

Perhaps at some point you'd been shocked at the size of Robby. Before you'd only had your imagination and hints of him beneath his scrubs. The times when he'd brush past you in the teasing beginning of your relationship and you'd feel something prod at you. The first time he'd dragged you to his bedroom, lips seething in heat and teeth nipping in want to only lay you out on his bed and drag his pants and underwear down to show all of him- then you'd been shocked. Mouth watering so.

Over the months the shock transformed to desire, reaching hands and an eager mouth that you stopped thinking about the size.

You didn't think anything of it when you handed Mohan a strip of five extra-large condoms.

Standing at the nurses station it may as well have been a deserted island and you stared down at the condoms like it was your first offering of food.

“Uh-”

Javadi snatched the condoms from Samira first, staring down at them with mouth agape. “Oh my god.”

“Javadi-”

“Holy shit!”

You looked back and Santos had pulled out Robby's bag again, pulling out the box and staring at the size stamped on the front. “Santos!”

“No wonder you walk in limping.”

“I do not- I do not walk in limping!”

“Well, there was that one time-” said Mohan.

“No, there wasn't!” you argued. “I'd bruised my ankle.”

Mohan chuckled to herself. “Sure.”

Trinity smirked. “Bruised something.”

Javadi was still staring at the strip of condoms in wonder. “How do they even get this big?”

You snatched them away from her the way you might have if a child found them. Quickly you stuffed them in the box, threw them back in Robby's bag and kept it behind your back.

“Wait, why do you have a box of condoms for work?” asked Javadi.

“Oh please,” said Santos with a groan. “They're always at it in work. Better safe than sorry.”

“We are not always at it at work,” you defended.

“The storage closet?” asked Mohan, apparently abandoning the venture of finding fitting condoms for her patient.

You held up a finger. “That was one time.”

“The toilets,” added Santos, sadly remembering the time you and Robby had hid yourselves in the bathroom for a break. A break that was only supposed to be comforting touched turned hot and reaching quickly.

“That one time in the exam room where we thought we were examining a broken hip for a Mrs Driscoll-” began Javadi.

“Okay! Okay, I get it!” you interrupted.

“I think it's nice,” Trinity quipped her lip, arms crossing over her chest. “Get some dick when you can right.” She patted your shoulder like a proud sister as she left the group of you, laughing quietly to herself.

Victoria and Samira followed suit, leaving you with the ramifications of your own embarrassment. So what your boyfriend was largely endowed, wasn't it a compliment? Weren't you the luckiest girl in the world to have Robby with soft and tender touches turned to almost hateful thrusts with how hard he loved you.

You made sure Robby's bag was tightly closed before sliding it back under the desk.

The day brought the same usual storm the ED always brought. Enough to distract you from the mornings events and the package sitting inside of Robby's bag. You were left with only a creeping heat crawling up your neck, the last dregs of your doctors eyes on you and their giddy smiles.

You'd only managed to make it to the staff lounge for a coffee by mid day, taking the mug that was yours, marked with an inside joke and given one secret Santa round.

“Hey.” Robby slipped into the room, leaning his back against the sink and standing next to you.

“Hey yourself.”

For a moment there was a silence where you poured coffee for the both of you, handing him his mug.

Robby's fingers grazed yours, the simplest touch sending shivers through your skin. “Can I ask you something?”

You hummed, head tucked away. He wouldn't have heard about the mornings teasing's, would he?

“Santos has been... off today,” he said.

He would.

You gulped, a feign of concern falling to you. “She has?”

“Keeps looking at me and smirking. She's doing this thing with her hands where she-” he demonstrated, spreading his hands to different distances, some small, some bigger. His hands wavered around the imaginary object between his hands.

You were left groaning.

Robby's head tilted toward you. “Do you know anything?”

In attempts of hiding away the story your head ducked and shook side to side.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” you said.

Robby's fingers were slightly calloused but no less humble as he pinched your chin, realigning his gaze with yours. His brows rose, gaze pouring into yours. He didn't even have to ask you again.

You sighed. “This morning Mohan had a patient with HIV and she wanted to give him condoms but there was none where they usually are so I gave her some of ours. But they weren't exactly... the right size.”

There was a small furrow of confusion in his face as he waited for you to elaborate.

You turned your body into his, lowering your voice. “Not everybody can fit into an extra large, Robby.”

The furrow gave and a small grin split his cheeks as he glanced down to your shoes, a pink blooming under his beard and to his cheeks. It was different from your own embarrassment. He was more pleased with himself.

Robby straightened, hands wavering. “So how does... this connect to-”

“Santos was there this morning when Samira asked.”

He chuckled, tongue poking out into his cheek as he shook his head in amusement.

“It's not funny,” you said, nudging him.

He rocked on his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Your coffee was turning lukewarm in hand, the bitter taste suddenly too sweet as you made to walk away from him and stew in your own humiliation.

Robby's fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged, using you to pull himself in closer. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he teased, voice dropping into the low drag in his condescending way. The sort of voice he used to coax you down into bed with his darkening eyes and lustful approach. “Is my dick too big? Do I fuck you too good?” His hands grabbed at your hips, bringing you into him, tongue darting out to your neck.

Your body wriggled in his hold, trying to escape as his arms grew strong around you. “Stop!” You laughed.

“Make me.” He nipped at your neck, licking over the sting he caused.

The door was pushed open and Langdon stumbled in the doorway, catching sight of the two of you tangled in arms and laughter.

“Are you two doing it in the lounge now?” he asked.

You guessed you just should've been thankful Langdon wasn't there that morning, otherwise there would have been competitions between him and Santos on who could make the best jokes out of your misery.

Slowly, Robby moved away from you, pulling himself up straight and pulling at his hoodie before leading the way out the room.

McKay was wheeling a patient away to x-ray, Samira was giving aftercare instructions to an elderly couple and Mel was somewhere lurking in a corner talking to Dana.

Santos, however, was still being the most productive, sitting across from Javadi and still trying to make sense of some invisible size between her hands.

You watched, un-able to stop as Robby walked behind Santos and spread her hands apart just a little, enough to leave more than enough inches between her hands.

Robby walked away, satisfied.

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

Dana approaches you somewhere in the hour of 12PM. She looks at you over the rim of her glasses, all blonde strands of hair and each wrinkle in her forehead lined with concern for someone, more or less, adjacent to you. It makes you sink in your seat. You had been residing at the main workstation with three of the residents painfully assorting patient files since the CEO in his Fourth of July garb had made the announcement of preemptively shutting off all computer systems; leaving the ED without electronic health records, connected charting etc. 

(You know, all the stuff that makes the department chug on like a semi-well-oiled machine.) 

Being somewhat of a specialist in the art of expressions and the silence that comes with it, you were able to conclude that Dana Evans—the guardian of the PTMC—was not approaching you for a long-overdue chinwag. 

Quite the opposite, actually. 

“You need to talk to him.” Dana commands in her usual gravel tone. 

It makes you nervously scratch at your brow-bone. “I know. I’m getting round to it. Just after—” 

“Now.” Dana interjects. She leans her whole body into the workstation, her voice drops down to barely a whisper, “He’s acting up. Being a real Fourth of July spectacle. All this before he hops on that godforsaken motorcycle for three months. You’ve got the most Robby jargon out of all of us. Put it to use.” 

You let out a deep exhale. “Fine.”

You stand at full height and Dana gives you a half smile that was a tamer version of amusement.

Things were not fine. In fact, things were so far out of the ballpark of fine, that you would never put Robby and the definition of ‘fine’, or ‘okay’ or, overall just ‘good’ in one sentence. He was a man on the precipice of a life-altering decision that those around him would suffer the consequences that he had made; much longer after his three-month sabbatical on the road came to a screeching halt. 

The signs had been there. Ever since you had begun at the PTMC as a fresh-faced attending with a basket full of naivety. It just took a couple of years for the signs to start catching up to you. And by then, your efforts to salvage the good pieces of Michael Robinavitch, had fallen through the cracks of a prepaid tombstone. 

For the most part, colleagues would acknowledge the mental health problems that trickle down from behavioural changes from their peers, and then they’d be able to go home without the additional weight of it upon their shoulders. No skin off of their noses if they weren’t the ones paying for the extensive therapy sessions. 

However, for you, that wasn’t the case. Since—

“He’s your husband.” Dana calls after you. 

You throw a hand up in retaliation, the sizeable rock on your ring finger catching the hazy overhead light. “Thank you, Dana.” 

The reminder wasn’t needed. Everyone—including the one who married him—was well aware that Dr. Michael Robinavtich had managed to be tied down. Motorcycle and all.

You had fallen in love prior to the catastrophic events from COVID, that had been the pipeline to Robby's mental health downfall. It had been exhilarating, and sometimes still was, at the beginning of the inner workings of a relationship that was blossoming beneath Gloria Underwood’s watchful eye. All the sneaking around, keycards slid beneath clipboards, kissing on company time. The pair of you felt like giddy teenagers copping a feel. 

He proposed to you within two years. Now, you were waltzing around the PTMC with a double barrel surname that was seemingly quite the tongue twister for those who took the time to read it. (This including Dennis Whitaker who went beet red when you had corrected his feeble attempt of reciting it back to you.) 

You peer into Pedes to find him as predicted—coddling Baby Jane Doe.

Robby’s head turns as you speak, “Hi,” you tilt your head and smile softly at the infant lazily dozing on your husband’s shoulder. “How is she doing?” 

“Oh, just lonely.” he lilts. 

You nod, smoothing a finger back and forth against her cheek, “She likes you.” 

“Well…she’d be the only one.” Robby mumbles as he places the infant back into the hospital cot. You smother the growing frown on your face when he straightens to full height. “You need me for something?” he asks quietly. 

I need you to come back to me. 

You settle for, “Just making sure you’re okay. You know—After how we left things this morning.” you say, deciding to take the brunt of whatever force you may be hit with—taking Dana out of the collateral damage. 

Things had been left on a sour note in the apartment you both shared in the downtown area of Pittsburgh. The looming presence of Robby’s three-month sabbatical with his cognitive well-being balancing on the line of a fraying thread had made quite the topic of conversation over his black coffee and your nourishing choice of breakfast. Therapy was always at the centre of your tedious endeavours to ensure Robby came back to you in one piece during the early hours before work; and getting him to listen was no easy feat. 

Your last ditch attempt to undertake your husband’s reluctance to get help was thrown back at you beneath venom and animosity. It had almost given you whiplash. Robby escaped the confines of the apartment with a slam of the door after insisting that if you put more of your efforts into ‘minding your own business’, you’d be able to resolve whatever unearthed issues you had rolling about in your mind—such as your unrelenting desire to help those who don’t want it. 

The motorcycle ride without the helmet must’ve given his head a good shake, because when you entered the sliding doors of the PTMC; Robby began loitering around you enough to make it obvious he felt a little guilty on how he had left things.

(Never go to bed angry. Never hop on a death trap after searing your wife with the hot iron rod of your pent up anger. Or, something like that.)

Robby takes a deep inhale, there’s a sort of playful glint in his eye as he speaks, “You know, when you continue to ask someone if they’re okay, it starts to get a little repetitive.” 

“Marriage is repetition.” you don’t miss a beat, the lightheartedness that swoops the conversation feels a little foreign; considering the circumstances. “Sue me for taking my vows seriously.” 

“Hm.” Robby hums, the blue latex gloves snapping off his hands, “Is this a welfare check?” 

He shrouds your personal space for a moment. Not enough to seem intentional, but you knew his actions were the end result of your magnetic presence—hence why he married you. You watch him cock his head in a roguishly handsome way, crows feet beside brown eyes exposed when he scrunches on eye shut. Michael Robinavitch was many things; but dense was not one.

His flirtations were consciously placed. 

The room fills with the bustle from the central area of the ED when Robby pushes the door open, wedging it open with one foot to allow you to depart from Pedes. He looks down the slope of his nose at you, a faint smile catches at the corner of his lips when you size him up in passing. 

“Are you open to one?” you bump your elbow into the softness of his stomach, habitually holding your hand beneath the sanitiser. It takes all your efforts to not look up at him. 

You begin to walk together. 

“Uh…nope.” 

His answer takes a subtle jab at your heart. “Then consider it as me just being nosy about how you’re feeling.” 

“That—” Robby halts you both, his fingers ghosting your elbow to allow a gurney to roll past. His eyes follow it as he continues, “—Is just a less fancier way of dressing this up as a welfare check. Have you seen Dana?” 

She’s the one that sent me, is what you want to say. 

“She’s talking with Emma.” you reply nonchalantly, “Robby, can you just…talk to me? Please? You’re deflecting.” 

“No, I’m running an Emergency Department.” Robby retorts, placing a hand on your back to keep you with him as he wades through the chaos of going analog. His eyes flit to you for a second and he softens at the melancholy you carry in your expression. “Sweetheart, I’m fine and sort of in the middle of something. Pin this conversation for later, okay?” 

“Sure.” you murmur when he walks away. Dana takes up the rear-end of the conversation, slotting herself shoulder to shoulder with you—an iPad balancing in the crook of her elbow. You don’t look at her when you say, “That went well.” 

“Plenty of time, honey.” Dana grits, patting your back, “You’ll get through to him. As for now, I’ve got a case in South 15. Right up your alley. Lookin’ real pretty for a distraction, hm? Come on.” 

Robby is distracted when he returns to the central hub. The patient chart is a mere prop in his hands. The information untouched by his plethora of clinical knowledge, because all he can hear is you laughing at something that the handsome Radiologist—Dr. Barker—has said. It hadn’t bothered him when his staff members, Princess and Javadi, had been stood gawping at the man from afar. Was it a little inconvenient considering the circumstances the ED were squashed under? Yes.

Until it became a hinderance to their performance; it wasn’t his problem. 

As for you…it was different. 

There was no overt behaviour that would lead anyone to believe that you were doing anything but being friendly until the wet reads came through for your patient in South 15. At an arms length from the guy, but still conversing in a way that shows off two of Robby’s favourite things about you: your genuine toothy-grin and the nose scrunch do when you find something funny. 

When Dana throws him a look in passing, he reverts back to the patient chart. Then your laughter carries across the room a minute after, and Robby decides that’s enough time spent with the pretty boy from upstairs that has set up camp in the middle of the ED.

He idles up next to you with all the curiosity of a Chief Attending and not a husband that reeks of jealous intrigue. 

(Professional before personal. The walls of the PTMC were a shield to the outside noise.) 

“Dr. Robby.” Barker greets. 

You turn your head to see Robby practically flush with your back. “Oh—Hi.”

“Dr. Barker.” Robby glances at you from his peripheral and chooses to ignore the mild perplexity that sits in the crease between your brows. His hands clutch his elbows when he crosses his arms across his chest, head tilting at the Radiologist. “How long on this patient’s imaging?” 

“Another fifteen minutes. Tops.” Barker answers after checking the process. 

“Then I assume you can circle back on the jokes in fifteen minutes.” your head whips to glare at the Chief Attending-gone-rogue on being tactful around his professional peers, “Catalogue of patients on that whiteboard. They won’t treat themselves.” he chides. 

You give Dr. Barker an apologetic look and walk by Robby who follows like a dog on a leash. Once the Radiologist is out of ear shot, you speak freely, “Are you seriously time-keeping my conversations?” 

“No.” Robby drawls, “Just making sure one of my best Attending still has her head in the game.” 

“That’s rich.” you scoff with minimal malice, “Dr. Barker is a good guy. The way you spoke to him back there—” 

Robby interjects. “Ho-ho, sounds like you like him.”

“I do.”

“More than me?” he angles his body into yours to make room for an oncoming nurse. (He doesn’t miss the small but wicked smile on your face.) 

You mull it over when you reach the board. “Only time will tell. You’re still on probation from your morning tantrum.” 

Robby lets out a rare cackle that spreads the amusement across his weathered features and you beam up at the sight of his crows feet making an appearance under the circumstances of lighthearted humour. The palm of his hand rubs the span of your back as you stare at the whiteboard, making it a sight to behold for the forthcoming med students. 

“I—Uh,” Robby starts, removing his glasses and scratching the skin behind his ear, “I want to apologise for how this morning went.” 

“Mhm.” you only look at him when you feel his eyes bore into your side-profile, “I forgive you. Doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be mad at you, Robinavitch.” you remark setting the base layer tone as nothing short of sarcastic. 

Robby inhales and speaks on the exhale, his voice only just audible to you, “Would…a five minute break in an on-call room make up for any of it?” 

He looks hopeful.

You pray he shares the same sentiment on his three-month sabbatical. Unlikely, but negativity didn’t pay the bills. 

The insinuation is clearer than glass. On-call rooms were meant for a sole purpose of providing the staff at the PTMC a safe space to rest in privacy. It required a keycard to gain access to. 

It was also the same space that Robby and you took advantage of for displays of affection that were crossing the boundaries classified in the Human Resources pamphlet you were both given on how to navigate an appropriate workplace relationship; and the power imbalances that could come with it. 

Gloria Underwood would turn in her ivory white tower if she knew what the pair of you got up to behind that particular closed door on the company dime. 

Robby’s offer was tempting. His handsome face and optimistic eyes were even more. 

“I’m happy where I am.” you advise him, without sounding too pained at the sacrifice. 

Robby surrenders. “Happy wife, happy life.” he states with his hands up, then deciding to give Ogilvie and Joy a show by pulling you in by your shoulder and pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. It was the least he could do, if the on-call room was off the menu. “Shout if you need me.” 

“Shout.” you whisper when he trails off, leaving you with the ambient hospital noises. (And, Joy and Ogilvie.) You point at them, “You two. With me.” 

Eventually you return to the middle of the Pitt, swiping two patients off of the white board with two fingers—too lazy to find the eraser. You weren’t sure what part had soured your mood. Either from the med-student Ogilvie’s unwavering need to put his foot in his mouth in front of patients and plummet those all important patient satisfaction scores, Louie’s passing, the foreboding presence of your husband’s three-month sabbatical; or catching the loose ends of Noelle Hastings and Robby’s conversation. 

He catches sight of you in passing—your face providing nothing but the word: hypocrite—whilst he absentmindedly bobs his head along to Hastings sugary rambling over McKay’s patient case. His forehead creases as she speaks, scratching at the nape of his neck nervously. Robby’s eyes flit over to you in the hopes that just this once, you may be a figment of his own imagination. 

Despite jealously being relatively beneath you in your marriage to one of the PTMC’s eligible bachelors, without being too presumptuous, Robby feared that seeing him converse with his non-committal ex, may be the cherry on the cake for how your day was going.

(Hastings always had a habit of lingering. Which made it look even worse.) 

Perlah comes up beside you, patient charts in abundance in her grasp. 

“Not bothering you?” she asks with a subtle jerk of her head in Robby and Noelle’s direction.

You shuffle through some results, “Give it a couple of minutes.” you murmur. 

Perlah lets out a laugh that catches both Noelle and Robby’s attention nearby. Their heads turn at the abrupt sound, which in turn breaks up their train of thought over the long winded discussion. Noelle squeezes Robby’s bicep before they go their separate ways, and suddenly your patient’s results need to be read millimetres from your face; when Noelle strolls into the workstation with a content expression on her pretty face. 

“You did that on purpose.” you whisper to Perlah behind your clipboard.

Perlah shrugs innocently and departs to ask Robby for a second-opinion. 

The case manager perches at the edge of the workstation you happen to sit at, happily tapping at the surface of the workstation.

The thing about Noelle Hastings was, that she was neither a friend nor a foe to you. She was simply an extension of Robby’s history of avoidant attachment that extended the length of seven-weeks. There was zero animosity toward her as some would anticipate you to have. She was kind, assisted you in insurance cases on the best outcome for the patient and even when she stepped over the invisible boundary that separated a fleeting situation from a marriage, with nostalgic remarks over her shared time with Robby; Noelle Hastings well-manicured nails were always far from digging into your husband. 

She was aware of this. Respectful. Part of you assumes she was trying to find a middle ground to bond over with you. Understandably, it could get a little awkward when your previous sexual endeavours’ wife is waltzing around the workplace. 

Even more awkward when she catches herself going all gooey whenever she was within close proximity to his charm. (Worked on her for years. It wasn’t going to stop now. Even if it wasn’t intentional on his part.) 

She speaks in the direction of Dana, “You know what Motorcycle Mike’s sabbatical is really about?” 

Dana remains unbothered, “I never try to guess what’s going on in that head of his.” 

You shift in your seat, and it highlights yourself to Noelle. 

“You’re not going with him?” Noelle tosses the net with a polite smile and you’re suddenly pulled into the conversation, no longer a bystander pretending to be busy.  “Uh, no.” you shift, rubbing the palms of your hands against your thighs.

Dana also responds, “You kiddin’? We’d go cuckoo bananas if we lost her to a three-month sabbatical too.” she peers over the brim of her glasses at Noelle, “Behind every great man, is a greater woman.” she proclaims. 

“I don’t doubt it.” Noelle laughs. There’s a thought that churns over in her head and you’re left surrendering yourself to yet another boundary crossed when she decides to vocalise it. “It’s just…That’d drive me crazy. You know? Him being off the radar for three whole months. The man couldn’t sleep without the TV on in the bedroom. How is he going to survive all that silence?”

You take the comment in your stride, shutting the monitor off and standing. Dana throws you an empathetic look as a woman has been in the game for thirty years. Someone like that learns to become observational when being patient-facing means the little expressions matter.

And with the rise and fall of your chest; Dana can come to the conclusion that you’re upset by Hastings throwaway comment. 

So, she defends where you won’t. 

“Little respect, Hastings.” Dana is casual in her directness. She glances at the pretty woman, “It goes a long way.” 

Noelle looks mortified. “Oh—No. I’m sorry. I overstepped.” 

“It’s fine.” you reassure her, gulping at the tightness in your throat, “You made an observation that has stood the test of time. Robby is a big boy. Three months to reflect, alone, is healthy. TV on or not.” 

Now, you’re irritated. 

It’s enough for the conversation to not chase you when you depart the workstation—Dana left to lowly chuckle in amusement at the underlying sharpness in your tone. You weave through bodies on autopilot, ears ringing from the seed of doubt planted by Hastings over Robby’s time away. It made you think that perhaps you had been too enthusiastic over the idea of a three-month sabbatical with little to no contact with a man on the brink of catastrophe. Too laidback in putting the power in the hands of his mind that had nothing but malicious intent over his body. 

It had sounded like a good idea at the time. Neither you or Robby could recall an official vacation that he had partaken in—aside from your honeymoon. Now? You weren’t so sure.

Everyone else had told you otherwise ever since it had been announced. 

“Everything okay?” by some hideous trick of fate, Robby matches the strides in the walk you were taking around the parameters of the department.

He had spotted you from the window of South 22 and excused himself with the reassurance from Dr. Al-Hashimi that she could hold down the fort. Being married to you came with unlimited perks, one being that Robby was able pinpoint your tells that signalled a combative mood. Not necessary toward him; but the idea wouldn’t be so far fetched. 

(It was all in the downturn of your lips. And the tightness in your jawline.) 

“You tell me. Does having to listen to your ex question my decision to not saddle up on a three-month sabbatical with my flight risk husband, whilst also sorely reminding me that she also knows you leave the TV on through the night, make a good case for everything to be going okay?” you quip, narrowly avoiding Ahmed’s call to the betting pool. 

Robby blows out hot air. “Could’ve said devoted husband.” he jokes. It crashes and burns when you spare him a stern glance. “Okay. How about we take in some fresh air in the Ambulance Bay?” 

“Lead the way.”  It doesn’t take much further and the summer air of Pittsburgh clings to your bodies in all the wrong places. It preemptively sets the tone as you scuff your feet against the ground, arms tightly bound across your chest in an effort to translate your hardened exterior from the events of the day. 

Honestly, it felt close to dogpiling once Hastings became—unintentionally—involved. 

Robby takes in the scenes of the empty Ambulance Bay, his eyes find his beloved motorcycle still in tact at the side of the building. He takes a step forward in order to block it from your line of vision. 

After a moment, an arm wraps around your shoulder and you’re suddenly curled into your husband’s side. His lips find your temple and they stay pressed against your skin to resolve some of the bad feelings running about in your chest. 

You close your eyes as Robby repetitively presses chaste kisses to the same spot, relishing in the physical affection that you will be deprived off for three months. Or further; depending on how far Michael Robinavitch was willing to go. 

The thought alone makes you recoil out of his touch. 

Robby’s brows quirk in confusion. “Too hot?” he asks naively. Unprepared. 

“We—” you sigh, “—We need to continue the conversation from this morning.” 

“No…we don’t.” Robby informs, his expression still unwavering in adoration, “It’s water under the bridge. I apologised.” 

“I’m talking about the part where you accept the therapy sessions on this sabbatical.” you start, feeling the prompt shift in the atmosphere, “Jack has given me all the information for his therapist—” 

“Sweetheart. I am begging you not to start this shit again.” Robby has the palms of his hands flush against each other in a begging motion that’s sent in your direction. “I don’t need a therapist on this trip.” 

“Throw me a bone here, Robby.” you exasperate, “You’re obviously not well. Is it really so bad that I’m making sure I get you back by the end of this?” you feel your patience chip, the skin of your neck prickling with frustration.

Robby chuckles. “Oh, you’ll get me back. I’ll make sure of it.”

The morbidity of his answer makes you pause. 

You blink at him, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means…stop telling me how to feel.” Robby narrows his eyes, throwing a sarcastic smile your way. 

“Then what are you feeling, Robby?” you snap at him, the humid summer air clinging to your skin. 

He chuckles lowly, “I really don’t need you to be my shrink.” 

You shake your head, “This isn’t what a shrink does. You would know that if you just see one for two days of the week whilst you’re away. Jack’s therapist does virtual appointments—” 

“I already gave you my answer to that.” 

“Holy shit.” you clench your fists and tap them against your forehead to relieve your frustrations, “I’m not asking you to lobotomise yourself on this sabbatical, Robby. It’s fucking therapy.”  

Robby sneers, “No? This—” he gestures to the space between you in circles, “—feels an awful lot like a lobotomy. Cut it out.” 

“Cut it out?” you repeat, “I’m not a child.”  “Are you sure about that, sweetheart?” Robby crosses his arms, the argument was beginning to feel like being inside a pressure cooker, “You’re upset over this morning. Over the sabbatical, clearly over whatever bullshit Hastings said to you. About Louie. You can’t regulate your own emotions at work and you have the nerve to tell me I need fucking help? That is fucking hypocrisy.”  “Oh, quit projecting.” you look around for a minute to take a break from the intense stare down. 

“Why…are you doing this right now?” 

You watch Robby rub at his temples. “Why? Because you’re lashing out. You’ve been doing it to Mohan, Dana and Al-Hashimi all fucking day. You’re upset that Langdon is back and you’re punishing him for your own feeling of failure.” 

“Mohan is tough love.” Robby cherrypicks. 

“Cut the shit, Robby. You’ve been wearing her down and you know it.” you gesture to the ED just beyond the sliding doors, “She had a panic attack and you belittled her over the same shit you did last year in Pedes!”

Robby shakes his head in disbelief, “You’re really bringing that up right now?” 

“Yes. I am.” you retort plainly, “Robby. Can’t you see this is all happening because I love you?” you collect your voice beneath a whisper when an EMT strolls by you. 

Robby waits until they vacate the premises to speak as he drags his fingers along creases in his forehead. “Yeah. I do. And, right now…I need you to love me less.” he conveys cruelly.  Your worry ebbs into hurt. Fingers curling tight enough that your nails are pressing crescent moons into the palm of your hands. His words lay flat against your chest like wet cement. Any further rebuttals you had lined up dissipate and you’re left with a blank slate, jaw slack as you try to make sense of it all. 

The Ambulance Bay plunges into icy waters. Robby nervously drags his thumbnail across the top of his brow bone as he cranes his neck to look inside the building. It wasn’t evident to you at the time, but his inner turmoil flares at the sight of your broken expression. 

Even when you gather yourself up with watery eyes and a wobbling bottom lip, Robby does nothing. He allows you the action of brushing past him to escape the jaws of his verbal brutality, throwing yourself back into the chaos of a holiday weekend. 

He’s left with the whir of ambulances in the distance.

Robby watches you leave, mumbling a ‘shit’ under his breath. He drops his head back to take in the humid air through his nostrils; the brief solitude condemned when Baran Al-Hashimi appears. 

“Robby?” Baran calls from the doors, offering a hesitant smile, “Perlah has notified me that Ms. Kovalenko—the burn patient—is ready to be seen again.” 

Robby swings his hands around his body, releasing the tension by smacking his palm against his other hand that was curled up into a fist. He strains a smile, “I’ll be right there.” 

Robby takes a shot at a breath to exhale any leftover poison on his tongue from your spat—being wise to the fact that patient satisfaction scores would increase without personal baggage. The dispenser spits the sanitiser into his hand and he chooses to open the door with his back; checking for any sign of you amongst the sea of people marching about. 

The pit in his stomach grows when he can spot you in the middle discussing a case with McKay. Your back is turned, but Robby has been with you long enough to see the tension taught across your shoulder blades from the deep laceration he had caused by projecting his frustrations for a second time that day. 

He takes a mental note to make amends by any means possible. And promptly too. 

He enters the room with one last look at you. “Hello. How’s it going in here?” 

“We were just discussing your wife.” Perlah informs with a friendly smile, fingers busy with the task at hand. When Robby looks inquisitive about how the topic turned to you in his absence, Perlah adds, “She just came to find me for a patient. Said hello. Ms. Kovalenko was curious about the double-barrel surname on her badge. It got us talking. All good things.” 

Robby hums warmly. “A conversation I’m always happy to partake in.” he perches himself on the nearby stool—both Perlah and Ms. Kovalenko watching as he fixes his posture.

“Beautiful.” Ms. Kovalenko states. 

“Very.” Robby concurs earnestly—he wants to say that you are the eighth wonder of the world. 

(The argument puts that sort of compliment on hold for the time being.) 

“Too good for you.” The red-haired woman quips. 

“Ooh. I’ll have to agree there too.” he lilts, the pang of guilt smothered behind a professional glaze. He pats the tops of his thighs, “Did I miss all the gross stuff?” 

“Timed it perfectly.” Perlah replies. 

“Excellent. My job is all about delegation and time management.” Robby chides with a brave face; hoping his emotions weren’t too raw on his face over the mention of you. 

Perlah and him get into a lighthearted back and forth over his imminent departure at the end of the twelve-hour shift, which piques Ms. Kovalenko’s interest over the finer details. 

“He’s leaving us for three-months. On a motorcycle.” Perlah shifts in her chair, happy to invite Ms. Kovalenko further behind closed doors. 

Kovalenko’s brows raise to her hairline. “Motorcyle? You’re joking.” she whips her head round to stare at Robby, “Why would you do this?” she asks sternly. 

“Why? Why? Because…uh—” 

“You’re a middle aged man. Don’t be stupid.” she spits back, “What about your wife? Is she happy about this decision?” 

“She is…moderately humble about it.” Robby rolls closer to the sharp-tongued patient, narrowly averting his gaze to the injury concealed beneath a thin cloth. 

“Moderately humble.” Kovalenko repeats sardonically with a few nods of her head. “Forgive me for being blunt but, do you think that is the equivalent to being happy, Dr. Robinavitch? I pity your wife. Very sad.” 

Robby hangs his head and huffs out a laugh, “We cannot stop the world from spinning just because one person doesn’t like the way it goes round, Ms. Kovalenko—How about we focus on your care?”

There’s a significant pause. 

“Us women are what make the world go round,” her lips quirk in satisfaction when Robby’s brown eyes drift from her burn site, “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Robinavitch?”

Once the elderly, fiery-haired patient with a nasty burn on her thigh is discharged from Robby’s care—not without a stern lecture and some wonderful insight about his lack of appreciation for women in general—it’s evident that all signs are pointing to resolving the conflict that had transpired between you two. 

If there was one person Robby was not willing to part with on a sour note for three whole months…it was you. 

The better half of him. The center of his gravity. The only person strong enough to flip the heavy hourglass in time before he drains himself entirely.

Also, the woman that was apparently hard to track down in a department he knew like the back of his hand. 

(He worries you left. But that wasn’t in your nature. Hurt feelings or not.) 

“Where—“ he pauses, “—is my Attending?” Robby checks the surrounding areas as he speaks directly to Dana who was standing at the workstation with Monica Peters—the Pitt’s once renowned cynical clerk until things went south over technology. 

Dana lets out an amused scoff, looking down at the clipboard pressed against her stomach; strands of blonde hair loose around her face.

“She’s been demoted to just Attending? What’d she do?” she quips in her usual tone that has Robby flaring his nostrils, “She’s writing up the death note for Javadi. McKay’s cancer patient—Roxie—she passed away.” 

Robby frowns, “Where’s McKay?”

“MIA.” Dana drawls, now fiddling with the prescribed box of nicotine gum, “She seemed pretty upset coming from the Ambulance Bay. Anything you want to tell me?” 

“It’s been a long day.” he calls flippantly, already parting through the sea of pandemonium. 

He puts the plethora of questions about McKay’s whereabouts on the back burner for the time being. 

Dana raises her voice over the hospital buzz, “Make amends, Cap.” 

He gives the charge nurse a two-finger salute. 

For once, he makes it to his destination uninterrupted by an emergency that requires his presence in the trauma room. The door to the room that had been dimly lit aside from the salt lamp glow, clicks open as Robby arrives; finding you slipping out the gap and closing the door quietly behind you. 

You haven’t seen him yet. 

For observational purposes, the Chief Attending watches you press your forehead against the cool glass of the narrow window of the door. His stomach sinks when he can see your shoulders shudder as you take a deep breath to fill your lungs with air that kept evading you. 

He doesn’t feel like there’s ever going to be an appropriate time to speak to you in order to rescind his previous declarations. Even more so now, as you conceal the notion of silently weeping in the middle of the ED. 

“You need a coffee?” Robby’s voice makes you jolt. For once, he shrinks in confidence under your unsteady gaze. His tired eyes take in the vision of your watery ones and his expression melts into tenderised sympathy. He nods, “Come on.”

The staff room is empty when you enter, aside from the manikin that Nurse Jesse took great pleasure in decorating, before he was wrongfully detained by ICE agents for intervening with patient care at the core of his interests—just another reason to confirm that the holiday weekend had been nothing short of twenty car pile-up that you were being forced to look at. 

The box of donuts from upstairs is empty, the clock above is ticking closed to the end of the day shift; even when the job wasn’t truthfully done at the stroke of 7PM. You take the seat closest to the wall, muscles sighing from the imminent relief of pressure. 

Robby stands at the coffee machine—if you can even call it that. It sputters a watery version of coffee into a styrofoam cup, and he dumps two packets of sugar into the liquid in order to salvage some sweetness amidst the bitter tone of the room. 

He slides the cup over to you and fishes a protein bar from his pocket, patting it to emphasise the notion that dinner had been served. 

Your stubbornness prevails as you push the bar away from you, despite having not eaten for almost seven hours. 

Robby sighs at that. The refusal doesn’t surprise him. You were always prone to a petty hunger strike when it came to Robby providing you with food to nourish your body after an argument. It was sort of his way to build up to an apology. 

He drags the spare seat across the flooring and plants it in front of you.

The fabric of your scrubs brush against his when his knees bumps yours as he sits. The close proximity invites his scent into your bubble, the undertones of his aftershave prominent enough for you to recognise the fragrance as the one he wore on your wedding day. 

Robby rests his elbows on the tops of his thighs as he lean into your space.

As the words form on his lips into a coherent icebreaker that he was easing into, the door to the staff room whips open to reveal Trinity Santos. 

You look up at her. Robby doesn’t. 

“I need an Attending.” 

Robby answers for the both of you. 

“Go find Dr. Al-Hashimi.” he sings. 

Santos mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes as she shuts the door behind her. You give Robby a certain look—one he’s been given before—that tells him you weren’t in favour of brushing off the RS2 in favour of squashing the hostility that he brought upon the both of you. 

He gives you a meek but crooked smile. Crows feet prominent as he tries to warm the atmosphere. 

“I need you…to understand something here.” Robby starts, his hands falling to the sides of your kneecaps. He can barely look at you when he talks, “If I don’t go on this sabbatical, I am not so sure it’ll stop me from…” he trails off. 

The room falls silent. 

He can barely say it himself because verbalising it would make that little more of a tangible thing. 

You can’t conjure up the fight to protest; so you hang your head. 

“What upset you about Roxie’s case?” Robby takes a different approach. He tilts his head like a curious dog when you look back up from your lap. 

You mull it over. “Do you ever stand in a room with a wife and a husband, one of them is dying in front of the other’s eyes.  And they just have to watch it happen at their bedside?” 

Robby gives a curt nod. 

“Do you ever put yourself in their shoes, Robby?” you question, “How that would feel? To have the most meaningful part of you slip through your fingers and you don’t have the control to stop it. This—” gesture with your finger between your bodies, “—Is how that feels for me.” 

“Yeah—”

“No.” you shake your head, “You don’t get to sit there and tell me you know how it feels from my perspective. I love you in ways that you aren’t reciprocating. You know why?” 

“Why?” Robby whispers. 

You continue, “Because, if we loved each other equally, there wouldn’t be a shadow of a doubt to get the help that you fucking need.” your voice trembles, “I cannot keep pushing through this fog around you, Robby.” 

“I know.” Robby’s expression melts. Brown eyes softer than ever. “I know.” 

“Then get help. Please.” 

Robby cups the back of your head when tears begin to shed from your eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” he presses his lips to your forehead, “I’ll do it. I’m sorry.” 

The moment is held sacred against your hearts. There’s a particular weight that lifts off of your shoulders when Robby gives in, but even then…your heart was still heavy from the outcome of your previous argument in the Ambulance Bay. 

Maybe three months apart would mend those open wounds. (Absence made the heart grow fonder. Apparently.) 

Robby finally pulls back with a pained expression on his face; as he memorises your features close-up. “What I said before—I didn’t mean it. I’m not sure how I’d do in life if I didn’t have you up my ass about everything.” 

“I hear Montana has a lot of fresh oxygen. You can use all of that up with consistent apologies during your sabbatical.” you grouse, wiping at the wetness that Robby misses when he drags his thumb across your cheekbone—ridding you of a lash that had latched onto your skin. “You know, people divorce for less.” you say. 

Genuine laughter ripples from Robby’s chest, the moment of reconciliation solidified in your acerbic intonation. (Part of him wonders how many lives he has left before the reality of divorce comes to life.) 

Instead of answering back, Robby forgoes professional protocol by pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. It takes a few swallows to dislodge the lump in his throat, smothering his own upset when you pull away to meet his gaze.  

The door opens for a second time. 

Dana holds onto the handle, staring at the scenes before her over the rim of her glasses. “Would you look at that. It’s a Fourth of July miracle. Can this wrap up so we can do rounds and get the hell out of this godforsaken place? Two more minutes, lovebirds.”

Robby stands at the foot of the bed. It’s well after midnight and whilst you have shed into the comforts of your sleepwear, Robby is clad in a thick Carhartt jacket and dark jeans with his bag slung lazily over one shoulder. He is looking like the epitome of a reckless motorcyclist about to venture on the open road after a gruelling twelve—and some additional hours—shift at the Emergency Department.

You are sat with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Ready to bid your husband goodbye; praying it’s rather a ‘see you soon’ sort of farewell.

His confirmation in the Staff Room didn’t sit all that well in your stomach. 

“You have got everything?” you ask, twiddling with the hem of his jacket, “Wallet? Phone? Cash? The list of phone numbers I wrote down for you?” Robby nods along as you list it off, “Toothbrush? Phone charger? The little First Aid Kit I bought?” 

“Check.” Robby affirms. 

There’s an unfamiliar feeling rolling about in the air of your bedroom. Robby and you had rarely spent time apart—as unhealthy as it may sound to other couples, it just works for you. Nothing more than a week, when you decided to take a well-earned break from the seventh layer of hell named the Pitt. 

Three months would feel like a lifetime. 

You sigh deeply, “Call me. Or text me when you arrive at the first hotel. I love you. Kind of.” 

“I love you too, sweetheart.” Robby leans down to kiss you sweetly. His hand captures your jawline to deepen the kiss to gratify his needs. He barely pulls back to look at you, “I’ll miss you.” 

“I’d hope so.” you kiss him again. Your hands rest against the broad-line of his shoulders, whilst his free hand clutches your back to press your body into him. You whisper against his feverish kiss, “You’re running late to get on the road.” 

“I’ve got time.” Robby answers back. 

The change in pace happens abruptly. One minute you’re exchanging a bittersweet goodbye, and the next, your t-shirt has been yanked over your head, leaving your chest exposed; nipples hardening from the cool air. 

Robby bends to capture a nipple into his mouth, his beard creating a sweet fiction alongside his tongue swiping at your bud. He groans against your tit, and you take the opportunity to slide his bag from his shoulder—his jacket coming off quickly after. 

Once he pays attention to your neglected nipple by repeating the same actions, he pulls back with his hair sticking up in all directions as a result of you tugging at it. 

His pupils are blown wide. 

“You want me to take care of you before I leave, hm?” Robby asks, his tone dripping in saccharine.

You nod, breathless. 

He dips his head to press wet kisses down your navel whilst you instinctively lift your hips when his fingers hook at the sides of your flimsy excuse for underwear; which he stuffs into the back pocket of his jeans for later. The air thickens, the silence filling with lewd groans from Robby’s mouth as he lifts and parts your thighs, pressing them up to your chest to expose your slick core. 

His callus palms smooth across the length of the backs of your thighs, creating goosebumps in his wake. Brown eyes drift from your aching pussy, up to your face to observe your reaction when he drags two fingers from your seeping hole and upward to your sensitive clit. 

You jolt and whimper from the sensation and Robby clicks his tongue, shushing you as he repeats the same action. 

Once he gathers enough of your juices on his two fingers, he applies pressure to your clit and begins to rubbing in slow circles. You whine, legs making effort to drop down to relieve the pressure; only for Robby’s free hand to pin them against your chest again. 

“Robby…” you manage to say. 

Robby cocks his head to the side to watch your hole clench around empty air. “That feel good?” 

Your brows pinch with your eyes fluttering shut. Instead of answering his question, you bring a hand to bite down on—which Robby promptly swats away. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart. Let me know.” 

You nod, “Uh-huh.” 

“Good. Fuck, look at you.” Robby drags his fingers down to your hole and eases them in with little resistance. He groans when your walls clench tightly around his digits, “How can I leave this?” 

Unable to respond again, your hips tilt when Robby curls his fingers upward into you, enough to make your jaw clench. He presses his thumb-pad against your clit, rubbing at a pace that he’s well aware that you appreciate. 

Long-term commitment does wonders to mapping out the hot spots of your anatomy. 

The room fills with a schlicking sound with Robby pumping his fingers in and out of you at a gentle pace. 

“I’ve got you.” Robby mumbles, jaw slack at the sight of you arching your back off of the mattress. He takes his free hand that had your legs pinned and applies weight to your lower stomach, picking up the pace with his fingers. “Ooh. There it is.” he says as your walls fit snug against his fingers.

“I’m—Fuck.” you whinge, spots lining your vision. “Robby, please.” 

Robby bobs his head a handful of times, arm beginning to ache from the relentless back and forth motion. His restraint is minimal, quick to shift himself halfway off the bed so his eyes are level with your swollen lips. You’re soaked. He can see at the base of his fingers collects your cream, which allows his thought process is thrown out the window. 

Suddenly, Robby has all the time in the world before he has to leave.

When his mouths latches onto your clit, that’s when things become a little more desperate. His moans vibrate against you, sending you squirming; stomach tensing as he sucks at your swollen nerves—if anything, he wants to leave a lasting impression upon his departure. 

Robby swaps between kitten licks and suckling at your clit—his tongue occasionally dipping to taste the closeness at your hole. His thick fingers work at your insides. Eyes flit up to see your mouth open, bare chest panting from the coil in your stomach on the precipice of snapping. 

It is Robby’s favourite things; watching you come undone. 

His own hips find friction against the mattress as you let out a guttural moan from the back of your throat, body curling into the orgasm that your husband pulls from you. 

You push at Robby’s head when he sucks at your clit out of greed. Too sensitive, you slump into the mattress with the palm of your hand lying flat against your forehead. 

Robby straightens up at the end of the bed with a smug smile, eyes twinkling. “You okay?” 

You wordlessly give him a thumbs up, whining when he pulls his two fingers from your vagina.

After a minute, you rest on your elbows to watch your husband fiddle with his belt. “Let me help.” you advise, moving onto your knees to assist him. 

You’re brought into a bruising kiss as you tug the belt from the belt loops, tossing it to the ground with a ‘thunk.’ It’s light work—removing Robby’s jeans and boxers in one swoop—as you had been in this very position several times throughout your relationship; able to visualise the steps in which Robby matches your nudity. 

As you look down, Robby huffs, “Give it a second, sweetheart.”

His cock still semi-soft, he wraps a hand around the hardened base and gives himself a few pumps so the rest of his shaft could catch up. 

He sheepishly chuckles, “If I was a few years younger—” 

“I don’t care.” you kiss him to halt the self-deprecation, “Means I get to steal more time off of your sabbatical.” 

It had always been an explanation during sex. The first time it had happened, Robby insisted his level of attractions toward you hadn’t depleted, rather it was just his age showing at the worst possible time—something he’d take more gray hairs and wrinkles over any day. 

Never stunting his performance, nor was it a deal breaking factor for you, every time since Robby’s delay in stiffening; you had to remind him there was nothing wrong with it. 

Slow and steady wins the race. 

You lick your lips, watching Robby work his shaft in his hand, his wedding band catching the warmth of the salt lamp at your bedside. He lifts his free hand whilst you watch, the two fingers that had been deep inside you now edging their way into your mouth. 

“Taste that?” Robby asks lowly, “You’re ovulating, sweetheart.” 

His fingers leave your mouth with a faint ‘pop’ and it seems to do the trick as Robby’s tip is flushed red, his slit beginning to bead with precum.

You lower yourself back down onto the mattress with Robby following you. His callus palms come to the plushness of your hips, and he turns you over so your front is lying flush against the tousled sheets.

He dips to press a kiss between your shoulder blades before hiking your hips upward so you are resting on all fours.

Robby hums as he drags his cock through your wetness, “I’m going to miss you.”   

Your fingers curl into the cotton sheets, goosebumps trailing up the length of your spine. Robby kisses your back again, the tip of his cock nudging at your hole. He gives you both a minute before sinking himself in inch by inch; his lips pressing to your skin to smother the groan eliciting from his throat. 

There’s no rush in his movement. There’s around thirty seconds of adjusting before he sinks further into your pussy, his head dropping back when he is to the hilt. 

Robby stays in your warmth without moving for a minute. 

After a minute or so, his hips begin to shift, the softest part of his stomach pressing to your ass when he buries himself deep. Stabilising himself by grasping onto your ass cheeks, fingers digging into your flesh; Robby’s brows furrow from the searing pleasure as he looks down to see his shaft already coated in your arousal. 

You hang your head, letting out a whimper from feeling so full. 

“Jesus—You feel good.” Robby grits behind you. He watches your back muscles tense when he slides his cock out slowly, “Are you going to miss this, baby?” 

You can’t answer. The tip of Robby’s cock plunges into a spongy part, and your vision is lined with white spots. 

Robby gives you a second and repeats the motion until his desire to hear you reaffirm his question takes over. He frees a hand from grappling at your backside, his fingers curling around your throat to tilt your head back to look him in the eye. 

“Tell me.” 

You almost cry, “Yes—fuck—yes, I’ll miss this.” 

“Uh-huh.” Robby grins, “You will.” 

The hand being used to force eye contact is removed and you whine when Robby fully pulls out of you. He flips you back over onto your back with ease, folding your legs up to your chest again before sinking back into you without warning. 

Your back arches as much as it can from being pinned; Robby dips to smother it with a sloppy kiss. 

Your hands curl around his neck, whimpering when you feel him pulse inside you. Well aware that it wasn’t going to last long. 

His thrusts are shallow and restricted to contain his own climax for a little while longer. The tip of his cock brushes against a sensitive part, and he’s left breathlessly chuckling when you tighten yourself around him. 

“You’ll make me cum doing that.” Robby lifts his head, eyes squeezing shut. He drags himself out of you until the tip of his cock is at your opening. You clench to suck the majority of his shaft back in. “Shit baby. Fuck it. Keep squeezing me like that. Just like that.” 

“Fuck, Robby.” is all you can muster, hands clawing at his back when he picks up his pace. 

Robby folds your legs back up to your chest for a third time that night. His thumb catches your clit—unsure if he can drag another orgasm out of you with little recovery time. “Let me fuck you right there. You feel it? You’re so fucking tight.” 

“Robby—” you babble.

“Hm? What is it, sweetheart?” Robby pants, the slapping sounds echoing in the room. 

You free your legs from his grasp and wrap them around his middle. “I want—I need you to cum inside me.” 

“Fuck. Don’t say shit like that.” Robby laughs, his pace faltering. He looks at your expression and realises you’re being serious. “Is that what you want? For me to cum inside you? What if you get pregnant?” 

“I don’t care, I don’t care.” you plead. 

Robby shakes his head, “Okay, okay. I’ll cum inside you.” his thrust start to get sloppy at the thought, “Are you going to lay here, long after I’m gone, with my cum leaking out of you? Is that what you’re going to do?” 

You nod vigorously. 

“Fuck. Ask me nicely.” he commands. 

“Please, Robby.” you breathe out, “Please.” 

Robby nods, sweat beading his hairline from the exertion. He dips his head to bring you into a searing kiss, “I love you.” he mumbles against your lips. 

There’s fewer words spoken after that. The bed creaks as Robby begins to pound into your pussy with one goal in mind. His soft stomach brushes against your pubes as he barely pulls out of you, hungry with need to stay deep within your walls. 

Your legs lock around his middle and Robby lifts your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh of your backside as he brings your lower half up; fucking into you with desperation. 

You babble his name, “I’m going to cum again.” you repeat over and over with the hot feeling returning in your stomach. 

“You can do it, sweetheart.” Robby encourages, thumb applying pressure to your already sensitive clit. “Give me one last one before I leave. Let me feel it around my cock.” 

The climax ripples through you for a second time at his words. Walls clenching around him so tightly, it made thrusting into you near impossible. Robby continues as best as he can, watching your face twist in painful pleasure. 

It’s enough to send him over the edge with you. 

“Fuck, fuck!” Robby grits out before his words are smothered beneath deep groans as he shoots hot ropes deep inside you. His body weight slumps on top of you, skin slick with sweat as he ruts into you a few more times for good measure. 

You can feel his cum seep out at your opening, around his shaft that was still tucked deep in your pussy. Robby twitches inside of you, moving deeper a few times to ensure you’re stuffed to the brim. 

He kisses the side of your face as he pants out, “I have no idea what I’ll do without you for three months.” 

The familiar melancholy returns to your stomach at the realisation that this was the conclusion before three months without him. 

“…Just come back to me, Robinavitch.”

A/N: thank u to my sweet @novatheory for listening to my rambling over this fic and reading the snippets of drafts i would send at random times. mwah!!!!

Whitaker's hand hesitated in the air like they were in class. “Well I think by casual she means-”

“I know what casual means, Fuckle-berry,” said Santos quickly. “But it was casual now it's just weird.”

You nodded along, humming.

She groaned, hands running through her hair in frustration. “I don't get it!”

You took a long gulp of your wine.

“How do you handle it?” Trinity asked, arms wide in question at you.

“Me?”

“Yeah, how do you and Robby do casual?”

“Oh- we... it's- um-” you stumbled over your words, hoping that if you let it up long enough she'd take it back and start on her problems again. She didn't and she stood in front of you and Whitaker, waiting for an explanation.

The whole thing between you and Robby had started about the same time Santos and Garcia started. In an awkward confrontation that was you and Trinity bumping into each other in your shared bathroom, both your hairs messed up and both supporting bruises suspiciously in the shape of lips on your necks.

When you returned to your room you and Robby waited eagerly to see who would flee Santos's room. Neither too shocked to find Garcia.

“It's um?” Trinity asked.

“It's going,” you said into your wine glass, finishing it and pouring in more. The truth was for a while things had been odd, on your end more so.

Casual was a label you thought you could do, that when Robby said to you a week after sleeping together, his sheets over the both of your bodies that he liked keeping it simple. Sex. Release. You thought you could do it.

Almost three months since then and you were regretting it because every time you saw doctors eyes lingering over Robby, every time you heard his 'seven-week rule' and every time you saw happy couples fawning over each other in the ED your stomach twisted.

You didn't realise you wanted that until it was dangled in front of you and snatched away all in the same minute.

Trinity's brows rose. “Oh?”

You looked to where Whitaker was next to you, hoping for sympathy. You only found curious eyes. “It's just different than before.”

“Different how?” asked Dennis.

“Is it still casual?”

You scoffed, mumbling under your breath. “Yeah to him.”

“You want to be more?”

You didn't know if she was accusing but your room-mates expecting eyes on you heated your body in shame and embarrassment. “And you don't with Garcia?"

“Ok, enough!” suddenly Whitaker stood up. “The two of you, we need to sort this out.”

With a vacant seat next to you Trinity plopped herself down and you gave her your wine. You just decided to take the bottle.

“I cannot stand it anymore, okay! The two of you, we're gonna change this,” he said. “Trin- no more pining and waiting for Garcia to call at like one am.”

She was wanting to retort but only folded her arms over her chest as he carried on.

“And you-” he focused on you. “Need to stop crying over Robby. You guys can do better.”

“Yeah in a world where we're not working twelve hour shifts five days a week,” you said. The idea of casual hook ups wasn't anything new to the ED, not even the hospital. It was easy way of escape without the pressure of dating when all their time was spent saving lives or charting about saving lives or studying how to save lives.

On the coffee table in front of you Trinity's phone pinged and she reached for it like it was seconds away from self-destructing.

She tucked her phone into her chest to read the text before slamming it back down.

You caught a glance at the words and the contact. Can't make it tonight, I'll hit you up tomorrow- G

“You're gonna leave them,” he said.

You and Trinity sat up. “What?”

“No!”

There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.

“Okay- I take it back,” he said, surrendering. “Then how about give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“Their medicine?” you asked.

Whitaker gently nudged the empty glasses and cans of beer aside, perching on the edge of the coffee table, appealing to the two of you. “How many times have they cancelled plans, or said you couldn't come over to ask you to come over two hours later?”

You hadn't realised how perceptive he was.

“Now, make it so you guys call the shots. They want to come round, you say no.”

The idea was new to you. You'd always wanted Robby. You spent half your spare time wanting him and the other half having sex with him. You'd never even wanted to say no.

“So then we what, don't have sex?” asked Santos.

“You will,” he said. “You create distance, get them wanting and crying or what-whatever and then they'll realise they've messed up.”

You thought we was giving them too much credit.

Santos chuckled. “Huckleberry, are you telling us to play hard to get?”

He thought about it, eyes moving as if he was calculating it. “Yes!”

That's how plan 'hard to get' started. It was agreed you and Santos, the next time Garcia and Robby asked you to come over you'd say no.

Easier in practise when you work with them.

The next day was a slower day, un-usual in that sense. It meant everyone had more time to linger around each other.

“And so I said to him- officer-” said Myrna, lying on the bed between you and Robby. She'd seizure, hurt her leg and needed it disinfected and cleaned- not for the first time in her life. There was a mix of glass and gravel that needed plucking out and apparently the attending of the ED had nothing better to do that join you in the task. “What would you have done if you caught your third husband eating out another woman?”

“And did he say shoot him?” asked Robby. He was bent over the same leg as you, your heads so close you were either gonna head butt or kiss. Not likely over the state of her leg.

“No, he didn't say anything, he just arrested me!”

Robby hummed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that.”

“You know Myrna sometimes I can't tell if all these stories are true,” you said, taking a small bit of glass and adding it to the pile you'd already created.

“Oh they're all true, honey, I never lie. Unlike Mark that two faced bastard.”

“Which one was Mark?” you asked.

“The fourth husband. Good body and shit everything else!” she said with a wheeze. Abruptly she grabbed your hand. “Are you single?”

Robby glanced up at you, creases of amusement at the corner of his eyes.

You looked away first. “Why, you asking me out?”

“If you're single, stay single!” she said. “Men, all they are are liars! Lying bastards! And babies! I hardly even shot the guy!”

“Am I so bad, Doctor?” asked Robby looking over the frames of his glasses at you.

Was he so bad? No. He was short-tempered sometimes, moody, didn't accept help from anyone. But you knew he could be gentle, you knew his true belly laugh and the smile he gave at mornings when you were still in bed. You just wish you knew if he ever saw himself staying in that bed a little longer, if he ever wanted to make breakfast and take the day together, stealing moments throughout.

“No,” you said, looking back down to her leg that was almost clean. “You're not.”

Myrna was oddly silent but you could see her head moving between the two of you. “Don't go there sweetheart,” she said, a word of warning. “This one might look fun but he's all danger and heartbreak.”

“Me? No,” said Robby with an air of un-care. “I'm a teddy bear.”

Five minutes later you and Robby were instructing Perlah wrapping her leg before throwing off your gloves and leaving her to it.

“How many husbands you think Myrna had?” he asked.

“Oh there's no telling,” you replied, fetching her chart to finish off the notes. At some point someone had put a star next to her name, as if she was VIP.

Robby leant next to you, scanning around the ED. “Any plans tonight?”

“On a Wednesday? Nop.”

“Wanna come over?”

There was an abrupt and loud clear of a throat.

You hadn't realised Whitaker was there but he was watching the two of you, closely. When you met his eyes he gave a small subtle shake of his head.

Robby looked. “You got a cough, Whitaker?”

He cleared his throat, sliding down in his chair. “No.”

The agreement. It was all fine in practise but how were you supposed to say no when you just said you had no plans and you really wanted to have sex with him! It was the glasses, you were sure that was what did it. The way he pulled them on and pulled them off, the focus it gave him and the way they slipped down his nose.

“So, tonight?” he asked again, voice low.

Only a few people knew, like your room-mates and you were sure others had guessed. Robby wanted to keep it private. Or a secret, you'd never asked for clarification.

You caught Whitakers gaze on yours, watchful. He didn't say anything but you wondered if he'd be disappointed. Would you even be disappointed in yourself? “I can't tonight.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”

He didn't sound annoyed. He didn't sound anything. It was impossible to tell.

“Yeah, we just- there's this thing-”

“Thought you had no plans?” he asked, an almost amused rise in his brows.

Ah. “It's like- not a plan- just a- a room mate thing. You know?”

Robby looked to Whitaker as if to confirm.

He nodded. “Yeah! Every Wednesday. We watch films.”

“Films,” you confirm.

“And talk.”

“We talk.”

Robby nodded. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Robby!” Dana called. “Got a trauma, woman in her thirties. Five minutes.”

“Got it," he said but he was still slumping over the counter. He took his time moving, stretching up till his shirt rode up enough to expose that slither of skin that held so many promises. “Some other time then.” His hand ghosted the small of your back before he disappeared.

You watched him go, realising you wouldn't spend the night buried in his bored but sleepless and restless.

Whitaker replaced Robby at your side. “See? Doesn't that feel good?”

You answered truthfully. “No.”

That night you, Santos and Whitaker sulked on the sofa, face masks over your faces with a bowl of popcorn left on the table and a shitty movie filling the silence.

Your phone lay face up with nothing from Robby and from Trinity's expression you figured she'd had nothing either.

You'd been to the bathroom once, took your phone with you and debated texting him but you never got that far. You only flicked through texts, casual one's at first. Small 'Are you coming over?' or 'You left your shirt at mine.' There were some dotted from him, on times you were both too busy to meet where things got more... riskier. His texts started simple but you could always catch on to his wants, leading his want.

Things like 'Thought about you today,' or 'you looked good today,' but he never just complimented you for the sake of it.

The texts didn't help so you turned your phone off and re-joined the two all the while your head and heart were in bed with Robby.

The next day passed like another dry spell.

It was busy- too make up for the quiet day beforehand. You didn't have time to greet Robby before being thrown into the chaos from a pile up on the highway. All day your bodies shuffled past each other, his hands lingering on your arms when he passed or always standing next to you in trauma.

It felt something like punishment.

Or a test.

By Friday you were crawling out of your skin, still dealing with the ramifications of the last two days. You hadn't even seen that Robby had text you the night before, so exhausted from work you crashed only spotting his name on your phone the morning you woke from the blare of your alarm.

“You're avoiding me,” he said, kneeling at the computer you typed furiously at to get your charting down. It was a casual move he used, usually un-tying and re-tying his shoes. This time, he simply knelt, seemingly done with pretence.

“What? No.”

“I've barely seen you the last few days," he said, wetting his lips. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, I've just been super busy,” you said, tapping on the computer.

Robby shuffled next to you. His hand laid next to yours. He didn't take your hand or stop you but his fingers fidgeted like he didn't know what else to do with himself. “Did I do something?”

You looked down at him, spotting the crease between his brows. “No.”

It was the closest you'd got to seeing him vulnerable.

“So tonight?” he asked. “Feel like I'm losing my damn mind.” His finger was light as it traced your hand, slowly drawing circles.

Tasting Robby was like the first sip of alcohol. It always left you wanting me. Sweet. Bitter. Whatever. You were just left wanting and nothing else, which was why you went crawling back every time. Why saying no had never crosse your mind before. Why the smallest touch from his hand was leaving you in shivers.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can't tonight-”

Robby smirked, breathing out a puff of air.

“I would,” you said quickly, turning in your chair to face him. “Believe me, I would, it's just... Trinity is going through some stuff and I just- I don't want to leave her alone, you know.”

It was the truth. Trinity was taking Garcia's silence worse than you or Dennis had anticipated. You knew there was more going on, you only wanted to be there to help her.

Robby perked. “You need me to speak to her?”

“No, no, it's just stuff. She'll be okay I just, want to be safe.”

He nodded but his finger fell from your hand. “Okay.”

“Doctor Robinavitch!” his name was called by the familiar dread of Gloria.

He sighed under his breath as he pushed himself up. “Oh so help me, God.”

By Saturday you were sure Robby thought you were lying and sort out to punish you. He was practically glued at your side all day long. He didn't ask to see you, didn't put his lips near you. But he lingered.

“Okay we don't have a lot of time, there's a lot of bleeding,” said Robby in the face of a trauma, looming over you. “We'll do a Hilar flip.”

“A Hilar flip, are you serious?” said Trinity.

“No other choice.”

You gulped, staring down at the bleeding and misplaced lung. “I've never done one of them before.”

“I'll talk you through it, we'll go easy,” he said, coming at your side. “You're gonna rotate the lung one-eighty, very slow. Very gentle.”

Perhaps it shouldn't have been as erotic as it was. The way his chest heaved against your back, his arm stretching along yours to hold your hand and guide it through the blood to his lung. His face was concentrated next to yours but his breath was hot on your cheek and breathless.

“Go slow.... go slow. Easy.... gentle.... just like that, there we go,” he uttered against your ear.

“Blood loss is slowing down.”

“There we go, you got it,” he mumbled as you slotted it back into its place. “Okay-” Robby moved on like your whole body wasn't trembling. You had to carry on trying to save the guys life after it, like you weren't picturing his entire body draped over yours, whispering filthy things in your ears.

“Thought I was watching a porno there,” said Santos as you all fled the room when the guy was stable.

“Jesus-” you caught your breath, throwing off the gloves and running your hands through your hair, trying to get some air to your neck that sweat.

Santos chuckled to herself. “So does Doctor Robby talk you through it?”

“Trin-” you snap.

“Does he praise you? Is that the kind of thing you're into.”

You didn't respond, hiding in the bathroom to throw cold water onto your face and calm the rush of blood but you could hear Santos outside the door. 'This is a teaching hospital!' she teased.

It became a thing you had to do, get away from him. You couldn't be distracted when dealing with patients. It was bad enough working with him when all you could think about was fucking him!

But Robby seemed to insist in helping you.

“Gaping wounds like this, under the skin we use sub-Q to bring it together,” he instructed as started the stitching for a mans wound on his leg. It was just like anything else, hardly a teaching wound when you knew how to do it. As it was under tissue and there was just no other nurse around Robby insisted.

“Five-O under skin, three-O after that,” he said.

“You think you could show me?”

You both knew you didn't need to be shown but Robby still gave you a small smile and sat on the stall, coming close to you till his meaty thigh was against your own. His hands- though gloved as yours were- still grazed yours as he took the instruments to do it.

“Guide it through... it's finer so you want to extra gentle... lotta care...”

You hummed but you couldn't say you were watching it with keen eyes. You weren't watching the way the stitches came together just the way his hands flexed, his fingers moved.

“Start deep... all the way in... bury the knot in... yeah, see how it comes together just like that?”

You nodded with an absent mind.

Robby held the equipment out to you. “Go ahead.”

You hesitated. Maybe you should have paid more attention.

He all but shoved them into your hand. “You're a big girl, you got it.”

Santos's voice played it your head. Were you into this?

With a breath you steadied yourself and went in. As he had before Robby leant over you, his body practically weighing you down.

You took the thread under the skin, pulling together just like he had.

“Bit deeper-” Robby's hands guided your arms. They were as light as a feather at your elbows before slowly sliding down your arms with a firmer hold, leading the threads.

You remembered his tight hold on you when he wanted you in place on the bed, when he was was dragging clothes off your body or wrapping a hand around your neck-

Robby called your name, watching you expectantly. His eyes were softened at the edges but they grew darker, the smallest bit of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Right... sorry-” you went as deep as he instructed, knowing his face was concentrated on you and your hands.

“Do you want me to leave?” asked the patient.

If he could leave his leg and leave it would've been great.

“We'll get you out of here in no time,” said Robby.

You'd thought that maybe the stitching at taken so long it was almost time to leave. Maybe you could talk to Whitaker and Santos about this hard to get thing. It was only eleven and you had more than six hours left with situations that constantly brought you and Robby together. Even when it didn't, there he was, whispering words of encouragement.

“You got this... nice and easy.... doing really good there...”

Or the simple phrase that had you hiding in the bathroom for five minutes.

“Good girl.”

When the end of the day came you ran out of there, gasping in air and rushing back back to your place.

“Hey,” you greeted walking through the door.

Trinity was already there, looking like she was ready to leave, jacket thrown over her scrubs she hadn't changed out of even though she finished an hour before you. “Hey.”

“Where's Huckleberry?”

“Oh he's at Amy's tonight.”

You scoffed. “Woah. What a speech about doing better and playing hard to get but as soon as the chance comes to play farm. So, movie tonight? I can order pizza?”

“Actually, I'm just on my way out too,” she said. “Garcia called.”

You slumped. Your entire body slumped. Your heart gave up. “What? I thought we all made a deal?”

“We did, I played hard to get now she wants to see me,” she said.

“I haven't seen Robby in three days!”

“So go to his, get dicked down, girl,” she said, moving past you with a breeze. “I'm sorry, we can talk about how much of a bitch I am when I'm back from having the best sex yet! Later!”

She was out the door before you could chastise her. You shut it after her, falling upon it.

You'd ran from the ED to stay strong, to avoid another interaction with Robby that would have you climbing his bones in an empty room. You'd happily have done it with the teasing he'd subjected you to all day. For your friends and the promise you'd made you remained strong.

You'd never do that again.

Saturday night after the longest shift of your life and you had the place to yourself. It was rare. Either Denis or Trinity were home or you were spending the night at Robby's.

Your phone was heavy in your pocket.

Call him.

But the problem still lied un-answered. You were still at Robby's beck and call, begging for his attention. Begging him to be hard thinking about you so he could fuck you into the mattress to be professional the net day and treat you like you were just another MR.

You didn't want special treatment so to say, didn't want him to give you the easy patients or get you into the traumas more. You just wanted a smile, or a glimpse of .... love.

Maybe your friends were okay with what they had. You weren't.

You turned your phone off for the night and stripped from your scrubs, changing into a large shirt and blasting music Trin hated and Denis claimed to hate (but you'd heard him playing your playlist in the shower). For a crazy night alone you caught up on washing several pairs of scrubs and anything else, cleaned out the freezer leaving you barren of anything to eat. Maybe you'd even iron some normal clothes-

That's at least what you were thinking when there was a knock at the door.

You'd hoped it was Denis or Trin coming back, tails between their legs, keys forgotten.

Robby stood on the other side of the door.

You stood, frozen, shocked to see him there. He was just as still, waiting with raised brows. “Doctor Robby. Is everything okay?”

His backpack was slung over his shoulder, his scrubs only slightly dirtied from the day. But his eyes were alive and his body didn't sag with exhaustion like usual. His eyes darted back behind you. “Can I come in?”

You held open the door, closing it slowly behind you.

Robby had only been to your place once before. He looked the open living space open with interest. Typically your meet ups were at his, on account he lived alone and his bed was much nicer to be down on than yours.

“Er- Whitaker and Santos aren't home, if- if this is a hospital thing.”

“It's not,” he said, lowering his bag at the sofa.

“Oh?”

He turned, leaning against the back of it. “It's a me and you thing.”

“Oh.”

His arms flexed as he folded them over his chest, the green of his top under his scrub bunched at the forearms. His head ducked, trying to get a read on you. “So?”

You rocked on your heels, realising the shortened of the shirt you wore. Not that it wasn't anything he had seen before. “So...”

“What's going on?” he asked. There was still nothing in his voice to give away his true thoughts, only a slight edge of urgency.

“What-what-what do you mean?”

Robby listed off what he saw was wrong like symptoms. “You've been avoiding me, you never answered my texts, you didn't want to see me the other night nor tonight though you have the place to yourself-”

“I didn't realise they were gone,” you said.

“Okay so every other time?” he asked. “If I did something you can tell me. I'm a big guy, I can take it.”

It was a chance to voice up every ill thought you'd had but all you could think about was how big he was. Standing there, jutted on the back of the couch with his scrubs around his arms and thighs.

“You didn't do anything,” you said, though you weren't looking at his eyes more his arms.

They flexed again like he knew what he was doing. His voice dropped, finally to something you could name. “So tell me. what's going on.”

If you threw yourself at him you knew the chances of him taking you to bed were high, but the chances of you regretting it in the morning when he had rolled out of bed, dressed and left you were higher.

“I just-” you blew out a breath, readying yourself for the dismiss. “I don't think I can do this anymore.”

Robby waited like he was listening to the words re-play. His head lowered as he nodded, taking it in. “May I ask why?”

“It's the casual thing,” you rushed out before you could take it back. “I don't think I can do casual. I thought I could, but I-I can't.”

He nodded, chin tucked into his chest and for a moment you thought you really had upset him. But then he straightened up, pushed himself from the sofa and shrugged. His boots thudded heavy as he stepped to you slow. “Okay then.”

Was this the moment when you got the door for him on the way out?

“Okay, so... um.... I guess I'll see you-”

Robby's hands grasped your cheeks and he kissed you quick, hard. His lips tasted as they always did with a hint of mint-freshness. They were rough as always as they worked against yours, opening you up to him as always-

You brushed away, shaking your head. “I um- Robby I can't-”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped closer to you, the heat of his body waving over you. “We don't have to be casual anymore, I don't want to be casual- not anymore.”

Everyone knew Robby only knew casual. Only selected few ever got past seven weeks. Heck you hadn't counted how long this had been going on for, maybe ten weeks but that could be nothing. You were good sex, that was all.

“Robby-”

“Listen, listen-” he said, arms waving around you before settling on your forearms. “You don't want casual, neither do I. You want me to ask? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend, I'll ask.”

“Robby you don't date,” you tried to tell him.

He scoffed. “I date. But not anymore, not if I have you.”

Had word of the deal got out? Was Robby just tired after his shift? Delusional?

“Hey, hey-" his hands ran through your hair, cradling your cheeks. “I should've said it earlier, I know but I want this. I want serious.”

His eyes crinkled as he looked at you, the edges of his gaze soft. “You don't just have to say this. You can have anyone else-”

Robby's head ducked into the crook of your neck, brushing your hair back and pressing light kisses to the expanse of your neck. “I don't want anyone else, I want you.”

Your body awakened in shivers that he elicited.

His fingers wound to the front of your body, slowly peeling away the buttons of the shirt till it pooled at your ankles. He didn't move to ravage you, his lips remained light as they kissed down your neck, finding your collarbone and working a mark there.

Your hands wound up his arms, clutching at his shoulders. “Robby-”

“Not this time,” he uttered against your collarbone.

You knew what you called him when it was you and him. “Michael-”

“Good girl.”

You moaned out at the words, the moan you'd held all day revibrating around your flat.

He slowly kicked odd his boots and helped you throw off his scrub top before he kissed you again.

You only got a short glimpse at the body you craved before his tongue, hot and heavy, slid into you mouth, bathing in the warmth. His hands were rough as they studied every inch of your body, fingertips digging into skin.

“I want you, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your lips as you scaled your hands under his shirt and along his stomach till your fingers skimmed under his waistband.

His mouth opened against yours, groaning at this slightest touch. “Oh-”

His arms scooped you up, bringing your body up and flush against him as his arms were strong on your back, kissing you. It was all wet tongue and soft lips as he stumbled back on the edge of your couch.

“Santos will kill me if we have sex on our couch,” you gasped.

Robby rose a brow. “Oh, we're having sex?” he teased.

“I should hope so.”

You kissed you hard again, wetting the both of your mouths in delectable smacks of your lips. The two of you stumbled away to your room and his body caged you in as the two of you fell atop your sheets.

You crawled up the bed as Robby's face fell between your chest. His tongue made wet paths from each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth and his hand groping at the other one till you withered against his body.

“Michael-”

He moaned into your breast and shoved a meaty thigh between your legs. “Grind on me,” he demanded.

Your body did against him as if it only listened to his command.

He mouthed your other breast, groping where his tongue had pressed before. All the while you body moved against his thigh, dragging your pussy against him.

“Yeah.... jus' like that... god.... can feel you.... so good,” he uttered as he jutted his thigh against you.

Your hands went to his shoulders, messaging the skin there until he came back up your body and shoved his tongue down your throat again. Your arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him into you.

All the while you wet down his scrubs.

“You want serious?” he uttered against you, pulling back enough to see you.

You nodded, hair splayed over your pillow.

Robby nodded along, eyes hooded. His hand slid down between your bodies. “I can do serious.”

His finger slid into you, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the bed.

“Mmph-”

“Don't be quiet,” he said, nuzzling his head in you neck, biting the skin there. “Don't do that.”

Another finger curled in and you moaned on. You weren't quiet usually, there was nothing more than Robby liked than being loud. Everything was measured in the ED, out of it, buried inside of you or hot mouths on each other had Robby groaning, moaning and wanting you to do the same.

His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.

His fingers moved quick as your breaths grew laboured. He sucked the skin of your neck, thrusting and curling as his hips sort some sort of friction.

You withered against him. “I'm gonna- Michael I'm gonna-”

He released your skin with a small bite and laid his mouth open on yours. “Cum,” he uttered.

“Michael-”

His voice turned harder, the hand that wasn't inside of you wrapping around your neck, pushing you into your bed. “Cum.”

With just the right curl Robby had your pussy in the palm of his hand, slick with your release as he worked you through it, rubbing his hand along your clit with jolts of your body.

“God so good,” he said, looking up at you as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on your bodies. “And all mine?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed. You could feel the heat of your body as strong as it was when he walked in.

“All mine, huh?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless.

Robby slowly took out his fingers from you, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean like it was nothing. He fell back on his feet, fingers working on the ties of his scrubs. “That why you were avoiding me?”

“I wasn't-” your words died in your throat as he dropped his scrubs and boxers in one.

You'd seen his cock enough to know it by memory but the size and fullness of him always rendered you speechless.

Robby knew it to. He stood there with a smirk. “You weren't avoiding me?”

Slowly, he sank to his knees.

“No,” you said, mesmerised by the sight of him going down.

Robby's hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them. He tapped your ankles, getting them on the bed as he got closer to your heat, still leaking from the last orgasm. “Promise?”

The words had hardly left your lips before his tongue pressed into you.

Your entire body moved into his but his arms wrapped around your hips, keeping you pressed into the bed. He moved further up, burying himself in you.

“Aw- fuck-” your hands waved for purchase before curling into the sheets.

He licked a stripe up and down before nudging your lips open and finding himself in there. It wasn't the slow drag of fingers but the desperate kisses and licks of a man hungry. He pulled back, spitting against you. “You won't avoid me again, will you baby?”

You shook your head.

Robby's eyes remained on yours until he buried himself in your pussy. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he moaned into you.

His hands kept you spread open every time they quivered but it didn't take long for his hand to wind down to his cock. You prepped yourself up onto your elbows to watch as he pumped his cock agonizingly slow.

“Want your cock, Robby-”

He halted his movements and you but down on your lip.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, slowly moving up your body.

You knew you were supposed to call him Michael but watching the full swing of his cock stand to attention as he made his way over you was far too distracting.

“Hey-v his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look up. “Michael.”

You nodded. Your hands reached for his cock, straining to wrap around him.

The only notice of the effect you had was the clench of his jaw.

“Michael,” he repeated, voice almost a growl.

“Michael.”

He nodded.

“Condom?” he asked, jutting back on his heels.

Your hand slowly worked his cock, the pre-cum beading at the tip. You shook your head. You were both clean, you were on the pill but tonight you wanted to feel everything, wanted him to even fill you-

Robby bent his head, spitting down on his cock and your hand. For a moment that's all it was, you hand moving on his cock as your other circled your clit. “God... your hand.... missed you...”

When your strokes got heavier, faster Robby's head fell back and he groaned. His cock was pink, heavy in your hand-

Quickly he grabbed your wrist and threw it off before grabbing the hilt of his own cock and slowly pushing into you.

His throat strained as he groaned at the push in and your back arched into him. “Fuck!” he fell atop you, arms braced at either side. “Shit- ah-”

Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping you in.

“God, you make me crazy,” he uttered, searching for your lips.

The two of you collided in a mess of salvia, tongue, lips as he pushed into you, catching your gasps.

Eventually the rock of his hips grew steady. The creak of your old bed echoed the moves of him against you.

“Shit- ah-” he groaned, shaking off the sweat and the tension.

“Michael,” you said, holding him in closer. “I want you to... go hard.”

Hard he could do. Soft he could do. He would do anything you asked.

His tongue darted out, swiping your lips. “You missed me?”

“So much, so much, so much,” you pulled him down till his weight tested yours, cock deep. “On me.”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself. He put all his weight down, crashing your body into his bed. He wasn't as young as he once was. By no means but if you wanted it, he'd give it.

Pressed into you his cock went far and deep and he couldn't fully withdraw so it was small, maddening movements.

“Oh god,” he uttered.

You moaned, loud, as he wanted and he was breathless, groaning.

The dull thump of your headboard banged on the wall and something on your bedside table fell off.

Robby's arm stretched out, grabbing your hand and stretching your arms to the headboard, trying to steady it. With the stretch of the bodies he reached that spot in you.

“Aw fuck!” You yelled out, louder than anticipated. “Michael I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he grunted with you. His other hand threw to your hip, holding your pelvis flush into you. “Fuck!”

In seconds he let go inside of you and the gush of his cum and the sound of the wet bodies threw you over the edge. His clutch on your hand grew tighter as his body trembled with yours, the spurts of your releases cooling down.

If this was casual Robby wouldn't have lingered, he'd have pulled out, flashed you a smile before using the bathroom.

He moved slower, staying till the both of you were spent. He kissed you, soft and sweet, lips moving around to remember the taste. “I'll move out,” he whispered as he took out his cock.

You stole a glance of both of your release leaking from you and around him before Robby moved aside.

He didn't flee, he didn't go to the bathroom. He pulled the sheets from under your bodies and got the both of you into bed. He laid beside you.

Robby tucked you under his arm, sweat on both your bodies cooling as you laid together. “Feels better when we're serious.” His fingers moved slow on your shoulder, delicate touches like a feather.

If he woke with a new thought, woke with regret you'd deal with it. For the moment you allowed yourself to feel the thump of his heart as the two of you slowly lulled to sleep.

Your alarm was the first thing you picked up in the morning. It's beeping ringing in your ear as you moved to turn the thing off or throw it at the wall-

A weight over your stomach made the effort harder but you got it.

Last night came back to you in the spill of scrubs on the floor and the ache between your legs.

Robby stirred next to you. Last night.

He stayed.

“You on today?” he asked, morning voice rough. You got a look at him, it was a rare sight you got to see him in morning light. His eyes were still shut, his face without the stress the day job gave him. He asked so casual, as if this was a morning routine you'd slipped into years ago.

You hummed, nodding and readying to move-

His arm tightened, drawing you in. “Call in sick.”

You chuckled, but your eyes closed. You promised yourself five more minutes. “My attending might have something to say about that.”

Robby grumbled. “Have a word with him, I'm sure you can be very persuasive.”

Somewhere in you apartment you heard the front door open and close, voices moving around the place.

You hadn't closed the door.

“Hey! We brought coffee and bagels!” called Santos.

“We're sorry for leaving you- we- huh?” you heard Whitaker. “What the?”

The clothes on the floor. The scrub top that would have his doctors badge on it.

You groaned and suddenly Whitaker and Santos were passing the doorway, one smirking, the other shocked.

Robby beside you didn't even stir.

“Good morning, Doctor Robby!” called Santos.

He only lifted a hand in greeting before making sure the covers were over the two of you.

You reached for something heavy, landing on a cushion and aiming at the door. It closed in front of your laughing friends.

Your legs felt like jelly and your arms ached by the time you got home. The shift hadn’t even been particularly bad, just tedious and long. You had to stay two hours overtime due to a combination of the ED being understaffed, and the incessant charting that always seemed to be looming over you, and all you wanted to do was go home, kiss your boyfriend, and take a nice hot bath. 

You entered the apartment and immediately sought out Robby. It didn’t take you long to find him lounging on the couch, readers on and book in hand. You could feel the scowl on your face as you trudged over to him, all but falling into his lap and burrowing into his neck, letting out a long whine. 

“Bad day?” Robby asked, setting down his book and petting over your hair. You shook your head, “Just long. ‘m tired. and achy,” you sighed. “Want to take a bath,” you said, but couldn’t find the motivation to push yourself up and actually do it. 

“Yeah? Want me to go run it for you?” he asked, already moving to get up. 

“Yes, please, you’re an angel,” you said, pressing your lips to his in a sweet kiss. “Can you add those fancy lavender bath salts, please? And some bubble bath?” you asked, giving him your best puppy dog eyes. 

“Of course, honey, just don’t fall asleep on me out here,” he teased, reminding you of the last time you requested a bath, and, regrettably, fell asleep before you could enjoy it. 

“I won’t, promise,” you said, holding out your pinky. He hooked his pinky around yours and left you with one final kiss as you settled back into the cushions to wait. It didn’t take long for your eyelids to droop, and before you knew it you could faintly hear Robby’s voice calling to you. 

Your eyes snapped open, “I’m up! I’m awake!” you said, jolting up from the couch, trying desperately to not look like you’d been dozing off.  

“I saw you. Your eyes were closed,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips as he leaned against the door frame. 

“They were not!” you argued, knowing full well they were. 

“Yup. They were, but I’ll let it slide,” he said fondly, shaking his head “Your bubble bath awaits you. Let's get you in before you doze off again.” He moved behind you and began guiding you into the bathroom. 

“Hmmm, might need a chaperone, then. Wouldn’t want me to drown because I fell asleep in the tub, would you?” 

“Oh no, we can’t have that,” he said with mock concern, “you’ll definitely need supervision. Might even need to take a hands-on approach,” he said, hands slipping down to grope your hips and ass over your scrubs. 

You hummed, grabbing his hands and stilling their descent into the waistband of your pants, “don’t start something you can’t finish, big guy.” 

“Who says you’re not gonna finish, sweetheart?” he asked, a smug smile on his face. 

You shook your head as you walked into the bathroom, only to see that Robby’d pulled out all the stops for you. The scent of lavender wafted from the tub, which was filled with just the right amount of bubbles, the lights were dimmed and candles were lit. He’d somehow even managed to pour you a glass of wine and leave it perched on the little stool beside the tub without you noticing. 

You let out a groan at the sight, slumping back in his hold and thanking him before quickly stripping. Robby slipped in first, hissing briefly at the volcanic temperature he knew you liked for your baths. 

You step in after Robby settles himself, sighing as you submerge yourself into the hot water and Robby’s hold. You wiggle back against him to get comfortable, resting your head against his shoulder. His arms circle around you and hold you close, big hands drifting up and down your sides. 

You chatted quietly about your respective days between sips of wine; Robby had the day off and spent the day not doing much of anything, blessedly. You regaled him with stories about the patients you’d seen and keep him abreast of the gossip circulating around the ED–some of which he was interested in; some he’d wished he never heard, especially when you start talking about who’s supposedly hooking up with who. 

Soon enough, conversation lulled, the two of you content to sit together in the warm water and enjoy each other's presence. That is, until Robby’s hands started wandering, brushing up and down your sides, skimming your ribs with featherlight touches before moving to cup your breasts. He kneaded the soft flesh, grazing your nipples ever so gently before rolling them between his fingers. You let out a soft sigh of contentment, back arching, pushing your tits more firmly against his hands. 

Robby noses at your neck, beard rough against your skin as he marks your neck, biting softly before laving over the marks with his hot tongue to sooth the sting. You can’t help the soft moans that leave you, overwhelmed by the way Robby can make you a mess with a few well-placed touches and kisses. 

One hand continues toying with your nipple, and the other trails down your body, fingers stopping briefly to flit across your abdomen before continuing down to your thighs. Your breath hitches as he begins rubbing soft circles into the tender skin of your inner thigh, so close to where you’re aching for him to pay some attention. 

“Don’t tease,” you pout, angling your head back to look up at him, eyes hooded with lust. 

“‘m not teasing, honey. Just trying to make you feel good,” he replied honestly, cupping your mound in his hand and squeezing gently before he parted your lips with his middle finger. 

“Always so wet for me,” he murmured, spreading your wetness up and over your clit. “Even under the water, I can tell you’re absolutely soaking for me.” He circled around your clit softly, never putting direct pressure on it. You whined, bucking your hips in search of more friction, for something to grind your nub on, but he kept up his ministrations around your clit, driving you mad.  

Your hips breached the surface of the water, waves sloshing and spilling over the edge of the tub and onto the floor from your desperate movements. 

“You’re making a mess, sweetheart,” Robby chided, hand abandoning your nipple and slinging his arm around your hips to hold you still against him. You could feel his hard cock under you, pressing emphatically against your back. You wondered, briefly, if you could make him cum from rubbing against him in this position. Probably. 

“please Robby, thought you weren’t gonna tease me,” you pouted, grabbing his forearm in a weak attempt to force his hand onto your throbbing clit. 

He hummed, mulling it over. “okay, okay, I'll give you what you want, sweet girl,” he acquiesced, chucking softly at the frown on your face. He resituated you, hooking your legs over his, opening you up wider for him. Your hips sat just a fraction above the water line, bubbles dissipated by now, giving you a clear sight of his hand between your thighs. 

You let out a cry when he finally made contact with your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles against it just the way you liked. You let out a keening moan, body shivering from the delayed attention. “Always so responsive for me,” he whispered against your ear, catching the lobe between his teeth and biting gently. 

Without warning he abandoned your clit, two fingers plunging deep into your pussy. Robby set a fast pace, fingers curling against your walls, fingertips pressing up against that spongy spot that made your pussy clench and stars to burst behind your eyelids. His thumb returned to your clit, rubbing merciless circles against it. 

“fuck, please Robby, r-right there,” you cried, body writhing on top of his. The only sounds in the bathroom were your wanton moans and the soft plap plap plap of Robby’s hand against the water.

You could feel the coil in your stomach winding tighter, quickly approaching the precipice of your climax. The stretch of Robby’s fingers was glorious, but you wanted more. “want another one,” you whimpered, wanting to feel the dull ache of him stretching you out and stuffing you full with his fingers. 

“Yeah? My greedy little girl wants her pussy stuffed with my fingers? Hm?” he taunted, already moving to slip in a third finger. A strangled moan slipped from your lips, back arching up impossibly from his chest, ass rubbing up against his cock. Robby landed a slap to your pussy, just hard enough to sting, “fuck, sweetheart, you keep doing that and we’ll both be making a mess,” he cursed behind you, rutting his hips up to slide between your cheeks. 

You threw an arm back around his neck, fingers grasping at the short hairs there and tugging. You were getting close, hips jerking against his hand in uncoordinated thrusts, desperate for release. 

Your head hung back against Robby’s shoulder, letting out a near constant stream of moans and whimpers, Robby’s long, thick fingers working relentlessly against your walls, thumb pressed tight against your clit. 

“Don’t–don’t stop, please Robby, I’m gonna–”

“I know, sweetheart,” he cooed, a hand moving back to your nipple, pinching hard between his fingers. “cum for me, wanna feel your tight little pussy squeezin’ my fingers, shit, wanna feel you fall apart.” 

Robby rubbed harshly against your clit one, two, three more times and you’re coming. White hot sparks coursing through your body, back arched, a sob leaving your lips as the pleasure radiates through your body. Your legs try desperately to close from the overwhelming sensation, but Robby’s legs keep you pried open, unable to anything but feel the full force of your climax. You’re not completely sure you don’t black out for a second. 

You faintly hear Robby grunting behind you, but you’re too blissed out to know why. 

You’re boneless in his grasp when you resurface, brain foggy and limbs sluggish. It takes you a minute to realize his fingers are still moving, that his thumb hasn’t stopped circling your clit. 

“‘s too much,” you whined, hips pulling away from and chasing his fingers in equal measure, unsure if you were running away from the contact or begging for more. Robby pressed harshly against your clit, earning an embarrassing squeal-moan combination you weren’t sure you’d ever made before.  

He tutted, “you told me not to start anything I couldn’t finish, so I made you finish. And I want you to finish again. and again. and again,” you barely caught the evil grin plastered to his face before he moved to press hot, open mouthed kisses to your neck, continuing his devious assault on your clit. 

You could barely catch your breath, the overstimulation making it hard to think, words heavy in your mouth. “what about you?” you asked, hand clumsily reaching behind you to try and grab his cock, finding it already softening. 

He huffed out a laugh, “don’t worry about me, you took care of that all by yourself, honey, grinding that ass against me. I’ve got all night to play with your pretty little pussy,” he said 

It was going to be a long night.

You knew it’d been a bad day before you saw him. 

It was nearly 10pm when you heard the front door shut with a little more force than necessary. There was no “honey, I’m home,” or other such cheesy remark. Robby toed off his shoes quietly, dropping his keys in the catch-all by the door with a heavy sigh. 

He stood in the entryway, eyes closed, for a beat before making his way over to you on the couch, where you were cozied up with a blanket and book. He gave you a quick kiss on the forehead before quickly making his way to the bedroom. Even with how hard he found it to cope with the bad days, he knew not to take it out on you. 

You knew on days like this he needed some time to himself to decompress, so you didn’t immediately trail after him. About 10 minutes later, though, you padded into the bedroom, and subsequently into the en suite bathroom. 

You stripped your clothes off as you entered the steam filled room, the air thick with it and the unreleased tension radiating from Robby. He stood in the shower, facing away from you, unmoving. You pushed the shower door open and quickly stepped in behind him.

You pressed your front to his back, smoothing your hands over his shoulders and arms, grounding him in the moment. His shoulders slumped a fraction, the tension not erased entirely, but eased enough for him to breathe a little easier; to pause the spiral you’re sure he’s already started down.

You still hadn’t spoken yet; hadn’t asked about what happened. No, what Robby needed right now wasn’t an exploration of how and why his day went so badly. He just needed contact. He just needed you. 

You wrapped your arms around him fully, rubbing soft circles into the plush of his stomach and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. “Have you washed your hair yet?” you asked quietly, pressing kisses along the back of his neck and upper shoulders. 

Robby tightened his arms around yours, entwining your hands together over his stomach, and gave a quick shake of his head. You nodded, pecking him one last time just under his ear before moving to grab the shampoo. Squirting just enough into your palms, you began to massage the product into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp in the process. 

The sound Robby let out could only be described as the human equivalent to a purr. It was deep and throaty, warm and needy. His head tilted back a little more, giving you a better angle. You washed his hair longer than strictly necessary, but you knew how much he loved it, this little act of intimacy, so you didn’t mind the mild ache that started building up in your arms. Soon, though, you tipped his head forward to rinse out the shampoo, before moving on to conditioner, which you quickly applied. 

“Want me to wash you?” you asked, already reaching for the washcloth and body wash. 

“You don’t have to,” he replied weakly, voice hoarse from disuse. 

“I know,” you replied, “Want to, if you’ll let me,” you finished, lathering up his woodsy body wash onto the cloth. 

He nodded then, and you set to work, first scrubbing over his shoulders and back, moving down over his arms and legs. You gave the same treatment to his front, still pressed against his back as you tried to wash every bit of skin you could reach. The angle was a bit awkward, but you knew he didn’t want to turn around and face you yet, still ashamed of the way he handled the bad days, the way he’d go silent even when all he wanted to do was break down. But he wasn’t shutting you out, and he was letting you take care of him, so you weren’t going to argue with him about shower stances. 

Once finished, you stood quietly for a moment as you let the water wash over him, rinsing away the soap. Slowly, you slipped your arms around his front, dragging your fingertips up and down his chest, tracing over his collarbone and any other traces of skin you could get your hands on. 

You continued down, brushing your fingers slightly over his nipples. His breath hitched, throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. “You don’t have to…” he said again, but not able to protest but so much. 

“Shhh… just let me take care of you,” you murmured back, already pinching his nipples softly between your thumb and forefinger, tugging and rolling them between your fingers before soothing them over with gentle touches. “Y’do so much for everybody else, just let me make you feel good.” 

You continued like that for a while, pulling out small whines from Robby. One hand remained on his nipple, teasing softly, while the other trailed down his stomach, stopping briefly to knead and rub over his soft belly, before coming to rest just above his cock. 

He wasn’t completely hard yet, but he wasn’t far off. You brushed your hand against him, feeling him twitch as your fingertips ran up and down his length, light enough to tease him until he was fully erect. He was hot and heavy as you gripped him, always filling your hand like it was made for you. 

Your fingers traced over his head, collecting the steady stream of precum  that was dripping from the tip and spreading it down his cock with a few languid strokes. It wasn’t the ideal lubricant, but it was better than just water; it would have to do. 

You continued your pace, twisting up and over the head with the palm of your hand every couple of strokes. Robby hung his head forward, bracing himself against the shower wall with one hand, the other clenching and unclenching into a fist at his side. He was letting out whimpers freely now, abandoning all pretense of stoicism he’d held onto before.

“Please” he whined, thrusting shallowly into your hand. 

You moved the hand not jerking him off to his hip, stilling his movement. “Just let me do all the work, okay? All you gotta do is stand there and look pretty for me, okay, honey?” you said, “Can you be a good boy and do that for me?” 

Robby’s cock twitched at the term of endearment, and he nodded his head vigorously, not wanting to risk you stopping your ministrations. 

“Words, baby,” you chided, squeezing a bit harder on your next stroke. “Yes, yes, I can be a good boy. Can let you do all the work,” he whimpered, muscles tensing from trying so hard not to fuck your hand. 

“I know you can. You do such a good job, baby, even when you think you don’t,” you crooned, picking up speed as you stroked his cock. Robby preened at the praise, moaning and groaning at each affirmation you threw his way.  

Your unoccupied hand moved further down, cupping his balls and fondling them gently, before traveling down slightly lower and pressing two fingers against his asshole. Not enough to breach the entrance, but enough stimulation to make a strangled cry leave Robby’s throat. 

You knew Robby was getting close when he got louder, letting out a steady stream of moans and whimpers, along with breathy exhales of your name. You redoubled your efforts, hand moving quickly up and down his shaft and fingers rubbing tight circles against his hole. “You’re bein’ so good for me like this, baby, lettin’ me take care of you,” you said, teeth catching his earlobe and sucking gently. “You gonna be a good boy and cum? Hm? Gonna make a mess for me, Mikey?” you asked. 

“Yes! Gonna cum, please, please, please,” he pleaded, eyes clamped shut and mouth hanging open. 

“Go ahead, baby, cum for me,” you commanded, and with a final swipe of your thumb over his slit, Robby was coming long, hot spurts. The sound he let out was delicious, and you could feel how absolutely, debaucherously wet you were between your thighs. You milked him for all he had, only pulling away when Robby whimpered and grabbed your wrist, stilling your movement. 

He stood there breathing heavily for a few moments, still braced against the shower wall. You ran your hands over his shoulders, thumbs applying gentle pressure to the area between his shoulder blades, whispering words of praise. Content to stand there with him as he came down.  

Once his breathing started to even out, he turned around and gathered you up in his arms. “Thank you,” he mumbled, nuzzling his face into your hair. “ ‘m sorry I’m like this. Don’t know why I can’t just let the bad days go.” 

You grasped his face between your palms, tilting his head to look at you, “Don’t have to apologize, baby. I know you’re trying your best,” you said, “Did so good letting me take care of you tonight.” He melted into the palm of your hand, pressing a kiss there before squeezing you tighter against him and pressing kisses to the crown of your head. “I love you,” he said, hands skimming down your sides to grab at your ass, “and I'm gonna eat you out so good when we get to bed,” he promised, playfully biting at your neck.

You giggled, “Yeah? Let's get outta here then,” and you’re moving to open the door and grab towels before he can respond.

It had been a hellish 15 hour shift by the time you and Robby got home, wanting nothing more than to collapse in bed and sleep for the next 24 hours. But neither of you could forego a shower, needing to get rid of the smell of antiseptic, blood, and other bodily fluids before you could actually relax. 

Which is how you ended up perched sidesaddle on Robby’s lap on the shower bench, lazily washing each other off. Somewhere between sudsing up Robby’s body and rinsing him off, your hand found purchase on his cock and you began slowly stroking him, unhurried in your pace, just enjoying the little sounds you pulled from him. You shared sloppy, uncoordinated kisses that left both of you spitslick and simply breathing into each others’ mouths more often than not. 

Robby wrapped one arm securely around your waist while the other moved between your legs, opening you up for him. The angle was awkward–arms crisscrossed and bumping together every once in a while, your leg almost dangling off his lap–but neither of you cared. The only thing that mattered was your mutual release. 

Your head dropped back when he finally made contact with your cunt, his fingers tracing around your lips before stopping at your entrance. Two fingers spread your slick from hole to clit, his fingertips dancing teasingly over it without applying any real pressure. You let out a frustrated whimper in dissatisfaction, and he let out a tired chuckle before giving into what you really wanted. 

He rubbed lazy circles on your clit before returning to your entrance and plunging one finger, then two, his long digits searching and finding that soft, spongy spot that you’d never been able to reach yourself. The heel of his hand was situated perfectly for you to grind on, which you did without a second thought. Your body buzzed at the feeling of his rough skin against your clit, spurring your hips into faster and more desperate circles as you chased the friction. 

Stars danced behind your eyelids as his fingers alternated between curling motions and scissoring you open, your hips chasing his hand and properly fucking yourself on him. 

At the same time, you kept stroking his cock, faster now, squeezing and twisting just the way he liked, passing your thumb over the head every other stroke. He was throbbing in your hand, hips bucking up in jerky, uncoordinated thrusts. 

Robby’s full-throated moans were muffled as he dipped his head down to catch one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and flicking the pebbled flesh with his tongue before gently biting down. 

The two of you were silent save for the moans and groans you pulled from one another, abandoning your usual dirty talk and working with a quiet determination to get to the finish line. 

Your breath hitched as you approached the edge of your orgasm, the combined sensations working in tandem to throw you off the cliff. But it wasn’t enough. 

You dropped your head into the crook of his neck, soft mewls leaving your lips. “Need more, Mikey,” you whined into his ear, still grinding down against his palm. “Need you inside me,” you continued, finally pulling his hand away and readjusting yourself directly over his lap. 

You took a hold of his cock and swiped it through your folds a few times, each pass providing delicious friction against your clit, before slowly sinking down. It took a minute; it always did with Robby, no matter how many times you’d taken him. But soon enough your bodies were flush together, and you began rocking your hips, small grinding motions that had your clit rubbing against the thick thatch of hair at the base of Robby’s cock.  

It wasn’t a particularly comfortable position, what with the granite of the shower bench biting into your knees, but all you could think about was the way Robby’s cock was stretching you out. You could feel every inch of him this way; every ridge and vein on his gorgeous cock as he fucked up into you, tip kissing your cervix in the best way. 

Robby’s hands rested on your waist, guiding your movements, hips meeting yours each time you sank back down. His mouth returned to your breasts, sucking and biting marks into the supple flesh surrounding your nipples before taking one in his mouth and sucking, cheeks hollowed out. The oversensitivity burned–it was almost too much, but the line between pleasure and pain was perfectly blurred. 

When Robby detached himself from your breast, his eyes were glassy as he looked up at you. “Shit, sweetheart, look so pretty sittin’ on my cock,” he breathed out, eyes fixed on the way your tits bounced as you eased yourself up and down his cock faster and faster, using his shoulders for leverage. His hand slithered between your bodies and found your clit, sweeping in side-to-side motions that had your toes curling. 

It didn’t take long then, your core tightening before the dam burst, your vision whiting out as pleasure coursed through your body. You let out a sharp cry as your orgasm washed over you, walls spasming, a wave a slick gushing out and over Robby’s cock and thighs. 

Your pulsating cunt sent Robby over the edge. With a final thrust, Robby pulled you close, impaling you impossibly deep on his cock, “fuuuuck honey, that’s it. Love feeling you cum all over my cock,” he grit out, head thrown back as he came. You felt him deep in your belly, warmth spreading through you before slowly seeping down and out, washed away by the cooling water. 

You sat slumped against Robby, breathing heavily as his cock softened in your still quivering pussy. Robby held you close, hands smoothing up and down your back as tried to ground you. Your thighs were still trembling–from the orgasm, the position, the exertion–and you knew the ache tomorrow would be a nightmare, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care as you buried your head in the crook of Robby’s neck, inhaling his scent. 

“mmm I don’t think we got very clean,” you mumbled tiredly. 

“No, I don’t think we did,” he replied, equally as blasé. “You did break the ‘no shower sex’ rule though,” he said, shooting you a tired smirk.  

“Just me? I recall you being there too,” you mused, smiling up at him dopily. 

“I was seduced by a very charming rule-breaker. What’s your excuse?” he asked, eyebrows raised. 

“My excuse is that my very hot boyfriend was sitting in front of me with his very pretty, very hard cock just begging to be fucked. I was tempted, sue me.”

“Oh is that so? You just fell victim to my big, pretty cock, did you?” 

“mhm.”

“yeah, that tracks,” he laughed, shaking his head. He waited a beat, then, “We have the rule for a reason, y’know,” he argued, but you could tell the fight–the very little he had in him to begin with–had bled out. 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t want to get hurt and all that,” you said, knowing the lecture by heart by now. “But this ‘very charming’ ruler-breaker thinks it was worth it,” you concluded, yawning. 

“Yeah,” he sighed, content. “Worth it.”

It was a rare Sunday morning–one that you and Robby both had off. The pitter patter of the shower did little to mask the sound of your combined moans and giggles. You and Robby were unable to keep your hands off of one another. Robby’s hands were gliding across your body, groping and squeezing your tits, ass, thighs, and any other bits of flesh he could reach. You weren’t doing much better, hands scratching down his back, nails digging into his ass as you pulled him closer to you. 

You shared sloppy kisses, teeth gnashing occasionally, causing you both to break out into a fit of giggles into each others’ mouths more than once. 

Before you knew it you were being pressed against the shower door, the cool glass a welcomed contrast to the hot water. Robby tapped your thigh, urging you up to wrap your legs around his waist, to which you obliged. He rutted against you, cock slipping between your folds. Your lips caressed his shaft as he slid against you, bumping your clit with each thrust. His tip caught on your entrance every now and then, pressing in every so briefly before continuing its path through your sopping folds. 

With a garbled moan you grabbed Robby’s cock as it once again snagged against your hole, holding it there until Robby’s hips slowly inched forward. You both moaned as the tip of Robby’s cock breached your entrance, his head falling to rest against your shoulder. He slid the rest of his length into you, his hips rolling experimentally against you as he found his rhythm. 

His pace was slow, unhurried as he pulled almost all the way out before snapping his hips back, cock buried deep in your cunt. You loved being split open on Robby’s cock, the feeling of being stuffed full almost intoxicating. Everything else was drowned out by the sound of your and Robby’s moans. 

You’re not sure who or what slipped, but one moment you were pinned against the shower door with your legs wrapped securely around Robby’s waist as he thrust into you, and the next, you were catching yourself against the door, and Robby was gripping onto the metal safety bar for dear life. 

It was deathly quiet, save for your combined pants and heavy breathing, the air still as you processed what just happened. Then–before you could stop yourself–you burst out laughing. You couldn’t help it; Robby looked genuinely shellshocked by the turn of events. 

“You’re laughing!? We just almost died and you’re laughing?” He asked incredulously. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just–you look so,” you couldn’t breathe, trying hard to contain your giggles but failing miserably. “You look so bewildered,” you finally choked out. 

“I am bewildered!” 

Robby was shaking his head in disbelief. “This is exactly why we have the ‘no shower sex’ rule in the first place!” He exclaimed, still catching his breath. 

You reached up to hold his face between your palms, “I know, baby, I know,” you murmured, a little condescendingly, rubbing your thumbs across his scruffy cheeks. “we were having fun, though,” you insisted. 

He looked down his nose at you, shooting you a disapproving look. “I could’ve broken a hip, y’know,” he grumbled, sounding displeased, but wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tight against him anyway. 

“Oh yeah, I forgot I was with such an old man,” you joked, rolling your eyes at him. “What, are you gonna start telling me stories that start with, ‘back in my day,’ now?” you questioned, wrapping your arms around his neck and planting soft kisses against his chest. His heart was still beating wildly. 

Robby huffed, delivering a sharp smack to your ass. “Old man, huh? That what you’re gonna be calling me when I fuck you into the mattress later? Hm?” he asked, eyebrows raised. 

You rested your chin against his chest, looking up at him with a gleam in your eye. “Let’s not pretend that it doesn’t get you unbelievably hard when I call you ‘old man’,” you whispered, fingers tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck. 

As if to prove you right, you felt his dick twitch against your thigh. 

Not to be outdone, Robby grabbed your chin between his fingers, bringing your lips close to his as he whispered, “and let’s not pretend you’re not soaked at the thought of this dirty old man pounding into your sweet little pussy.” 

You felt your cheeks heat, and your pussy throb. “Touché,” you smiled, nipping at his bottom lip before kissing him deep, tongue tangling with his messily. 

You rolled your hips against his softly, just enough to tease. Robby groaned, chasing your lips as you pulled away and reached to shut off the water.

You stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your body and sauntering off towards the door. Robby was still standing in the shower, lips swollen and eyes glassy. 

You looked back at him over your shoulder, “are you coming, old man? I’m ready to be fucked in to the mattress,” you said, shooting him a cheeky grin before walking off into the bedroom. 

The old man couldn’t move fast enough. 

There She Is - you finally see Robby’s struggles.

You’re Not Okay - you need help, he’s trying to.

I Missed You - a dry spero between you and Robby.

I Wanted To Hurt You - you and Robby know how to hurt one another.

What Are We Doing? - early fight in your relationship.

Too Sweet - you’re a diabetic.

Met His Match - Robby’s in love with your competence.

You Need Me Here - who is taking care of Robby during COVID?

Restaurant vs Couch - one year anniversary.

I Didn’t Know - TW - miscarriage.

Prom at PTMC - it’s prom at PTMC.

Scared Of The Risk - Robby doesn’t know if he can risk you.

You’re Not Alone - Robby helps you with a stalker.

This Version - you find an old pic of Robby.

What if Im Not The Same? - you go through a surgery to help an issue preventing you from working.

I’m Sober Now - you get hotboxed at work & insanity ensure with Robby

The Three Of Us - you and Robby with your new addition.

It’s Only Six Weeks - you take a six weeks training away from Robby.

The Complaint - someone files a complaint and names you.

The Break You Both Need - you & Robby go through the question of marriage.

You Have To Want It - one year after PittFest and Robby still hasn’t gotten help.

Mother’s Day - your mom helps with Robby.

I’m Glad You’re Back - Robby comes back from his sabbatical.

Forty Is Just An Age - the reader turns 40.

It’s Different For Us - Seeing Samira and Jack brings up how you and Robby began.

Mom and Dr. Daddy - if you’re the mom of the ER, what’s that make Robby?

Professional Development

Something Is Not Right

We Could Try - maybe a small moment in the past can help with healing?

After A Breakup - after a bad breakup, the healing gets you into someone else’s arms.

Different Perspectives - you work in public education, he works in healthcare.

Admin’s Help - Part Two - Robby learns just how much help you’ve been on the admin side of PTMC.

I’m Your Partner - you’re the new attending & there to help.

ICU vs ER - you get floated down to the ER for shift.

Wrong Place, Right Person - you get injured and Robby deals with being professional vs. personal.

Lucky You - Maybe some St. Patrick’s Day luck can get you and Robby to agree to what “this” is.

Patient Dr. Robby - When Dr. Robby becomes your patient.

The Helpful Letter - The letter from Langdon forced you to force Robby’s hand.

Plus One - You really want to be Robby’s plus one.

Don’t Let This Darkness Fool You - Helping Robby with his darkness.

Bad Habit - You’re determined for Robby to break his bad habit.

Defend Me - Robby apologizes for siding with Dr. Al-Hashimi and humiliating you.

Past Announcements - Robby tells you about Collins

Birthday Cupcake - it’s Robby’s birthday and he’s not a fan.

Impact - You get hurt on shift.

I Need My Boyfriend - You break your leg and Robby has to figure out if he’s your boyfriend or doctor.

Just Friends? - Dr. Robby can’t control his emotions.

I Want To - Dr. Robby has a rough shift.

You Owe Me Dinner - Robby has some pent up energy that you help him with.

A Silly Holiday - It’s Valentine’s Day at The Pitt.

Jewish Part Of You - You’ve done some readers h into Robby’s religious past.

Loosen Up - Dr. Robby’s had it with your attitude today.

Six Weeks - The night before Robby leaves on his sabbatical, but you have some check-ins coming up.

My Lists of Wants - After a bad case and Robby ignoring you, you set the tone for what you want from him as an apology.

Possibly - A conference in Philadelphia leads to a we he, won’t he situation for Robby.

Aftermath - The morning after Pittfest.

Stay Right There - Robby comes back from his therapist appointment and the Reader is there to help him through it.

Blame It On The Snow - A snow storm causes the crew to stay there past shift.

Between Shifts - Passing like ships in the night between shifts.

**************

Blurbs

First Dat Ask

Self Care

A Series of Firsts

11 Times You Were Almost Caught & The 1 Time You Were

A Bet Is A Bet

Parts of You Robby Loves

Except You

**************

Mini Series

Cabin Fever - Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

Part Five Part Six

**************

Dr. Katherine Greene & Dr. Michael Robinavich AU

Out With The Old, In With The New

Tulsa

Little Rock

Idaho

Before Everything Had A Name

Figuring Us Out

Double Date

Broken

Dealing with Teammates

First I Love Yous

His Birthday

Toothpaste

Her Birthday

Graduation Day

You looked up from the chart.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your coffee.” She shrugged. “Robby used to always drink it black. Funny how people rub off on each other.”

You blinked. It was such a strange thing to say that for a second, you didn’t even know how to respond.

“Okay,” you said slowly.

She smiled a little wider.

“I’m just saying.”

Then she walked out. You stared after her. A few seconds later, your co-fellow, Sarah, looked up from her laptop.

“That was weird.”

You huffed a laugh.

“Right?”

“Very weird.”

You nodded and let it go. Because it was weird. But not enough to start something over.

******

The comments continued. Sometimes they were subtle. Sometimes they weren’t. Three days later, you were discussing a treatment plan with one of the residents when Heather walked by.

“You should ask Dr. Robinavich what he thinks.”

You frowned.

“Why?”

She lifted one shoulder.

“I don’t know. I assume you two talk shop.”

“We don’t really discuss my patients.”

“Really?” she said innocently. “Huh.”

Then she walked away. The resident beside you looked uncomfortable. You ignored it.

A week after that, you ran into her in the cafeteria. You were carrying your lunch and she sat down across from you without asking.

“How long have you two been dating now?”

You nearly choked on your sandwich. You and Robby hadn’t exactly hidden your relationship, but neither of you advertised it.

“A few months.”

She nodded.

“Still new.”

“I guess.”

“You know, he and I lasted almost a year.”

You looked at her. She smiled.

“He always works too much. Just something to keep in mind.”

You stared at her for several seconds. Then you forced a polite smile.

“Thanks for the advice.”

She seemed pleased with herself. You wanted to throw your sandwich at her. Instead, you got up and left.

******

By the end of the month, you dreaded running into her. Which made you angry. Because you weren’t a jealous person. You weren’t insecure. At least… you hadn’t been.

But there was something about Heather’s comments that left you feeling off balance. Like she knew something you didn’t. Like she was standing on the outside of your relationship, peering in and making judgments. It didn’t help that your relationship with Robby was still so new.

Three months. Three wonderful, confusing, beautiful months. You still got butterflies when he kissed you. Still smiled every time his name lit up your phone. Still couldn’t quite believe someone like him had chosen you.

You were protective of it. Protective of him. Protective of the little bubble the two of you had built. So when Heather poked at it, it bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

You found Robby later that evening in the emergency department. He was standing at the central station, glasses low on his nose, reading a chart. God, he looked good. Hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled up, stethoscope hanging around his neck.

He looked up. The second he saw you, his face softened.

“Hey.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Hey.”

He held out his hand and you stepped closer, letting him tug you beside him.

“You surviving?”

“Barely.”

“Same.”

You laughed. He smiled.

“So you still can do it.”

“What?”

“You haven’t smiled all day.”

You frowned.

“I have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

He knew you too well already. That was dangerous. You sighed.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

You looked around to make sure no one was listening.

“Were you and Heather Collins serious?”

His eyebrows lifted.

“That’s random.”

“Answer the question.”

He considered you.

“Yeah. For a while.”

“Like… really serious?”

“No.” He shook his head. “We dated. It didn’t work.”

You tried to sound casual.

“Does she hate me?”

His face changed immediately.

“What?”

“I don’t know. She’s just… weird with me.”

“Weird how?”

You shrugged.

“She makes comments.”

“What comments?”

You recounted a few of them. By the end, he looked more confused than concerned.

“That’s it?”

You frowned.

“What do you mean, that’s it?”

“I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think she’s trying to upset you.”

Your stomach sank.

“Okay.”

“I mean, Heather’s sarcastic with everyone.”

“It doesn’t feel sarcastic.”

He studied your face.

“You think she’s jealous?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You kind of did.”

You looked away. He reached out and touched your arm.

“Hey.”

You looked back at him.

“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

There it was. That awful little feeling. Like maybe you were overreacting. Like maybe you were being childish. You forced a smile.

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

You leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“I’m okay.”

He looked at you for another moment before sighing.

“All right.”

You smiled.

“Go save lives, Dr. Robinavich.”

His mouth twitched.

“You know you don’t have to call me that.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you?”

You smiled.

“Because it annoys you.”

He laughed softly.

“Brat.”

You grinned and started walking backward.

“Bye, Chief.”

He shook his head.

“Have a good night.”

“You too.”

You turned and headed toward the elevators. You didn’t see Heather standing at the end of the hall. You didn’t see her watching the two of you. And you definitely didn’t hear her quiet voice as she walked away.

“Three months,” she murmured to herself. “We’ll see.”

And unfortunately, she wasn’t finished with you yet.

******

By the following week, you had convinced yourself that maybe you really was overthinking things. You hated that feeling. You hated feeling insecure.

You hated feeling like a teenager with a crush instead of a thirty-something physician who had survived medical school, residency, fellowship applications, and enough overnight shifts to last a lifetime. You had worked too hard to end up questioning yourself over one woman and a few comments.

So you decided to ignore it. That lasted approximately forty-eight hours. You were sitting at one of the workstations in the emergency department, finishing your note on a six-year-old with pneumonia, when Heather slid into the chair beside you. You didn’t look up.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” she replied pleasantly.

A beat of silence.

“You and Robby have plans tonight?”

You sighed inwardly.

“We’re getting dinner.”

“Oh.”

You kept typing.

“He still likes that Italian place downtown?”

You finally looked at her.

“I don’t know. We haven’t decided.”

She smiled.

“He always picked that place.”

You stared at her. She smiled wider.

“You’ll learn.”

You went back to your chart. A few moments passed.

“You know, he used to bring me coffee every Friday.”

You closed your eyes. There it is.

“I don’t really need a history lesson, Heather.”

She blinked innocently.

“I was just making conversation.”

“Okay.”

“You seem tense.”

You looked at her again.

“No, I seem busy.”

For a second, something flickered across her face. Then she stood.

“Have a good shift.”

You waited until she walked away before muttering under your breath.

“For fuck’s sake.”

Sarah beside you snorted.

“You okay?”

You rubbed your temple.

“Does she do this with everyone?”

She looked confused.

“Do what?”

You gestured vaguely.

“The comments.”

She looked over toward where Heather had disappeared. Then she looked back at you.

“Oh.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh what?”

SHe shifted awkwardly.

“I don’t know. I guess she… talks about Dr. Robinavich sometimes.”

“Wonderful.”

“You know how hospitals are.”

Unfortunately, you did. Hospitals were giant high schools with medical degrees. Everybody knew who dated who. Everybody knew who had divorced. Who had cheated. Who had gotten drunk at the Christmas party. Who had cried in a stairwell.

You had worked in enough hospitals to know better. Still, this felt different. This felt personal.

That evening, you met Robby at the little Italian restaurant downtown. The irony wasn’t lost on you. The second you sat down, he frowned.

“What happened?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You’ve got your work face on.”

“My work face?”

“The one where you look like you’re mentally fighting someone.”

You laughed despite yourself.

“I do not have a face for that.”

“You absolutely do.”

The waiter came and took your drink order. The second he left, Robby leaned forward.

“Okay. What’s going on?”

You looked down at the menu.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You looked up. He was smiling. You sighed.

“Heather made another comment today.”

His smile disappeared.

“What did she say?”

You repeated the conversation. By the end, he looked more tired than angry.

“She’s weird.”

You blinked.

“That’s your response?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t know either.”

He leaned back.

“I really don’t think she’s trying to be mean.”

You looked at him. There it was again. That same little ache.

“I didn’t say she was mean.”

“You seem upset.”

“Because it’s weird, Robby.”

He sighed.

“I just don’t think she’s sitting around obsessing over us.”

You swallowed.

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

You looked away. He waited. Eventually, you sighed.

“I already feel like a kid here.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“I’m younger than a lot of the attendings. I’m new. I’m still proving myself every day.”

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

You gave him a look.

“Easy for you to say.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re you.”

He blinked.

“What does that mean?”

You laughed softly.

“Come on.”

“No, explain.”

“You’ve been here forever. Everyone respects you. They listen when you speak.”

He looked almost offended.

“You think people don’t respect you?”

“I think I have to earn it.”

“You’ve already earned it.”

“You say that because you’re my boyfriend.”

He sat back.

“No. I say that because you’re a damn good doctor.”

You looked down at the table. His voice softened.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

“You’re younger than me but,” he started. “You’re not a kid.”

You smiled faintly.

“Thanks.”

“You know I mean it.”

“I know.”

The waiter appeared with your drinks. The conversation shifted. You talked about patients. About how tired you both were. About a movie you wanted to watch. By the end of dinner, you felt better.

Mostly. Then as you walked out onto the sidewalk, your phone buzzed. You glanced down. A message from one of the senior pediatric residents.

Emergency department needs peds consult in room eighteen. Looks like you’re getting called back in. Sorry.

You groaned. Robby laughed.

“Date night officially over.”

You sighed dramatically.

“We got forty-five whole minutes.”

“Very romantic.”

You shoved his shoulder. He smiled.

“I’ll walk you back.”

The two of you started toward the hospital. The summer air was warm, the sun setting behind the buildings. When you reached the emergency department entrance, you stopped.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Because our date got interrupted.”

He smiled softly.

“We work in emergency medicine.”

“I know.”

“This is practically foreplay.”

You laughed. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. You shook your head. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that no one walking by could hear him.

“You know I like spending time with you, right?”

You smiled.

“I would hope so.”

“No. I mean it.”

His hand brushed your arm.

“I know this thing is still new.”

Your heart did an annoying little flip.

“ I like you though.” Robby said. “I like us.”

You looked at him.

“You do?”

He gave you a look.

“Obviously.”

You smiled.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

A smile slowly spread across his face.

“You like us too?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Don’t make this weird.”

“Oh, it’s too late.”

You laughed. Then you leaned forward and kissed him quickly. His hand came to your waist for a second.

“Go see your patient,” he murmured.

“Bossy.”

“Damn right.”

You smiled and headed inside. The second you stepped into the emergency department, you saw Heather standing at the central station. She looked up. Her eyes immediately landed on you. Then the doors behind you. Where Robby was still standing outside for another moment before walking away. Heather looked back at you. A tiny smile crossed her face.

“Date night?”

You sighed.

“Apparently.”

She hummed.

“Enjoy it while you can.”

You froze.

“What?”

She picked up a chart.

“I said enjoy it.”

“No. You said, ‘while you can.’”

She looked at you as though you were being silly.

“I just meant our schedules are awful.”

You stared at her. She smiled.

“You seem really defensive lately.”

You felt your cheeks grow warm.

“I think I have a patient.”

“Mm.”

You started walking away. Then her voice followed you.

“He always gets bored with hospital relationships eventually.”

You stopped. The department around you seemed to quiet. You turned slowly. Heather looked up from her chart.

“What did you say?”

She blinked.

“I said he gets busy.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Her face remained perfectly calm. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then she smiled.

“Maybe I didn’t.”

Your jaw clenched. You wanted to say something. Anything. Instead, you turned and walked away. But your hands were shaking. And for the first time since this whole thing had started, you realized something terrifying. You weren’t just annoyed anymore. You were angry. Very, very angry.

******

The next two days were hell. Not because of your patients. Not because of the workload. Not even because you were on your third twelve-hour shift in a row. It was because every time you saw Heather Collins, your entire body tensed.

You were angry. And you hated being angry at work. Pediatrics required patience. It required calm. It required you to walk into rooms where parents were terrified and somehow be the steady person in the chaos. You couldn’t do that if your blood pressure spiked every time one particular resident opened her mouth.

So you avoided her. You rounded through different hallways. Took different elevators. Ate lunch in the pediatric workroom instead of the cafeteria. It was ridiculous. You were a grown woman hiding from another grown woman.

By Thursday, you were irritated with yourself. By Friday, you were exhausted. And exhaustion was dangerous. Because exhausted people had short tempers. Exhausted people cried in supply closets. Exhausted people snapped. You should have known you were heading toward a disaster.

******

The emergency department was slammed. There were no beds. The waiting room was overflowing. Someone was crying. Someone else was yelling. One of the monitors at the central station was beeping incessantly.

It was, in other words, a perfectly normal Friday night. You had just finished seeing a four-year-old with a nasty asthma exacerbation when your pager went off again. Then your phone rang. Then another resident stuck her head into the room.

“Hey, peds needs you in twenty-three.”

“I’m literally walking there.”

“Cool. Sorry.”

She vanished. You blew out a breath. You had a headache. You hadn’t eaten since seven that morning. You were surviving entirely on coffee and spite. As you approached room twenty-three, you heard voices.

Heather’s was one of them. You almost turned around. Almost. Instead, you squared your shoulders and walked in. The patient was a teenage boy with abdominal pain. Heather stood beside the bed with one of the interns, discussing the case. She looked up when you entered.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You smiled politely at the family and introduced yourself. The next twenty minutes were perfectly normal. You examined the patient. Asked questions. Reviewed labs. Discussed a plan. For a brief, glorious period of time, you thought maybe today would be different. Then the patient’s mother looked at Heather.

“So, are you two doctors working together?”

Heather smiled.

“Technically.”

The woman nodded toward you.

“She seems very young.”

You laughed softly.