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do you use photo references for robby or readers apartment/house?
you know what, I don’t! i think I have different versions in my mind (mostly because the reader is always at different life stages) but I’ve never searched for photo evidence.
would that be something you’d like me to do? i could do a “mood board” for Robby and/or reader?
Request - Hello! ✨ if you’re taking requests could you do one where reader and Robby are in a relationship where they feel confident it’ll last. She’s more of a people pleaser/quieter because she’s had many people tear her down and make her feel insecure about her personality/herself- in college, at old jobs, in old relationships. And she’s only been in a few relationships. And Robby who’s been in many more relationships/ hook up situations is learning to take things slow and open up and not want to take it all back when he does. They are learning to communicate about what they want in affection, love, romance, sex, their workplace relationship, and what their relationship is like ‘after the honeymoon phase’ (when things are uncomfortable or awkward or they’re fighting)
The first time Robby reached for your hand, it wasn’t planned. There wasn’t a declaration or a lingering look across the emergency department that suddenly transformed four years of carefully maintained professionalism into something different. In truth, the hardest part had already happened weeks earlier when the two of you admitted what had been quietly growing between stolen conversations after shift changes and coffee breaks that somehow always seemed to happen at the same time. Dating him hadn’t felt strange once it began. It had felt inevitable. What felt strange was learning that the man who had spent four years keeping exactly one arm’s length between you now seemed perfectly content to erase that distance whenever he could.
The afternoon had been long, one of those Saturdays where the emergency department never quite settled. Parents carrying feverish children, college students nursing broken wrists after intramural disasters, an elderly rancher who somehow insisted he’d driven himself despite obvious rib fractures. By the time evening arrived, both of you looked as exhausted as you felt. You changed out of your scrubs in silence, rubbing the back of your neck as you met him near the employee exit. Robby leaned lazily against the brick wall outside, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other balancing two paper coffee cups he’d apparently picked up while you were finishing charts.
“I guessed vanilla,” he said, offering one toward you.
You smiled immediately. “You guessed right.”
“I’ve been paying attention.”
“You’ve also had four years to figure it out.”
He shrugged with the faintest grin. “Long game.”
You laughed, shaking your head before taking a careful sip. “That’s almost creepy.”
“Almost.”
The parking garage sat across the street, glowing under fluorescent lights that somehow managed to make every vehicle look exactly the same color. Hospital employees drifted in small groups toward elevators while ambulances continued rolling toward the bay entrance behind you. It was normal. Familiar. Safe. Which was probably why your body reacted before your brain had time to catch up.
As the two of you stepped off the curb, Robby reached over without hesitation. His fingers found yours. Warm. Steady. Certain. You froze.
Not dramatically. You didn’t yank away or gasp or even stop walking. But your hand stiffened instinctively before your shoulders followed, every lesson you’d unknowingly taught yourself over the years screaming that someone would see, someone would judge, someone would decide you weren’t worth staying with after all. You hated that your body still did that. He noticed immediately. Of course he did.
Robby had spent two decades reading patients whose lives depended on the smallest changes in expression. Reading you had become second nature. He slowed his pace just enough to glance toward you.
“…Too much?”
The question was quiet. No frustration. No embarrassment. Just checking.
You looked down at your joined hands before quietly answering. “No.”
“No?”
“No.” You swallowed. “Just…give me a second.”
He nodded once. No teasing. No letting go. He simply adjusted his grip, weaving his fingers between yours instead of merely holding your hand, and continued walking toward the garage as though nothing unusual had happened.
“You don’t have to let go,” you said after several steps.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“I just…” Your voice trailed away.
He waited. That was another thing you’d noticed about Robby. Most people rushed to fill silence because it made them uncomfortable. Robby let silence breathe. He understood that sometimes people found their words if you gave them enough room.
You stared ahead at the concrete floor of the garage. “I’ve never…really done this.”
“Held hands?”
“Not…” You laughed softly at yourself. “Not where people could see.”
His eyebrows pulled together.
“What?”
“My last boyfriend thought public affection was…” You searched for the least embarrassing word. “…clingy.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“He told me once that confident women didn’t need reassurance.”
Robby stopped walking. Completely. You turned back toward him. The smile he’d been wearing moments earlier had disappeared, replaced by something much quieter.
“What an unbelievable ass”
You laughed despite yourself. He stepped a little closer, still holding your hand between both of his now.
“You know what I see?”
You shrugged.
“I see a woman who’s spent years convincing herself that wanting ordinary things somehow makes her difficult.”
You looked away. College roommates who thought you were too emotional. Supervisors who praised everyone else’s ideas before eventually arriving at yours. Friends who told you that speaking up made things awkward. Relationships where apologizing had become easier than asking for what you needed. None of those stories lived on your tongue anymore. But they lived in your nervous system.
“I don’t want to embarrass you,” you admitted quietly.
Robby actually looked offended.
“Embarrass me?”
“At work…around the hospital…people talk.”
“They do.”
“And you’re…you.”
He smiled faintly.
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve been an attending forever. You’re respected. You’ve got this reputation.”
“And?”
“I’m just…” You sighed. “I’m just me.”
The words came out smaller than you intended. Robby stared at you for several long seconds before lifting your joined hands between you.
“You’re not ‘just’ anything.”
You opened your mouth to argue. He beat you to it.
“You make the residents feel like they’re capable before they believe it themselves. You remember every patient’s family member’s name. Every nurse on nights lights up when you walk in because apparently you’re incapable of passing the break room without asking if anyone wants coffee. Frank told me last week that you somehow got a terrified six-year-old laughing before stitches.”
Heat crept into your cheeks.
“I notice you.” His voice stayed wonderfully matter-of-fact. “I’ve been noticing you for years.”
Your eyes immediately burned.
“Oh, don’t do that,” you laughed nervously.
“What?”
“Make me cry in the parking garage.”
“I wasn’t trying.” He smiled then, softer than before. “I reached for your hand because I wanted to hold it.”
You blinked.
“Not because I think everyone needs to know we’re together.” Another pause. “I reached for it because you’re my girlfriend.”
The title settled over you differently than hearing him say your name ever had.
“So if we’re walking somewhere together…” he continued gently, “…I’m probably going to hold your hand.”
You laughed through the tears threatening your eyes.
“You’re very stubborn.”
“I’ve been called worse. And if one day you don’t want me to because you’re uncomfortable, you tell me.” He squeezed your fingers. “If one day you do want me to…” another squeeze, “…you don’t have to earn it.”
The words landed somewhere deep inside you, touching places carved out by years of believing affection had to be deserved. You stepped closer until your forehead rested lightly against his shoulder, hidden enough that no one passing by would think twice.
“I don’t know why this feels so big,” you whispered.
He wrapped his free arm around your back with effortless certainty.
“I do.” You looked up. “Because nobody ever taught you that being loved could feel safe.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The sounds of ambulance sirens, elevator doors, and distant conversations echoed through the garage around you, but they seemed impossibly far away. Eventually, you slipped your fingers more firmly between his. You were the one who tightened your grip.
Robby felt it immediately. He didn’t say a word. He simply smiled to himself and kept walking, your hands swinging naturally between you as if they had belonged there all along.
******
Love
The first time you told Robby you loved him, it wasn’t planned. Looking back later, you couldn’t even remember deciding to say the words. They simply slipped out, as natural as breathing, because somewhere over the past month they had stopped being something you were trying to figure out and had quietly become something you knew.
It happened on a Thursday. Of course it was a Thursday. The emergency department had finally begun to slow after what felt like twelve straight hours of controlled chaos. You’d spent most of your shift helping with a multi-car collision before running to radiology twice for trauma imaging and somehow still finding time to calm a frightened teenager waiting on biopsy results. By the time you climbed the stairs to Robby’s apartment, your shoulders ached and your eyes felt heavy enough to close standing up. He opened the door before you even knocked.
“You look terrible,” he said.
You blinked.
“…Thank you?”
“I mean exhausted.”
“I knew what you meant.”
“You sure?”
“You have the bedside manner of someone who was raised by wolves.”
He smiled, stepping aside to let you in. “And yet you keep coming back.”
Your overnight bag landed by the couch as you kicked off your shoes. The apartment had already begun to feel familiar. Your shampoo sat in his shower. A cardigan had accidentally remained draped across the back of one of his dining chairs for nearly two weeks. There was an extra toothbrush in the bathroom that neither of you acknowledged anymore.
None of it had been discussed. It had simply…happened. Robby disappeared into the kitchen while you wandered toward the living room.
“When did you eat?”
You frowned.
“…Lunch?”
He leaned around the corner.
“What time?”
You thought for a second.
“…Maybe one?”
“It’s after nine.”
“I got busy.”
A cabinet opened. Then another. You heard bread being pulled from a bag.
“You making something?”
“Mhm.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” Another pause. “But I’m going to.”
You smiled to yourself. There was something strangely comforting about the way he took care of people. It wasn’t grand or theatrical. He simply noticed things. Whether you’d eaten. Whether you were rubbing your neck because your migraine was coming back. Whether you’d been quieter than usual all day.
He noticed. Always. When you wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later, he was standing over the stove making grilled cheese with the concentration of someone performing surgery.
“You know that’s not how normal people flip sandwiches.”
“This is exactly how normal people flip sandwiches.”
“You used a spatula.”
“…Yes.”
“And then another spatula.”
“They’re fragile.”
“They’re grilled cheese.”
“They deserve respect.”
You laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter. Robby glanced at you.
“I’ve been waiting for that laugh all day.”
You looked up. His back was still mostly toward you as he watched the bread brown in the pan, but there was the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“You were waiting?”
“I figured you needed to laugh.”
“You figured right.”
A few minutes later he slid a plate in front of you before grabbing his own. The apartment settled into comfortable silence broken only by the occasional crunch of toasted bread and the soft hum of a baseball game playing quietly on the television in the next room.
It wasn’t exciting. There were no candles. No expensive dinner reservations. No dramatic declarations. Just grilled cheese. Tomato soup. And the man you were falling hopelessly in love with sitting across from you in an old T-shirt with his reading glasses perched low on his nose while he skimmed through patient notes for tomorrow.
Your heart felt impossibly full. He reached across the table without looking away from his chart and gently nudged your bowl a little closer.
“So you stop leaning.”
You smiled.
“Thank you.”
“Mhm.”
You dipped your sandwich into the soup. Took one bite. Then looked back at him.
“I love you.”
Silence. The spoon in his hand stopped halfway to the bowl. His eyes lifted slowly until they found yours. The room suddenly felt very, very quiet. Your own heartbeat seemed loud enough to echo.
Oh. Oh no. You hadn’t meant—
Heat rushed into your cheeks. Your stomach dropped. You could laugh it off. Pretend you meant the sandwich. Make a joke. Say it slipped. You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.
No. Not this time. For too much of your life you’d taken things back because other people looked uncomfortable. You weren’t doing that anymore. Your voice came out softer this time.
“I know it’s only been a month.”
He didn’t speak.
“I wasn’t planning to say it tonight.”
Still nothing.
“But…” You looked down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “…it’s true.”
His face was unreadable. Not cold. Not distant. Simply…thinking.
“I don’t expect you to say it back.” Another long silence.
Finally he set his spoon down.
“I can’t.”
Your chest tightened despite yourself. Not because he’d rejected you. Because you could hear how carefully he’d chosen those words.
“I know.”
“I won’t say something because I think it’s what you need to hear.”
“I don’t want you to.”
He nodded once.
“I’ve done that before.”
You blinked.
“In other relationships.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the window. “I said it because it was expected. Because it was easier than explaining why I wasn’t there yet.” He looked back at you. “I’m not doing that with you.”
The disappointment was there. Of course it was. You were human. But strangely…It didn’t hurt the way you’d expected. Because he wasn’t pushing you away. He was protecting the words.
“I appreciate that,” you admitted quietly.
“You deserve honesty.”
A small smile tugged at your lips.
“I still love you.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Thank you.”
You laughed.
“That’s all I get?”
“For now.”
The conversation moved on. You watched a movie. He absentmindedly rubbed slow circles over your ankle while you rested your legs across his lap. Later, curled together beneath the blankets, he kissed your forehead before turning out the light exactly like he always did. Nothing changed. And somehow…Everything had.
Two months passed.
Neither of you mentioned it again. Not because it was awkward. Because it wasn’t. You still said it when you left his apartment. When he called after late shifts. When one of you fell asleep first.
“I love you.”
His response never changed.
“Thank you.”
Sometimes he’d kiss your forehead. Sometimes he’d squeeze your hand. Sometimes he’d simply smile in that quiet way of his that made you think he was filing every moment away somewhere safe.
You stopped wondering when he would say it. You decided it would happen if it happened. And if it didn’t? You still wouldn’t regret saying it first.
It was nearly three in the morning when Robby finally came home after one of the worst trauma nights you’d seen in months. You’d fallen asleep waiting. Your book lay open beside you, glasses crooked on the nightstand, one lamp still glowing softly in the bedroom.
The apartment door clicked shut. You barely stirred. A few minutes later the bedroom door eased open. You heard the familiar sounds. Shoes set neatly by the wall. His watch placed on the dresser. The quiet rustle of scrubs being exchanged for an old pair of sweatpants.
The mattress dipped behind you. Then warmth. His arm slid carefully around your waist as he tucked himself against your back, trying not to wake you. But you were already awake.
“…Hey,” you whispered sleepily.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Waking you.”
“You didn’t.”
He exhaled. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was heavier than that. You covered his hand with yours.
“Bad night?”
His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder.
“…Yeah.”
You didn’t ask for details. You knew better. If he wanted to tell you, he would. If he didn’t…You could simply be there. Several quiet minutes passed.
His breathing slowly began to steady. Then, so softly you almost wondered if you’d imagined it, he spoke.
“I’ve been trying not to say it.”
You frowned slightly.
“What?”
“I’ve wanted to.” His voice was rough from fatigue. “Every time you leave.”
A pause.
“Every time you fall asleep on my couch.” Another pause. “Every time you laugh at one of Frank’s terrible jokes.”
Your heart began pounding.
“I kept thinking…” He swallowed. “…if I wait a little longer, maybe I’ll be more sure.”
He laughed once under his breath.
“I finally realized I wasn’t waiting because I wasn’t sure.” His arm tightened around you. “I was waiting because I was afraid.”
You slowly turned to face him. The bedroom was almost dark. Only the hallway light spilled faintly across his face. His eyes looked impossibly tired. Older somehow. More vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.
“I’ve loved people before,” he admitted quietly. “But every time I said it…there was this part of me that wondered if I’d eventually have to survive losing them.”
Your chest ached.
“So I started believing that if I just…held something back…”
“You’d hurt less.”
He nodded.
“It doesn’t work that way, Robby.”
“No.” He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t want to do that with you.”
Your eyes shimmered.
“I don’t want to love you halfway because I’m trying to protect myself.” His thumb rested gently against your cheek. “I love you.”
The words weren’t whispered dramatically. They weren’t followed by a speech. They simply existed between you, solid and unwavering.
“I love how kind you are.” Another gentle stroke of his thumb. “I love that you think everyone deserves another chance.”
A tired smile.
“I love that you make my apartment feel like somewhere people actually live.” You laughed through tears. “And…”
He leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.
“I love you.”
The tears escaped before you could stop them.
“Oh,” you whispered with a watery laugh.
He smiled.
“What?”
“I’ve been waiting two months.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“I wanted it to be true because I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”
You wrapped both arms around him then, pulling him close despite how tired he must have been. He melted into the embrace without hesitation, burying his face against your neck as though he’d finally laid down something he’d been carrying for years. After a long while, he kissed your temple and closed his eyes.
“I should’ve said it sooner.”
You shook your head against his shoulder.
“No.” He looked at you. “I’m glad you waited until you were ready.”
For the first time in a very long time, neither of you felt like you had to rush the future. Love, you were both learning, wasn’t measured by who said the words first. It was measured by whether, once they were spoken, they became something you chose every day afterward.
******
Romance
By the third month, the novelty of dating Robby had quietly disappeared. Not because the excitement was gone. Because life had settled around your relationship instead of pausing for it. You still kissed him goodbye before shifts when your schedules lined up. He still stole fries off your plate despite insisting he “didn’t want any.” Your overnight bag had somehow become a permanent resident of his apartment, and every so often you’d open one of his kitchen cabinets only to realize he’d bought your favorite cereal without mentioning it.
There were no butterflies every second anymore. There was something better. Comfort.
It was the kind of comfort that let you sit together for an hour reading separate books without feeling like anyone needed to entertain the other. The kind that made silence feel warm instead of awkward. You were beginning to realize that this was what people meant when they talked about building a life with someone.
The problem was…Robby still seemed convinced romance required an occasion. Which was how you found yourself sitting across from him in one of the nicest restaurants in Pittsburgh on your first official “date night.”
The hostess had addressed him as “Doctor Robinavich” before he’d even spoken.
The waiter explained six different specials that sounded suspiciously identical. There were three forks. Three. You quietly leaned toward Robby.
“…Why are there so many forks?”
He looked down.
“…Honestly?”
“Please.”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
You snorted so loudly the couple beside you looked over. He smiled behind his water glass.
The meal itself was wonderful. The steak practically melted. The wine was excellent. The dessert looked like something that belonged in an art museum. And yet Walking back toward his truck afterward, your heels clicking softly against the sidewalk, you slipped your hand into his.
“Thank you.”
“You had fun?”
“I did.”
He studied your face for a moment.
“But?”
You sighed dramatically.
“…Can I say something without sounding ungrateful?”
“You’ve never had trouble telling me the truth.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
“So tell me.”
You looked up at the city lights before laughing softly.
“I think…I would’ve been just as happy getting tacos.”
He stopped walking.
“…Tacos.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I just spent enough money to feed a family of four.”
“I know.”
“…And you wanted tacos?”
“I wanted…” You searched for the right words. “…you.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“The restaurant was nice.”
“It was.”
“The food was incredible.”
“It was.”
“But halfway through dinner…” You smiled sheepishly. “…I realized I would’ve rather been sitting on the tailgate of your truck eating burgers.”
He stared at you for several seconds. Then burst into laughter. Real laughter. Head tipped back. Shoulders shaking.
“Oh, don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m laughing because Frank owes me twenty dollars.”
“What?”
“He said women wanted fancy restaurants.”
You blinked.
“…You made a bet?”
“He was very confident.”
“You two are impossible.”
“I told him I wasn’t sure.”
“You weren’t sure?”
“I’ve dated women who measured effort by reservation prices.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I don’t.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“I know that now.”
That conversation might have ended there. Except Robby had always been an exceptional student when something mattered to him.
Three days later you stumbled into the emergency department just before seven, still trying to wake up.
“Cassie called in sick,” Dana announced.
“Already?”
“Food poisoning.”
“Oof.”
“You’ve got trauma one.”
“Morning to me.”
You had barely dropped your bag into the staff room when someone gently set a coffee cup beside it. You turned. Robby. Already halfway back toward the physician workroom. You frowned.
“…Hey.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“You forgot your coffee.”
He smiled.
“That’s yours.”
You blinked.
“…Mine?”
“Tall vanilla latte.”
You stared at the cup.
“…With oat milk?”
“Mhm.”
“And one pump of hazelnut?”
“Mhm.”
“…Extra hot?”
“Mhm.”
“…How?”
He looked almost offended.
“You order the same thing every Tuesday.”
You just stared.
“I’ve been watching.”
“You memorized my coffee order?”
“I memorized it three weeks ago.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I wanted to make sure I got it right first.”
Your chest did something ridiculous. It wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t flashy. It was a six-dollar coffee. Yet somehow it felt like the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for you.
A week later it happened again. You arrived at his apartment after work to find fresh flowers sitting in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. You smiled immediately.
“They’re beautiful.”
“They’re for you.”
“I figured.”
You stepped closer. Then frowned.
“…These aren’t roses.”
“No.”
“They’re daisies.”
“Yes.”
You looked at him curiously.
“You…got me daisies.”
He folded his arms.
“I did.”
“I’ve never said…how’d you know?”
He shrugged.
“You stop to look at daisies every time we walk through the farmer’s market.”
You blinked.
“You’ve never once stopped for roses.”
Your mouth actually fell open.
“I…”
“You always point at daisies.”
You laughed.
“I didn’t even know I did that.”
“I did.”
Your eyes softened.
“They’re my favorite because…” You picked one gently between your fingers. “…they’re uncomplicated.”
He smiled.
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“I figured.”
It became almost impossible to keep track after that. You mentioned once that your grandmother always warmed blankets in the dryer before bedtime. Two weeks later, Robby quietly disappeared for five minutes one evening. When he came back, he draped a warm blanket around your shoulders without saying a word. You looked up at him.
“…Seriously?”
“What?”
“You remembered that?”
“You smiled when you told the story.”
Another evening, after an exhausting shift, you walked into his apartment to find homemade tomato soup simmering on the stove.
“I thought we were ordering pizza.”
“We were.”
“So…”
“You sounded congested over the phone.”
“You made soup?”
“You always want soup when you’re sick.”
“I’ve been coughing for six hours.”
“I work in emergency medicine.”
“…Right.”
“I notice things.”
You laughed.
“You really do.”
Frank was the first one to say it out loud. It happened during lunch after a surprisingly calm morning in the department. Frank stabbed dramatically at his salad before looking between the two of you.
“You know what’s funny?”
Robby barely glanced up.
“No.”
“You’ve become domesticated.”
Several residents looked up immediately. Robby sighed.
“I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I own the same truck.”
“Mhm.”
“The same apartment.”
“Mhm.”
“I still work eighty hours a week.”
Frank leaned back.
“And yet.”
“And yet what?”
“You left a trauma meeting yesterday because she texted asking whether basil expires.”
You covered your face.
“Oh my God.”
Robby looked entirely unapologetic.
“It does expire.”
Frank pointed triumphantly.
“You answered.”
“She was making dinner.”
“So?”
“So I knew.”
Frank looked around the room dramatically.
“See?”
Dana started laughing.
“I’ve never seen him answer a personal text during work.”
“It wasn’t personal.”
“You literally texted back—” Frank pulled out his phone. “‘Smell it first. Love you.’”
The entire table erupted. Your face immediately burned crimson.
“Oh my God.”
Dana laughed so hard she nearly dropped her drink. Robby simply looked at Frank.
“You saved that?”
“I absolutely saved that.”
“Delete it.”
“No.”
“You are fifty-two years old. And you’re making basil recommendations.”
Robby pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I hate all of you.”
Frank grinned.
“No.”
He looked toward you.
“He loves all of us.”
Then back to Robby.
“But mostly…” He smiled knowingly. “…he loves remembering the little things.”
That evening, you and Robby walked slowly through the Saturday farmer’s market, woven between families carrying fresh bread and children chasing one another between produce stands. You nudged his shoulder.
“So.”
“So?”
“I heard you’re domesticated.”
“I’ve been informed.”
“What do you think?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“I think…” He looked down at your joined hands. “…I spent a long time believing romance had to impress someone.”
“And now?”
He smiled softly.
“Now I think romance is remembering how you take your coffee.” You looked at him. “And buying daisies. And warming your blanket. And soup.”
You laughed.
“What changed?”
He thought for a long moment before answering.
“I stopped asking myself…” He squeezed your hand gently. “…‘What should I do for her?’”
“And?”
“I started asking…” His eyes found yours with that same quiet certainty they always carried when he was telling the truth. “…‘What makes her feel known?’”
You stopped walking. The sounds of the market faded around you.
“You know…” you said softly, “…nobody’s ever loved me like that.”
His expression immediately softened.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“You’ve spent months looking surprised every time I remember something small.”
You laughed quietly.
“I guess I have.”
He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’m not trying to surprise you anymore.”
“What are you trying to do?”
He smiled.
“I’m trying to make sure you never have to wonder whether I was paying attention.”
Your eyes filled before you could stop them. He chuckled. Because somewhere along the way, Robby had discovered that romance wasn’t measured in grand gestures or expensive dinners. It was measured in the quiet moments where one person looked at another and silently said,
I see you.
I remembered.
And I always will.
******
Intimacy
By the fifth month, there were very few things about being with Robby that still made you nervous. You’d seen him at his absolute worst after seventy-two-hour stretches when he survived entirely on coffee and spite. He’d seen you cry over patients you couldn’t save and laugh until you snorted at Frank’s terrible impressions. You’d learned that he slept diagonally across the bed despite insisting he didn’t move at all, and he’d learned you stole every blanket sometime around three in the morning without remembering it.
Life had become wonderfully ordinary. Except for one thing. Talking about sex.
Not having it. Talking about it. Which, to your mild annoyance, seemed infinitely more terrifying.
It wasn’t because anything between you was lacking. Quite the opposite. Being with Robby felt safe in a way you hadn’t expected intimacy to feel. There was never pressure. Never assumptions. Never a moment where you felt like you were performing instead of simply…being with him.
Still…You carried old habits. Old insecurities. Questions you swallowed because they sounded embarrassing the second they reached your tongue.
Meanwhile, Robby seemed almost unfairly comfortable talking about nearly everything. Probably because he was fifty. Probably because he’d spent decades having uncomfortable conversations with complete strangers in emergency rooms. Probably because embarrassment had stopped existing somewhere around his first year of residency. You envied that.
It started on a rainy Sunday. The two of you had spent the afternoon tangled together. Once in the bedroom and once on the couch. Afterward you’d both stayed wrapped up together. . Laundry hummed in the background. A baseball game played quietly on television. You were curled sideways against him on the couch beneath the blanket he’d warmed—because of course he had—while he lazily scratched circles along your back as the rain tapped softly against the apartment windows.
“You know,” he murmured.
“Hm?”
“You’ve been weird all day.”
Your head immediately lifted.
“…Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I have not.”
“You got quiet that last round.”
“Maybe I was already tired from round one.”
“Mhm. And then you immediately looked away.”
Your cheeks warmed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I don’t.”
He smiled without opening his eyes.
“You’ve got something to tell me.”
Silence. You pretended to watch the television. A commercial for lawn fertilizer suddenly became the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.
“You know…” he continued lazily, “…ignoring me has never actually worked.”
“I’m not ignoring you.”
“You’ve been staring at Scott’s Miracle-Gro for almost thirty seconds.”
“…Maybe I really like healthy grass.”
He laughed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The avoidance.”
“I don’t avoid things.”
“You absolutely avoid things.”
“I absolutely don’t.”
“You alphabetized your spice rack last month because you didn’t want to tell me your mother was coming to visit.”
“…That was unrelated.”
“It was cinnamon.”
You groaned into the pillow.
“I hate when you’re observant.”
“No, you don’t.”
“…No.”
He kissed the top of your head.
“You love it.”
“I do.”
“So.”
“So?”
“What are we avoiding today?”
You stayed quiet for another full minute. Long enough that he didn’t push. He simply kept rubbing slow circles against your back, waiting the way he always did. Giving you room. Eventually you sighed.
“…Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.”
“I know.” Another pause. “It feels…” Your voice dropped. “…stupid.”
His hand stopped moving. You immediately missed it. He shifted just enough that he could see your face.
“It won’t be.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to ask.”
“I know you.” His expression softened. “If it feels big enough that you’ve been carrying it around all day…”
He brushed his thumb lightly across your cheek.
“…then it’s not stupid.”
You looked down at your hands.
“I just…”
Your heart pounded. God. Why was this so embarrassing?
“You can laugh.”
“I’m probably going to smile.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. But I won’t laugh at you.”
You inhaled slowly.
“…Okay.” Another deep breath. “So…” You covered your face with both hands.
“Oh no,” he said gently.
“What?”
“The hands.”
“What about them?”
“You hide behind them when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’ve become a blanket burrito and now you’re hiding behind your fingers.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
A muffled laugh escaped you.
“…No.”
His smile grew. You pulled one hand away from your face just enough to peek at him.
“…Promise you won’t make this weird?”
“I promise.”
“…Promise.”
“I swear.”
You swallowed.
“…I…”
You couldn’t do it. You buried your face again.
“Oh sweetheart.”
“I know.”
“No.” He chuckled softly. “I mean…” His fingers gently wrapped around your wrists. “You don’t have to hide.”
“I’m trying.”
After another long moment, you finally forced the words out.
“…I actually…” You stared determinedly at the couch cushion. “…like it…”
“Hm?”
“…when you and I are…together…when you…” Your face somehow grew even warmer. “…pull my hair.”
Silence. Absolute silence.nYou immediately wanted the earth to split open beneath the apartment.
“Oh my God,” you mumbled into your hands. “Forget I said anything.”
You heard him exhale. Not laughing. Not shocked. Just…Processing.
“…That’s what you’ve been worried about?”
You looked up cautiously. He was smiling. Not teasingly. Almost…fondly.
“I’ve been carrying this around for like three weeks.”
“You’ve been anxious for three weeks…” His eyebrows lifted. “…about telling your boyfriend something you enjoy?”
You nodded once. Very slowly. His expression changed almost instantly. The amusement faded into something much gentler. He reached over and carefully pulled your hands away from your face.
“Come here.”
“I’m already here.”
“A little closer.” He said.
You scooted until you were laying on top of him. He took one of your hands.
“You thought I’d think less of you.”
You blinked.
“…Maybe.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“No.” He squeezed your fingers. “You do.”
You looked away.
“I’ve had people before…” The words came quietly. “…make me feel ridiculous for asking for things.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Or…” You laughed awkwardly. “…they’d make jokes.”
He stayed silent.
“So eventually…” You shrugged. “…I just stopped saying anything.”
He watched you for a long time. Then he leaned forward and pressed a slow kiss against your forehead.
“Thank you.”
You frowned.
“…For what?”
“For trusting me enough to tell me.”
Your eyes lifted to his.
“I mean that.”
He smiled softly.
“I would always rather know.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Not because I think I have to do something. But because…” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “…I want to know what makes you feel close to me.”
The knot in your chest loosened.
“You really aren’t embarrassed?”
He actually looked confused.
“Why would I be embarrassed?”
“I don’t know.”
He smiled.
“I’ve had conversations about bowel movements in crowded trauma bays.”
You laughed.
“I suppose that’s true.”
“I’ve delivered babies in elevators.”
Another laugh.
“I’ve had patients ask me if they could keep foreign objects they absolutely could not keep.”
You buried your face in his shoulder laughing now.
“So…” He wrapped an arm around you. “…my girlfriend quietly admitting she likes her hair pulled…” He kissed your temple. “…doesn’t even make the top hundred.”
You swatted his chest.
“I cannot believe you just compared me to emergency medicine.”
“I’m saying nothing surprises me.”
He grinned.
“But…” His expression softened once more. “I’m also saying this.” He tipped your chin gently until you looked at him.
“If something makes you feel good…” He paused. “…tell me.”
Your eyes searched his.
“If something doesn’t…” Another pause. “…tell me.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’m not a mind reader.”
“No.”
“I’m your partner.”
Something in your chest settled. Not because you’d finally admitted one preference. Because for the first time, you realized intimacy wasn’t about guessing. It wasn’t about hoping someone noticed. It wasn’t about pretending everything was perfect. It was about trusting someone enough to tell them the truth. Even when your face was bright red. You smiled shyly.
“So…”
“So?”
“You’ll…”
He laughed quietly.
“I’ll remember.”
“You don’t even have to—”
“I’m going to.”
He smiled in that infuriatingly confident way he sometimes had.
“I have an excellent memory.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I remembered your coffee.”
“You did.”
“I remembered daisies.”
“You did.”
“I remembered the blanket.”
“You did.”
He leaned close enough that his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“You really think I’m going to forget something you trusted me enough to tell me?”
Your heart melted.
“You know…” you whispered.
“What?”
“I think this conversation was actually harder than saying I loved you.”
He laughed—a warm, genuine laugh that made you smile immediately.
“I know.”
“You knew that too?”
“I figured.”
“How?”
“You’ve told me you love me every day for four months.”
He kissed the tip of your nose.
“…Today was the first day you believed I wanted to know what you wanted, too.”
Tears unexpectedly pricked your eyes.
“Oh.”
“I know.”
“No…” You smiled through them. “…I think…” You reached up and cupped his cheek. “…I think you just healed something you didn’t even know was broken.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Robby rested his forehead against yours again and closed his eyes.
“I don’t ever want you to have to be brave just to be honest with me.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“I want honesty to feel safe.”
You smiled. It already did.
******
Work
If someone had asked you six months earlier what dating your attending would look like, you probably would have imagined stolen glances across trauma bays, flirtatious comments over the nurses’ station, secret smiles during rounds, and excuses to linger in one another’s company. Reality looked…
Nothing like that. In fact, there were mornings you wondered if Robby even liked you. Professionally, he had become even more careful than before. He called you by your last name when everyone else was around. He challenged your clinical reasoning during teaching rounds exactly as often as everyone else’s. If you made a mistake, he corrected it immediately. If someone else made the same mistake…He corrected them too.
There were no favorites. No exceptions. No special treatment. At first, you’d admired it. By month six, you occasionally wanted to throw a stethoscope at his head.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Dana looked up from her charting.
“What?”
You dropped into the chair beside her in the physician workroom with dramatically more force than necessary.
“He just assigned me another chart.”
Dana blinked.
“…Okay?”
“It’s the fourth one.”
“You’ve only been here an hour.”
“I know.”
“And?”
You stared at her.
“Dana.”
“What?”
“He’s giving me all the difficult ones.”
She looked toward the trauma board.
“…Those are literally the patients you handle best.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
You lowered your voice.
“The point is…” You glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “…we’re…together.”
Dana slowly set down her coffee.
“…And?”
“I thought maybe…”
You frowned.
“…he’d go just a little easier on me.” Dana laughed so hard she nearly snorted. “Oh honey.”
“What?”
“You really thought the Chief of Emergency Medicine was suddenly going to become soft because you’re sleeping together?”
Your eyes widened.
“Dana!”
“What?”
“Indoor voice.”
She waved dismissively.
“The walls already know.”
You buried your face in your hands.
“This is horrible.”
“No.” She leaned closer. “This is actually the healthiest workplace relationship I’ve ever seen.”
You peeked through your fingers.
“…Really?”
“He treats you exactly like everyone else.”
“I know.”
“Would you actually respect him if he didn’t?”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it.
“…No.”
“Exactly.”
It wasn’t just Dana. Frank found the whole situation endlessly entertaining. Mostly because Robby was incapable of being subtle. Not in affection. In restraint.
“You know,” Frank said one afternoon as the two of you walked toward radiology.
“Hm?”
“I’ve worked with Robinavich for years.”
“Okay…”
“I’ve never seen him try this hard.”
“Try what hard?”
“Not looking at somebody.”
You blinked.
“…What?”
Frank laughed.
“You don’t notice?”
“Notice what?”
“You walk into a room…” He gestured dramatically. “…and suddenly he’s incredibly interested in literally anything else.”
You frowned.
“No he isn’t.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Frank grinned. “He checks where you are every five minutes.”
“He does not.”
“He absolutely does.”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Exactly.”
You stopped walking.
“…Wait.”
Frank nodded.
“He’s good.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You mean…”
“He knows exactly where you are.”
“…Without looking?”
Frank smiled knowingly.
“I told you.”
The opportunity to ask Robby about it came several nights later. The two of you were making dinner together. Or rather you were making dinner. Robby was pretending to help while stealing vegetables off the cutting board.
“Stop.”
“I needed quality control.”
“You’ve eaten six tomatoes.”
“They’re good tomatoes.”
“They’re for the salad.”
“They still are good.”
You rolled your eyes.
“So.”
“So?”
“Frank told me something.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I’m almost afraid.”
“He says…” You pointed the knife at him. “…you know where I am all the time at work.”
He looked completely unfazed.
“I do.”
You blinked.
“…That’s it?”
“You asked.”
“I expected denial.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He shrugged.
“I know where everyone is.”
“You do not.”
“I do.”
“You don’t know where housekeeping is.”
“No.”
“You don’t know where dietary is.”
“No.”
“So.”
He leaned casually against the counter.
“I know where my residents are.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“I’m not a resident anymore.”
“My staff.”
“Hm.”
“My nurses.”
“Hm.”
“My respiratory therapists.”
“Hm.”
“And…” He smiled very slightly. “…the woman I’m in love with.”
Your cheeks warmed.
“So Frank’s right.”
“He usually is unfortunately.”
“You don’t even realize you’re doing it?”
“I do.”
“You do?”
“I check.”
“Why?”
He looked genuinely surprised by the question.
“…Because emergency departments change in seconds.” He reached over and took the knife from your hand before you accidentally gestured with it again. “You disappear for forty-five minutes.”
He resumed slicing tomatoes with practiced ease.
“I want to know you’re tied up in CT.” Another slice. “Not because somebody forgot to call me.” Your heart softened.
“So…” He glanced at you. “…yes. I know where you are.”
The real test came on a Wednesday. One of those awful, gut-wrenching pediatric cases that settled over the department like a storm cloud long after the room had emptied. A little boy. Five years old. A drowning. Everyone had done everything they could. Sometimes…Everything simply wasn’t enough.
The department moved on because it had to. Another ambulance rolled in. Another trauma was called overhead. Another waiting room filled with people needing help.
But you Couldn’t quite shake it. You completed your charting. Answered questions. Restocked supplies. Smiled when someone spoke to you. Then quietly slipped into the stairwell. The one behind the imaging department.
Cool concrete. Dim lights. Silence.
You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes. Just for a minute. Just long enough to breathe. The tears came anyway. Not dramatic. Not sobbing. Just exhausted tears.
The kind healthcare workers learned to cry quickly before wiping them away and returning to work. You didn’t hear the stairwell door open. You only noticed another presence when someone quietly stood beside you.
Robby. He hadn’t said your name. Hadn’t asked if you were alright. He simply leaned against the opposite wall. Hands in his pockets. Looking straight ahead. The silence stretched comfortably between you. After a minute, you laughed weakly through your tears.
“…How’d you find me?”
“I looked.”
“You just…”
He nodded once.
“I checked.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I’m okay.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
Neither of you moved. The stairwell remained quiet except for the distant hum of hospital ventilation. Finally, you spoke again.
“I hate when we lose kids.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yeah.”
“I know you do too.”
“I do.”
You looked at him.
“I don’t know why this one…”
“…Because there isn’t a reason.”
His voice was calm. Not dismissive. Just honest.
“You don’t have to justify being heartbroken.”
You swallowed hard.
“I keep thinking about his mom. I keep hearing her.”
“I know.”
You wiped at your eyes.
“I’m supposed to be better at this by now.”
That finally made him turn toward you.
“No.”
“What?”
“You are never supposed to get better at losing children.”
The words landed heavily.
“If this ever stops hurting…” His expression was impossibly gentle. “…it’s time to leave emergency medicine.”
A tear escaped before you could catch it. He looked toward the stairwell door. Listened. Made sure no one was coming. Then very deliberately…he crossed the small space between you.
He didn’t kiss your lips. Didn’t pull you dramatically into his arms. Instead, he reached up and brushed his thumb beneath your eye, catching one escaping tear. Then he leaned down. One slow, lingering kiss. Against your temple. Nothing more. It lasted perhaps two seconds. Yet It held every “I love you” he couldn’t say inside the hospital walls. When he stepped back, his forehead rested lightly against yours for only the briefest moment.
“So this is where you hide.”
You smiled sadly.
“…Sometimes.”
He nodded.
“I’ll remember.”
Your heart squeezed.
“I know you will.”
He looked toward the door again. Professional once more.
“The new trauma should be in room four.”
“I know.”
“Dana already ordered imaging.”
“I figured.”
He reached for the handle. Then paused. Without looking back, he said quietly,
“I’m very proud of you.”
The door closed behind him.
Just like that…He was Dr. Robinavich again. The Chief. The attending. The man who challenged you, expected excellence from you, and refused to let anyone—including himself—compromise your career.
You stood alone in the stairwell for another minute. One hand unconsciously rose to your temple. The place he’d kissed. It wasn’t grand.
No one would ever know it had happened. There would never be pictures. Or stories. Or proof. But somehow…That tiny, hidden moment told you more about how deeply he loved you than a hundred public displays of affection ever could.
Because he had chosen the one thing you needed most. Not romance. Not passion. Not even comfort. Respect. He protected your heart. He protected your career. And somehow, without saying it aloud, he made you understand that in his mind…Those two things had never been separate.
******
Home
Eight months.
It wasn’t very long in the grand scheme of a life. It wasn’t years. It wasn’t decades. Yet somehow, eight months had quietly rewritten both of you.
You apologized less. Not because you had become louder or harder or someone who no longer cared about other people. You simply no longer apologized for existing.
You no longer said, “Sorry,” before asking if he wanted to spend time together. You no longer apologized for crying after difficult cases. You no longer apologized for wanting another kiss before one of you left for work. You no longer apologized for taking up space in his apartment. Because somewhere over those eight months, Robby had answered every unnecessary apology the same way.
“You don’t have to be sorry for that.”
Eventually…You believed him.
Robby had changed, too. The man who once hesitated for months before saying “I love you” now said it as casually as “Drive safe.” Not because the words had become smaller. Because they had become home. He kissed your forehead while making coffee. He reached for your hand without thinking. He texted when he was running late. He called during grocery shopping to ask whether you preferred red grapes or green grapes. He’d somehow become the kind of man who argued passionately over throw pillows. Frank still hadn’t recovered.
“You bought decorative pumpkins.”
Robby looked up from arranging groceries.
“They’re seasonal.”
“It is September.”
“They’re tasteful.”
“They’re pumpkins.”
“They’re understated pumpkins.”
You laughed so hard you had to lean against the kitchen island.
“I cannot believe this.”
“What?”
“You used to own…” You gestured dramatically around the apartment. “…one chair.”
“I had several chairs.”
“You had one chair.”
“There was a couch.”
“It was leather.”
“It was a couch.”
“It looked like it belonged in a waiting room.”
“It was comfortable.”
You walked over and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind while he put vegetables away.
“It looks different now.”
He glanced around the apartment. The blanket draped over the couch. Books stacked beside the bed. Fresh flowers in the kitchen. Your favorite mug sitting beside his coffee maker. The framed photograph Frank had secretly taken at the hospital charity softball game, where the two of you were laughing at something neither of you could remember.
“It does.”
“You don’t mind?”
He turned inside your embrace.
“Minding would imply it wasn’t supposed to happen.” His hand rested against your cheek. “It was.”
Three weeks later, your schedules stopped matching. For nearly ten days. He worked nights. You worked days. You passed each other like ships in the dark. You woke up to sleepy text messages. He came home after you’d already left. You crawled into bed just before his alarm went off.
It wasn’t dramatic. No fighting. No jealousy. Just…Life.
By the end of the week, you missed him in the quietest ways. You missed hearing him hum while making coffee. You missed the weight of his hand finding yours in his sleep. You even missed arguing over whose turn it was to buy groceries. When your schedules finally aligned again, you almost laughed at how relieved you felt. He looked equally exhausted.
“You look awful,” you said.
“So do you.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I know.” He smiled. “I’ve missed you too.”
That evening neither of you planned anything elaborate. You ordered takeout. Folded laundry together. Watched a documentary neither of you paid much attention to because you kept pausing it to talk.
At one point, you looked over. He was simply…looking at you.
“What?”
He smiled.
“Nothing.”
“No. What? You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The staring.”
“I’m allowed.”
“You are.”
He reached over and absentmindedly tucked your feet beneath his leg so they stayed warm.
“I was just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“It usually is.”
“What were you thinking?”
He looked around the apartment. Then back at you.
“I like this.”
“The documentary?” You laughed softly.
“No…” He shook his head. “…this.”
He gestured around the room.
“The dishes. The grocery lists. The fact that you’ve somehow convinced me throw pillows are important.”
“They are important.”
“I know that now.”
“You do?”
“Okay…I’ve accepted it.”
You smiled.
“It feels…” He searched for the right word. “…peaceful.”
Your chest warmed.
“It does.”
“I didn’t know relationships could feel like this.”
“What did you think they’d feel like?”
He leaned back against the couch.
“I thought they were supposed to be exciting all the time.”
“And now?”
He looked at you for a long moment.
“I think peace is underrated.”
The following Tuesday morning, you woke alone. The bedroom was still dark. Rain tapped softly against the windows. You reached automatically toward the other side of the bed. Cold. He’d already left. His shift started at six.
You smiled sleepily and stretched before wandering toward the kitchen wearing one of his old T-shirts. The apartment was quiet. Except…there was coffee already brewed. Of course there was. He’d programmed the machine after learning you hated waiting for it first thing in the morning.
You shuffled toward the counter. Then stopped. Your favorite mug sat waiting. Beside it…a folded note. You frowned. You picked it up. His handwriting was surprisingly neat.
Sweetheart,
You keep leaving things here. Your shampoo. Your books. Your sweaters. Half the food in my refrigerator.
A smile immediately spread across your face. You kept reading.
You leave hair ties in every room. You have somehow claimed the left side of my bed. Frank says I now buy decorative pumpkins.
You laughed out loud. Then your eyes dropped to the next lines.
I think we’re pretending something that stopped being true a long time ago.
Your heartbeat quickened.
You don’t stay here anymore. You live here.
The words blurred slightly as your eyes filled. There was one final line.
So stop packing an overnight bag.
Your hand rose instinctively to cover your mouth. Beneath the note…something metallic rested against the ceramic mug.
A key. Not the spare you’d occasionally borrowed. A brand-new key. Attached to a small leather keychain. Your initials had been pressed into the leather. You stared at it for several seconds before unfolding the bottom of the note that had been tucked underneath. There was one last sentence.
Move in with me. Permanently.
Robby
There was no question mark. No pressure. No grand speech. Just certainty. You stood there in the middle of his—your—kitchen with tears slipping quietly down your cheeks. Your phone buzzed. One message.
Robby: Did you find it?
You laughed through your tears. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.nThere were a hundred things you could say.
Yes. I love you. I’m crying.
Instead…you set the phone down. Grabbed your keys. And drove to the hospital.
The emergency department was exactly as chaotic as always. Monitors chimed. Phones rang. Someone was calling for respiratory therapy down the hall. Frank spotted you first.
“…Well.”
He looked at the clock.
“Either you’re very early…” His eyes narrowed. “…or something happened.”
You smiled so brightly it almost hurt.
“I need to see Robby.”
“Ooooh.” Frank immediately grinned. “This sounds promising.”
“Frank.”
“He just finished rounds.”
“Where?”
He pointed toward the physician workroom. You found Robby standing over the central workstation, reviewing imaging with two residents. He glanced up when he heard footsteps. For a brief moment…he was simply Dr. Robinavich. Professional. Composed.
Then he saw your face. Something softened. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for you. The residents continued discussing a scan. He listened. Asked two questions. Gave an instruction. Then looked at you again.
“You alright?”
You nodded once.
“Can I borrow you?”
The residents exchanged knowing looks.
“Two minutes,” he said.
He led you into the empty stairwell behind the workroom. The same one. The one where he’d kissed your temple after the pediatric drowning. The door clicked shut. He looked at you carefully.
MYou didn’t speak. Instead you stepped forward. Wrapped both arms around him. And buried your face against his chest. He held you immediately. One hand settling against the back of your head.
“You knew I’d cry.”
“I suspected.”
“You manipulated me.”
“I left coffee.”
“You weaponized coffee.”
You looked up at him.
“I don’t even have words.”
“You don’t need any.”
You pulled the key from your pocket and held it between your fingers. “You mean this?”
“I’ve never meant anything more.”
“You didn’t even ask.”
His smile was small.
He reached up and brushed a tear from beneath your eye.
“Because I already knew my answer.”
His forehead rested gently against yours.
“I was just hoping…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “…it had become yours too.”
You slipped the key onto your own keyring. The soft metallic click echoed through the empty stairwell. It sounded strangely significant. Like a door opening. Like a life beginning. Then, because no one was watching, Robby leaned down and pressed one familiar, lingering kiss against your lips.
“Welcome home.”
And for the first time in your life, the words didn’t describe a place. They described a person.
hi! just wanna say thanks for using the nickname mike instead of mikey 😅 i know it’s a weird thing to be cringey about but it takes me out of peoples fics sometimes when they use mikey for Michael (also a weird thing to thank someone for, question mark?)
lol…I think mikey could be cute in an appropriate time (though not sure what that would be) but when I think of robby i do NOT see mikey!
this is actually insane. thank you all for reading. thank you all for interacting. thank you all for challenging me (with unique requests) and coming along this ride. i’ve learned a lot, good and tough, and i appreciate each of you. 🫶 here’s to more stories & escapes.
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Request - Bloodstream by Alyssa Grace and Robby. Especially the chorus (it's actually the part that made me think of it) established relationship, when robby goes on his sabbatical. The signs have been there but their hectic lives don't allow her to get him to sit down with her (he's also trying to stay away. She's been asking him to get help and everything.. i think if you listen to the song you can get a better imagery of what angst i am talking about here. Thank you so much if you do end up writing this <3
appreciate the unique request 🫶 I had not heard Bloodstream before and agree with the angst factor…hope you enjoy
The first time you realized something was wrong wasn’t because of what Robby said. It was because of what he stopped saying. For nearly six years, the two of you had lived in the strange rhythm that only two emergency physicians could understand. There were weeks where your schedules barely overlapped, where one of you was crawling into bed as the other was tying back their hair and reaching for a stethoscope. You celebrated birthdays three days late, Christmases in January, anniversaries over lukewarm takeout at one in the morning. Love had never looked traditional. It looked like coffee left warming in a travel mug. It looked like a fresh pair of scrubs folded on the dryer before a shift. It looked like knowing exactly how the other took their eggs without ever asking. It looked like understanding that silence wasn’t awkward when both of you had spent twelve hours trying to keep strangers alive.
But Robby had always talked. Not constantly. He wasn’t that man. Yet somewhere between the drive home from the hospital and falling asleep beside you, pieces of his day would escape. A funny interaction with Mel. One of Langdon’s impossible patients. A resident who had finally gotten a procedure right. A little girl who insisted on giving him the stuffed rabbit she’d carried into the emergency department because, in her words, “Doctors get scared too.”
He carried those stories home because he trusted you to hold them with him. Then, almost without either of you noticing, the stories stopped.
“How was your shift?”
“It was fine.”
“You eat?”
“Yeah.”
“Everything okay?”
“Mhm.”
Tiny answers. Perfectly acceptable answers. Answers that closed every door before you could even reach for the handle.
You told yourself it was temporary. The Pitt had been relentless for months. Staffing shortages. Trauma after trauma. More overdose cases than either of you cared to count. Children who should have lived. Adults who should have died but somehow didn’t. Families whose screams still echoed long after the elevators closed. Anyone would be tired. Anyone. Still…
One Thursday night you found him standing in the backyard long after midnight. He wasn’t looking at anything. Just… standing there. Barefoot in the grass.
The porch light painted soft gold across his shoulders while the rest of him disappeared into darkness, and for a full minute you watched through the kitchen window before quietly sliding the back door open.
“You planning on growing roots out here?”
He glanced over his shoulder and managed the ghost of a smile.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“You want company?”
A shrug. Not yes. Not no. Just enough permission that you walked over anyway. The summer air wrapped around both of you, warm and heavy, carrying the smell of fresh-cut grass from somewhere down the street. You leaned your elbows against the porch railing beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed.
“You know,” you said quietly, “for two emergency physicians, we’re surprisingly bad at preventive medicine.”
That earned the faintest huff of laughter.
“Ironic.”
“I’d say hypocritical.”
His smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. You let the silence settle. It had never frightened you. Some of the best conversations you and Robby had ever shared had begun with nothing but quiet. After another minute you spoke again.
“When’s the last time you slept through the night?”
“I don’t know.”
“When’s the last time you weren’t thinking about work?”
Another shrug.
“Mike.”
“I’m okay.”
There it was. The sentence you’d begun to hate. Not because you didn’t believe him. Because you knew he believed it.
You turned toward him, resting your hip against the railing. “You know that’s not the question I asked.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“You asked when I stopped thinking about work.”
“I did.”
“I don’t know.”
“And does that bother you?”
His eyes stayed fixed on the darkness beyond the yard.
“It should?”
“It does me.”
Nothing. You reached over, threading your fingers through his. His hand was cold despite the heat.
For the first time that night he looked directly at you. There was no anger. No irritation. Only confusion.
“I come home every night.”
“You do.”
“I’m here every day I’m off.”
“You are.”
“So what are you talking about?”
You swallowed carefully.
“The man who used to tell me about every patient that made him laugh.” Your thumb brushed slowly across his knuckles. “The one who’d wake me up at two in the morning because he suddenly remembered some ridiculous joke Langdon made three shifts ago. The man who’d get irrationally invested in baking sourdough for exactly two weekends before declaring yeast a personal enemy.”
His lips twitched despite himself.
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
The smile vanished again.
“I don’t know where he went.”
The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t meant to wound. Which was exactly why you saw them land. His shoulders sagged as though someone had quietly placed another impossible weight across them.
“I’ve just been tired.”
“I know.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“I don’t…” His voice caught for only a second before he found it again. “…I don’t know why everyone keeps acting like something’s wrong.”
You stepped closer until your forehead rested gently against his shoulder. Because sometimes eye contact asked too much.
“Because the people who love you can tell.”
He didn’t answer. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. Steady. Measured. Controlled. The breathing of a man who had spent decades calming everyone else.
You wondered, not for the first time, what it must feel like to spend every day convincing frightened strangers they were going to be okay while slowly forgetting how to believe those words yourself. Finally, after what felt like forever, he kissed the top of your head.
“I’ll be alright.”
The words were so automatic that they almost sounded rehearsed. And standing there in the quiet of your backyard, wrapped in the arms of the man you loved more than your own heartbeat, you realized something that settled heavily into your chest.
He wasn’t lying to you. He was pleading with himself. You held him a little tighter. He let you. For tonight…that was all either of you knew how to do.
******
The rain had started sometime after midnight. Not a storm. Just the steady, unhurried rhythm of late autumn in Pittsburgh, soft enough that it blended with the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional hiss of tires on the wet street outside.
You woke because the other side of the bed was cold. For a moment, still caught between sleep and consciousness, you reached blindly across the mattress expecting to find the familiar warmth of Robby’s shoulder. Your hand met nothing but wrinkled sheets.
You glanced toward the bathroom. Dark. The hallway. Empty. It wasn’t until you padded barefoot into the kitchen that you found him. He was sitting at the table in nothing but an old PTMC T-shirt and gray sweatpants, elbows resting on the wood, a mug of coffee untouched in front of him. The digital clock on the microwave read 2:43 a.m.
He wasn’t reading. Wasn’t scrolling through his phone. Wasn’t even looking out the window. He was just… there. As though someone had pressed pause.
You didn’t speak immediately. Years in emergency medicine had taught you that rushing into silence rarely helped anyone. Instead, you opened the cabinet, pulled down your own mug, poured yourself coffee that neither of you needed at nearly three in the morning, and quietly sat across from him. For several minutes neither of you spoke. Rain tapped gently against the windows. Finally he looked up.
“You should be asleep.”
“So should you.”
“I wasn’t trying to wake you.”
“I know.”
Another silence. His fingers turned the coffee mug a few degrees. Then again. Then back. Tiny, restless movements.
You watched them before finally asking, “How long have you been sitting here?”
“I don’t know.”
“An hour?”
A shrug.
“Two?”
Another shrug.
“Mike…”
“I couldn’t shut my head off.”
You nodded once.
“What was it tonight?”
He frowned slightly.
“What do you mean?”
“Which one?”
His face tightened.
“The kid?”
Nothing.
“The overdose?”
Nothing.
“The woman in trauma?”
Still nothing. You leaned back in your chair.
“I know it’s one of them.”
His jaw flexed.
“They’re all becoming one.”
The sentence landed somewhere deep inside your chest. Not because it was dramatic. Because it wasn’t. It was flat. Matter-of-fact. The kind of sentence someone only says after they’ve been carrying it alone for far too long.
“They’re starting to blur together.”
His voice was quiet.
“I remember faces, but not names. I remember blood on my shoes but I can’t remember what I ate yesterday.” He laughed once without humor. “Hell… sometimes I can’t remember whether something happened last week or six months ago.”
You reached across the table. He let your hand settle over his.
“I think you’re exhausted.”
“I’ve been exhausted before.”
“I know.”
“This is different.”
“I know.”
His eyes finally met yours.
“You keep saying you know.”
“I do.”
“No…” He shook his head slowly. “You don’t.”
The words stung. Not because they were mean. Because they were honest.
“I know what it feels like to lose patients.”
“It’s not that.”
“I know what burnout feels like.”
“It’s not that either.”
“Then help me understand.”
He looked down again.
“You can’t.”
You squeezed his hand.
“Try me.”
He closed his eyes. When he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’m tired of people dying.”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
“I’m tired of looking parents in the eye.” His thumb rubbed absently against the ceramic mug. “I’m tired of hearing somebody scream from the hallway and already knowing what happened before anyone tells me.”
Another pause.
“I’m tired of walking into trauma rooms already wondering if this is the one that’s finally going to stay with me.”
You felt tears threatening behind your eyes. Not because you hadn’t heard these thoughts before from physicians. But because this was Robby. The man who always seemed able to shoulder one more impossible shift. One more impossible loss. One more impossible goodbye. He inhaled shakily.
“And every morning I get up… put on my scrubs… walk through those ambulance bay doors…” His voice cracked. “…and everyone looks at me like I’m supposed to know what the hell I’m doing.”
“You do.”
He laughed bitterly.
“That’s the problem.”
The words echoed between you.
“I do.”
His eyes were glassy now.
“I know exactly what to say. I know exactly where to stand. I know exactly how to tell someone their husband didn’t make it. I know exactly how to comfort a resident after their first death.” He swallowed hard. “But I don’t know how to come home anymore.”
Your heart broke quietly. Not all at once. In tiny fractures. One after another. You stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside his chair. You rested your hands against his face. His beard scratched softly against your palms.
“Then don’t.”
His brows knit together.
“What?”
“Don’t know how.”
He stared at you.
“You don’t have to walk through that front door with all the answers.”
“I can’t bring this home.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s mine.”
His eyes searched yours
“It’s ours.”
His breathing became uneven.
“If I let you see all of it…” he whispered.
You waited.
“…you won’t recognize me anymore.”
There it was. Not fear of therapy. Not fear of weakness. Fear of becoming someone unlovable. You shook your head immediately.
“Oh, Michael…”
Your forehead rested gently against his.
“I have watched you hold the hands of strangers while they died. I have watched you walk into mass casualty incidents without hesitating. I have watched you miss birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, because somebody else needed you.”
Your voice trembled.
“I have loved every version of you.”
A tear escaped before he could stop it. You caught it with your thumb.
“But this one…” You smiled sadly. “This version keeps trying to protect me from the very thing I promised to carry with you.”
His shoulders finally gave way. Not dramatically. Not sobbing. Just…they dropped. Years of tension slipping a fraction of an inch.
“I don’t know how to stop.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared if I stop…” His voice disappeared.
You finished the sentence for him.
“…you’ll fall apart.”
He nodded.
“So let me tell you something you tell every resident.”
His eyes lifted.
“You don’t get extra credit for bleeding out before asking for help.”
For the first time in weeks, something reached his eyes. A tiny, reluctant smile.
“You’ve been stealing my lines.”
“I’ve been married to you long enough.”
The smile disappeared almost as quickly as it came, replaced by tears he could no longer keep inside. He lowered his forehead onto your shoulder. You wrapped both arms around him. Neither of you spoke. Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the city clean one quiet street at a time. Inside, the man who had spent decades holding everyone else together finally allowed himself—not to be fixed, not to be rescued—but simply to be held.
And somehow, that hurt even more.
******
Robby disappeared three days later. Not physically. He still came home every night. He still kissed you before he left in the morning. He still asked whether you wanted Chinese or Italian on the nights neither of you had the energy to cook.
From the outside, nothing had changed. From the inside…he was somewhere you couldn’t reach. The sabbatical paperwork had been approved that afternoon. Gloria had cornered him after shift, quietly insisting that the hospital would manage without him. Dana had practically threatened to change his badge access herself if he tried to sneak back into the emergency department. Langdon, in the most awkward show of affection imaginable, had clapped him on the shoulder and muttered, “Don’t make me cover your shifts forever, old man.”
Everyone was relieved. Everyone except Robby. Because the emergency department had been the only place he knew who he was. Without it…there was only silence.
The first morning of his leave, you woke expecting to find him already making coffee. Instead, he was still sitting on the edge of the bed exactly where he’d been when your alarm went off twenty minutes earlier. Still in his T-shirt. Still staring at the floor.
“Mike?”
He blinked, as though he’d forgotten you were there.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
It was automatic. You didn’t challenge it anymore. You simply crossed the room, kissed his temple, and left him to whatever battle was taking place inside his own head. You told yourself to give him space. Everyone said that.
“He just needs time.”
“He’s exhausted.”
“Once he rests, he’ll come back.”
You wanted to believe them. God, you wanted to. But rest wasn’t finding him. Silence was.
By the end of the first week, the television stayed on all day without him watching it. Books remained open to the same page for hours. Coffee grew cold beside his chair. You’d come downstairs after answering a few work emails only to find him standing in front of the kitchen window exactly where you’d left him forty-five minutes earlier, rain streaking down the glass while he seemed completely unaware that time had passed. You stopped asking what he wanted for dinner. The answer was always the same.
“I don’t care.”
You stopped asking if he wanted to go for a walk.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Tomorrow never came. One Friday afternoon, you came home early. The house was unnaturally quiet. No music. No television. No coffee brewing. Just stillness.
“Mike?”
Nothing. Your stomach tightened. You found him in the garage. Not doing anything dangerous. Just…sitting on an old folding chair beside the shelves where he kept boxes of camping gear he hadn’t touched in years. His father’s tackle box rested on the floor beside him. Closed.
His hands hung loosely between his knees. His eyes were fixed on nothing. For one terrifying second…he didn’t hear you come in.
“Michael.”
He looked up slowly.
“Oh.”
Your heart lurched.
“You’ve been out here?”
“I think so.”
“What time did you come out?”
“I don’t know.”
You checked your watch. It was nearly five. Your voice remained gentle.
“You haven’t eaten today.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten yesterday either.”
A shrug.
“I forgot.”
The words escaped you before you could stop them.
“You have to stop doing this.”
His face changed. Only slightly. Enough that you knew. He’d heard the frustration. Not the fear underneath it.
“I said I just forgot.”
“You always forget.”
“I know.”
“You don’t sleep.”
“I know.”
“You barely talk.”
“I know.”
“You sit in rooms for hours like…”
You stopped yourself. Too late.
“…like you’re not even here anymore.”
His expression hardened.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me what’s happening!”
“I don’t know!”
His voice echoed through the garage. The loudest you’d heard him in weeks.
“I don’t know!”
The silence afterward was deafening. He immediately looked away.
“I’m sorry.”
Your own voice shook now.
“No, don’t apologize.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I can’t keep disappointing you.”
The sentence stole the air from your lungs.
“Disappointing me?”
“I know what I look like.” He laughed once.
It sounded hollow.
“I know I’m not exactly great company.”
“Mike…”
“I know you miss me.”
You stepped closer.
“I do.”
“I miss me too.”
That broke something inside you. You dropped to your knees in front of him so quickly the concrete bit into your skin. You took both of his hands. Cold. Always cold now.
“You listen to me.”
His eyes stayed on the floor.
“No. Look at me.”
Nothing. You waited. Finally…his eyes met yours. Red. Exhausted. Empty.
“I am not grieving the man you used to be.”
His breathing caught.
“I am grieving the fact that you think you have to disappear so I don’t have to watch you hurt.”
A tear slid down his cheek.
“I don’t know how to let you.”
“You already have.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“You have.”
“No…” His voice cracked. “…because this isn’t hurting.”
You frowned.
“What do you mean?”
He looked past you, somewhere beyond the garage walls.
“I don’t feel anything.”
Your blood ran cold. He didn’t say it dramatically. He didn’t whisper it. He simply stated it. Like the weather.
“I should.” His jaw trembled. “I know I should.”
“When patients died…” Another pause. “I used to cry in the shower.”
He swallowed hard.
“Now…” His eyes filled despite the emptiness in his voice. “…I don’t cry. I don’t get angry. I don’t get relieved. I just…” He searched desperately for the word. “…continue.”
His shoulders slumped.
“I think something inside me finally broke.”
You reached for his face. He leaned into your hand instinctively. Like he’d been starving for human touch without realizing it.
“You are not broken.”
“I think am.”
“No.”
“I don’t even recognize myself.”
“You don’t have to right now.”
“I can’t feel anything.”
“You can.”
He shook his head.
“I can’t.”
“You can feel this.”
You pressed his hand firmly against your chest. Right over your heartbeat.
“My heart is racing.”
He stared at your hand beneath his.
“It’s racing because I’m terrified.” Tears blurred your vision. “I’m terrified that one day I’m am going to look across this house…” Your voice finally gave out. “…and you’re going to be so far gone that you won’t remember how to come back.”
He looked at you. Really looked. For the first time in months, the fog in his eyes shifted just enough for you to see the man underneath it. When he spoke, his voice was almost impossibly small.
“I’ve been trying to stay away from you.”
You froze.
“What?”
“I didn’t want…” He closed his eyes. “…I didn’t want this to get on you.”
Your heart shattered.
“As if depression is contagious.”
“I know that’s irrational.”
“So why?”
“Because I love you.”
His answer came immediately.
“So much that I’d rather disappear than make you carry this with me.”
You couldn’t stop the tears anymore. You cupped his face with both hands.
“You stubborn, impossible man.”
A broken laugh escaped him.
“You stood beside me when my father died.” You brushed another tear away. “You stood beside me after my first pediatric code.”
Another.
“You stood beside me through every impossible shift we’ve ever worked.”
Another.
“And somehow…” You rested your forehead against his. “…you decided I couldn’t survive standing beside you.”
His breathing hitched. Neither of you spoke. The garage was silent except for the faint hum of the old refrigerator in the corner. Finally…so quietly you almost missed it…he whispered the truest thing he had said in months.
“I’m so tired.”
Not physically. Not from work. Not from sleepless nights. Soul tired. The kind of exhaustion that settles into the spaces no amount of sleep can reach.
You wrapped your arms around him without another word. This time…he didn’t try to hold himself together. He simply folded into you. And for the first time since all of this had begun…the weight he had been carrying was no longer resting on one pair of shoulders alone.
******
The next morning, the house felt different. Not lighter. Just… quieter. The kind of quiet that settles over a place after a storm has passed, when nothing is broken enough to see from the outside, but everything has shifted underneath.
You woke before Robby. Or at least, you thought you did. His side of the bed was empty. Your stomach immediately tightened.
It had become an involuntary response now. Every empty room made your heart race. Every silence carried questions. You pulled on one of his old sweatshirts and walked downstairs.
He was standing in the kitchen. The coffee maker hissed softly between the two of you. He wasn’t staring into space this morning. He was reading. Not a novel. Not the newspaper. Just the business card Dana had slipped into his locker weeks ago.
A psychiatrist.
Someone who worked almost exclusively with physicians, nurses and first responders. The corners of the card were already worn. He’d obviously looked at it before. Many times.
He didn’t notice you immediately. He kept turning the card over in his hands as though the words might change if he looked long enough. You didn’t interrupt. Instead, you quietly opened the refrigerator, took out the eggs, set a skillet on the stove, and began making breakfast.
The ordinary felt important. No grand gestures. No questions. Just home. Only after several minutes did he speak.
“I almost threw this away.”
Your back stayed turned toward him.
“I figured.”
“I kept thinking…” He laughed quietly. “If I throw it away, then maybe everyone will stop looking at me like I’m sick.”
The spatula paused in your hand.
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think everyone looks at you like they’re worried.”
Silence.
“I don’t know if there’s a difference.”
“There is.” You cracked another egg into the pan. “A sick person needs treatment.”
Another pause.
“A worried person needs people.”
The coffee maker clicked off. The room became still again. Finally…
“I don’t know how to do this.”
Your heart squeezed. Not because of what he said. Because he hadn’t said I can’t. Only…
I don’t know how.
That was different. That meant there was still somewhere to go. You slid two pieces of toast into the toaster before turning around. He was looking at the card again. His thumb rested over the doctor’s name.
“Mike.”
He looked up.
“I’m going to ask you something.”
He nodded once.
“I don’t want you to answer because you think it’ll make me feel better.”
Another nod.
“I don’t want you to answer because you think it’s what you’re supposed to say.”
His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“I just want the truth.”
He waited.
“What are you most afraid of?”
He looked down. For a long time. Long enough that you wondered if he’d answer at all. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost painfully quiet.
“That this is who I am now.”
You felt your chest ache.
“That I used to be someone worth loving…” He swallowed. “…and now I’m just…” His hand opened helplessly. “…this.”
You crossed the kitchen. Slowly. Carefully. As though approaching a frightened animal that already expected the world to hurt it. You stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough that he knew you were there. Far enough that he could choose.
“I’m not going to argue with you.”
His brow furrowed.
“You feel what you feel.”
A tear escaped before he could stop it.
“I can’t talk you out of that.”
Another tear.
“I can’t love you hard enough to erase it.”
You smiled sadly.
“I wish I could.”
He closed his eyes.
“So what do I do?”
There it was. The question. Not for you. For himself. You reached out slowly.
“So I’m going to ask something instead.”
Your hand remained suspended between you. An invitation. Not a demand.
“If I take your hand…” His breathing became uneven. “…will you let me?”
Another silence. Then…very slowly…his fingers reached for yours. The moment they touched, you realized something you hadn’t felt in months.
He wasn’t holding on because you pulled him. He was holding on because he wanted to. You intertwined your fingers. Neither of you spoke. After another minute, he looked back at the card.
“I don’t think I can call.”
You nodded.
“Okay.”
“I think…” He exhaled shakily. “…I think if I hear someone answer…” His voice disappeared. “…I’ll hang up.”
“Okay.”
Another long pause. Then you said the most difficult thing you’d ever said to the man you loved.
“I won’t make the call for you.”
His eyes lifted.
“You deserve to choose this.”
You could see fear flicker across his face. Real fear. The kind he’d hidden from everyone else.
“I’ll sit beside you.” You squeezed his hand gently. “I’ll make breakfast. I’ll drive if you need me to. I’ll wait in the lobby. I’ll hold you afterward.” Your voice trembled. “I’ll do every single thing I can.”
Another squeeze.
“But I can’t take the first step.”
His eyes filled completely. Because for the first time…someone wasn’t trying to rescue him. Someone believed he was still capable of rescuing himself. He stared at the phone sitting on the kitchen counter. It might as well have weighed a thousand pounds.
Minutes passed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. Finally…he released one long, shaking breath.
“I hate that I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“I’ve pronounced people dead.”
“I know.”
“I’ve opened trauma bays.”
“I know.”
“I’ve told parents their children weren’t coming home.” His voice broke. “And somehow…” He looked at the phone again. “…this feels harder.”
You stepped just a little closer.
“It probably is.”
He frowned.
“You’ve spent your whole life believing your job was to save everyone else.”
You brushed your thumb across the back of his hand.
“This…” You looked at the business card. “…asks you to believe someone might be able to save a piece of you.”
The room fell silent. Then…with hands that still trembled…Robby picked up the phone. He stared at it for several seconds. His thumb hovered over the number. You wanted to tell him it would be okay. You wanted to wrap him in your arms and promise him none of this would hurt anymore.
Instead…you stayed exactly where you were. Close enough that he could reach you. Far enough that he never felt pushed. His thumb pressed the first number. Then the second. Then the third.
By the time he reached the last digit, tears were slipping quietly down both of your faces. He lifted the phone to his ear. The ringing started. One. Two. Three. He almost hung up. You felt it in the way his shoulders tensed.
Instead…without saying a single word…he reached his free hand toward you. You took it immediately.And together…you waited for someone on the other end to answer.
******
You had forgotten how loud a clock could be. The waiting room outside Dr. Elaine Porter’s office was almost painfully quiet. A receptionist typed softly behind the desk, an older man thumbed absentmindedly through a fishing magazine he clearly wasn’t reading, and somewhere down the hallway someone laughed—a genuine, surprised laugh that felt strangely out of place in a building where so many people arrived carrying invisible wounds.
You checked your watch.Again. Forty-three minutes. Not that you were counting.
You folded your hands together, unfolded them, picked up the same magazine you’d tried reading twenty minutes earlier, then set it back down without turning a single page. Every few minutes your eyes drifted toward the hallway, your heart jumping whenever a door opened. You’d spent years waiting for news in hospitals. Outside trauma bays. Outside operating rooms. Outside family consultation rooms. This felt remarkably similar. The only difference was that the person behind the closed door wasn’t fighting for his life.
He was fighting for himself. And somehow…that was harder.
When the office door finally opened, you stood before you even realized you were moving. Robby stepped into the hallway. For a second, neither of you spoke. His eyes were red. His cheeks were flushed. He looked emotionally wrung out, as though someone had carefully peeled away layer after layer of armor he’d spent decades welding into place.
But the emptiness…was gone. It hadn’t been replaced by happiness. Not yet. It had been replaced by something much quieter. Presence. He looked at you. Really looked at you. Then he gave the smallest nod.
“I’m ready to go home.”
You smiled softly.
“Okay.”
You didn’t ask how it went. You didn’t ask what they talked about. You didn’t ask whether he’d be going back. Those answers belonged to him. If he wanted to share them, he would.
The drive home was peaceful. Rain tapped gently against the windshield while Pittsburgh drifted past in blurred shades of gray and gold. Robby rested his elbow against the window, his fingers occasionally brushing the edge of his beard, and every so often your hands found each other across the center console.
Neither of you filled the silence. You didn’t have to.
Halfway home, he quietly said, “She asked me who takes care of me.”
You glanced toward him.
“What’d you tell her?”
He smiled faintly.
“I cried.”
Your own eyes stung.
“I believe that.”
“I couldn’t answer.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” His voice grew softer. “I just… realized I didn’t know.”
Your hand found his again.
“You will.”
He squeezed your fingers once.
“I think I’d like to.”
When you pulled into the driveway, he sat in the passenger seat for another minute before unbuckling.
“I’m going to lie down.”
“Okay.”
He hesitated.
“I’m not… hiding.”
“I know.”
“I just…”
“I know.”
A tiny smile.
“You always do.”
He disappeared upstairs, and the house settled once more into quiet. This quiet felt different. Not heavy. Healing. You changed into comfortable clothes, tied your hair back, and began chopping vegetables simply because the rhythm of cooking had always calmed you. The knife tapped steadily against the cutting board. Olive oil warmed in the pan. Garlic filled the kitchen with its familiar scent.
Life. Ordinary, beautiful life. You were stirring onions when you heard footsteps behind you. Slow. Unhurried. You didn’t turn immediately. You smiled to yourself.
“Feeling better?”
No answer. Only warmth. His hand settled gently against your waist. Not pulling. Just resting there. You covered it with your own without looking away from the stove.
“You hungry?”
Still nothing. Then…very carefully…he turned you toward him. The wooden spoon slipped from your fingers onto the counter. For the first time in months…there wasn’t distance in his eyes. There wasn’t exhaustion. There wasn’t the thousand-yard stare you’d grown to dread. There was simply…Robby.
He studied your face for several long seconds, as though reacquainting himself with every freckle, every laugh line, every piece of the woman who had refused to let go of him even when he had almost let go of himself. His fingertips brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
“So beautiful.”
Your breath caught.
“You haven’t said that in a while.”
“I know.” His voice was rough. “I noticed.”
Before you could answer, he leaned in. The kiss wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It was reverent. His lips found yours with a tenderness that immediately unraveled every ounce of fear you had been carrying. One hand slid into your hair, his fingers threading gently through it until his palm rested against the back of your head, holding you with the quiet certainty of someone who had finally remembered where he belonged.
You melted into him. One of your hands settled against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm. The other slipped into the short strands at the back of his head, your fingers weaving through them instinctively.
He made the smallest sound against your lips. Not sadness. Not relief. Recognition. You pulled him closer. He came willingly.
His beard brushed softly against your skin as the kiss deepened, slow and lingering, years of shared history tucked into something as simple as finally being present with one another again. When he finally drew back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours before his lips wandered to your cheek. Your jaw. The place just beneath your ear.
He pressed another gentle kiss there, breathing you in as though he had been away for years instead of only a few months. Your eyes closed.
“I missed this,” you whispered.
His answer came immediately.
“I missed you.”
Not…“I missed us.”
Not…“I missed being home.”
You.
The distinction made your heart ache. He lifted his head just enough to look at you. There were still tears in his eyes. You suspected there always would be for a while. Healing wasn’t neat. It wasn’t linear. It wasn’t quick. But neither was love. His thumb traced slowly across your cheek.
“Thank you.”
You smiled through your tears.
“You don’t ever have to thank me.”
“I do.”
You shook your head.
“No.”
His brow furrowed slightly.
“You loved me through all of this.”
“I loved you before all of this.” You rested your palm against his face. “I loved you during all of this. And I’ll love you after it.”
A tear escaped him. You caught it with your thumb.
“I wasn’t waiting for the old version of you to come back.”
He searched your face.
“I was waiting for you to remember that you didn’t have to carry the weight of the whole world by yourself.”
The kitchen fell quiet. The onions had probably cooked longer than they should have. Neither of you cared. Robby leaned into your hand. Not because he was too tired to stand. Not because he needed someone to hold him up. But because he’d finally remembered that leaning on the person you love isn’t weakness.
It’s trust. He covered your hand with his.
“I don’t know what tomorrow looks like.”
“I don’t either.”
“I might wake up scared again.”
“You probably will.”
“I might have another bad day.”
“You probably will.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You always were honest.”
“You married me anyway.”
“I’d marry you again.”
Your laugh escaped through fresh tears.
“So would I.”
He kissed your forehead one last time before resting his own against yours. Neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, wrapped around one another in the middle of your kitchen while dinner waited patiently on the stove and rain whispered against the windows.
For the first time in a very long time, neither of you felt the need to fill the silence. Because silence no longer meant he was slipping away. It simply meant he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore. And whatever tomorrow asked of him…
Request - Hey, just a quick question. I am big on soulmates rn and I was wondering if you ever thought of writing one for Robby down the road? (He's so sad and I love when he finds love, u know?) Btw, ur writing is amazing!!!
I loved getting to explore this topic through these characters 🫶
The emergency department finally exhaled sometime after midnight. Trauma Bay Two had been scrubbed clean, monitors had stopped screaming, the waiting room had thinned to a handful of exhausted families, and for the first time in nearly sixteen hours, the fluorescent lights didn’t feel quite so oppressive. You were halfway out the ambulance entrance when you heard Robby’s familiar voice behind you.
“You’re walking awfully fast for someone who’s supposed to be celebrating.”
You turned just enough to see him shrugging into his jacket, dark circles under his eyes looking somehow even darker beneath the parking lot lights. There was dried blood on the cuff of his black scrub top that neither of you had noticed during the shift. Neither of you commented on it. That was emergency medicine.
“I’m too tired to celebrate.”
“Bullshit.”
You laughed, rubbing both hands over your face. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” He shoved his hands into his pockets before nodding toward the street. “That’s why we’re getting a drink.”
You arched an eyebrow. “Was that a question?”
“No.”
“I have to be back here in…” You checked your watch before groaning dramatically. “Seven hours.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I don’t know…”
“I do.”
There was something comforting about how matter-of-fact he was. No fanfare. No convincing. Just the quiet confidence of someone who had seen you survive far worse than one short night’s sleep. Three years of residency had done strange things to your relationship with Michael Robinavitch. When you’d first arrived at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, he’d been intimidating in every sense of the word—sharp, impossible to impress, always somehow ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. Somewhere between overnight traumas, missed holidays, terrible cafeteria coffee, and countless patients neither of you would ever forget, he’d quietly become the person whose opinion mattered most to you. Not because he was your attending. Because somewhere along the way, he’d become your friend.
The bar sat three blocks from the hospital and catered almost exclusively to nurses, firefighters, paramedics, and doctors who had nowhere else they’d rather pretend to be for an hour or two before collapsing into bed. The bartender barely looked up when Robby ordered two bourbons.
“You didn’t even ask what I wanted.”
“You always order bourbon after trauma shifts.”
“I do?”
“You’ve done it every time we’ve come here.”
You blinked.
“I didn’t know you’d noticed.”
He looked almost confused by the statement. “I notice a lot of things.”
The drinks arrived, amber catching the warm light above the bar. You wrapped both hands around the glass, grateful simply to be sitting somewhere that wasn’t a trauma bay. Around you, conversations blurred together into laughter and tired stories about impossible patients and impossible administrators. Robby lifted his glass toward you.
“To surviving residency.”
You clinked yours against his.
“I haven’t survived yet.”
“You’ve got three shifts left.”
“Which means statistically I still have time to embarrass myself.”
He snorted into his drink. “You’ve managed not to for three years.”
“You say that like you haven’t yelled at me before.”
“I’ve yelled because you were capable of better.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
“No.” He smiled faintly. “It’s better.”
You took a slow sip, letting the bourbon burn just enough to wake you back up. For a while, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t uncomfortable. One of your favorite things about Robby was that silence never felt like something that needed fixing. It simply existed.
“So…” he said eventually. “What’s next?”
You stared into your glass.
“Honestly?”
“When have I ever wanted anything else?”
You sighed.
“I accepted the emergency medicine fellowship.”
“I know.”
“You knew before I told you?”
“You signed the paperwork on my desk.”
“Oh.” You laughed. “Right.”
“I also saw you smiling afterward.”
“That’s creepy.”
“It’s observational.”
“Sure it is.”
He smiled into his drink.
“I thought…” you began quietly, “I thought by thirty I’d have all of this figured out.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“‘All of this’ being?”
You gestured vaguely into the air.
“My life.”
He actually laughed then. Not loudly, but enough to make you grin.
“You really thought that?”
“I did.”
“What’d you picture?”
You leaned back, thinking.
“I don’t know. Married, probably. Maybe a kid. Maybe two. House with a backyard. Golden retriever. Normal hours.”
“You chose emergency medicine.”
“I know.”
“So that eliminated normal hours.”
You laughed again.
“I was so sure I’d be somewhere else by now.”
He nodded once.
“I think everyone is.”
“What about you?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he swirled what remained of his bourbon before taking another drink.
“When I was your age…”
“Almost twenty years ago?”
“I’m not discussing numbers.”
“You brought up age.”
“I regret it already.”
You smiled.
“What’d you think your life would look like?”
He stared across the room for several long seconds.
“I thought I’d save more people.”
Your smile disappeared.
“I thought medicine would get easier.” He shook his head. “I thought if I worked hard enough, I’d eventually reach a point where losing patients didn’t follow me home.” Another pause. “I thought I’d have someone waiting there.”
The honesty in his voice landed with surprising weight.
“You wanted a family?”
“I think I wanted…” He searched for the right words. “Someone to build a life with.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged.
“I kept choosing work.”
“Or work kept choosing you.”
He looked over at you.
“There’s a difference?”
“I think there is.”
The bartender switched the television over the bar to some reality show where a young couple stood on a beach surrounded by flowers while family members cried into champagne glasses. You rolled your eyes.
“Oh, here we go.”
Robby followed your gaze.
“Wedding show. They’re all the same.”
“You sound cynical.”
“I sound realistic.”
“They’re twenty-three,” you said, pointing toward the television. “They’ve known each other eighteen months and apparently they’re soulmates.”
He took another drink.
“Maybe.”
“You believe that?”
He shrugged.
“I believe they believe it.”
“Oh, that’s a politician’s answer.”
“No.”
“What then?”
He leaned back against the booth.
“I think people like the idea of soulmates.”
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t know.”
You studied him carefully.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about anything remotely romantic.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“So?”
He smiled faintly.
“I think people confuse recognition with destiny.”
You frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“I think sometimes you meet someone who feels…familiar.”
“Like you’ve known them forever?”
“Something like that.”
“And?”
“And people call that fate.”
“You don’t?”
“I think…” He looked down at the condensation running down his glass. “I think two people recognize pieces of themselves in each other. That doesn’t mean the universe planned it.”
“It just…happens?”
“Maybe.”
You were quiet for a moment.
“So you don’t believe everyone has one soulmate.”
“I think everyone has choices.”
“And love?”
“I think love is something you build.”
You smiled softly.
“That’s actually more romantic than believing in destiny.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“How?”
“Because destiny doesn’t ask anything of you.”
He tilted his head.
“But choosing someone every day…” Your voice softened. “…that’s harder.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The sounds of the bar faded into the background until it almost felt like the conversation existed inside its own little pocket of time. You looked at him again.
“Have you ever been in love?”
The question lingered between you. Finally, he nodded.
“Yes.”
“Did you think she was your soulmate?”
His expression became distant.
“I loved people.”
People. Plural.
“But no.”
“No?”
He slowly shook his head.
“I never met anyone who made the rest of the world quieter.”
The sentence settled over you like snowfall. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just…there. You swallowed.
“What about you?”
You smiled sadly.
“I’ve loved people too.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.”
You stared down at your drink.
“I kept waiting for lightning.”
“And?”
“I think I missed all the smaller things.”
Robby’s eyes stayed on yours.
“The smaller things matter more.”
You didn’t realize how long you’d been looking at each other until the bartender interrupted.
“You two need another?”
You both answered at exactly the same time.
“No.”
The bartender laughed.
“You’ve been spending too much time together.”
Neither of you responded. Outside, the July air wrapped around the city in thick humidity as you stepped onto the sidewalk. Pittsburgh glowed around you, bridges reflecting off the river while ambulances continued their endless dance toward the hospital a few blocks away. You folded your arms against the cool breeze.
“I should get home.”
“You should.”
Neither of you moved. You looked at him one last time.
“Thanks…for tonight.”
His smile was tired but genuine.
“You’ve earned someone buying you a drink.”
“You know…”
“What?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this.”
“No?”
“You’ve made me a better doctor.”
He looked away almost immediately.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You did that.”
“I had help.”
He chuckled quietly, shaking his head before meeting your eyes again.
“I’m glad you’re staying.”
The words were simple. But they carried more weight than either of you expected.
“So am I.”
You started toward your car, hearing his footsteps remain where they were. Halfway across the parking lot, you glanced back. He was still standing exactly where you’d left him. Watching. Not because he was waiting for anything. Just making sure you got to your car safely. You smiled to yourself before climbing inside. As you drove home through the sleeping city, one sentence refused to leave your mind.
I think people confuse recognition with destiny.
For reasons you couldn’t begin to explain… it suddenly felt like the most important thing Michael Robinavitch had ever said.
******
It had been eight months since you’d walked across the stage, accepted your residency certificate, and immediately signed yourself up for two more years of organized chaos as an Emergency Medicine fellow. Eight months since bourbon at a neighborhood bar had somehow turned into one of the most honest conversations you’d ever had. Eight months since Michael Robinavitch had quietly told you he believed people confused recognition with destiny. You hadn’t brought it up again. Neither had he. But every now and then, usually in the middle of some impossible shift when the department finally settled for all of thirty seconds, you’d catch him looking over to make sure you were still standing, and that sentence would drift back into your mind. Recognition. Maybe that’s all friendship was, you sometimes thought. Finding someone whose existence simply made sense.
The emergency department was coming apart at the seams by noon. Flu cases had flooded triage before sunrise. Two traumas rolled in less than fifteen minutes apart. One septic patient crashed in Room Twelve while an intoxicated teenager screamed obscenities loud enough for half the department to hear. Every monitor seemed determined to alarm at the exact same moment, nurses were running without stopping, respiratory therapy was stretched impossibly thin, and every available hallway had become another patient room. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Some shifts simply arrived with teeth. You had just finished placing a central line when Dana intercepted you outside Trauma Two.
“You seen Chief?”
You peeled off your gloves.
“No. Why?”
She sighed.
“Administration.”
That was all she had to say. You closed your eyes for exactly one second.
“…Gloria?”
Dana nodded.
“They’ve been at it for almost twenty minutes.”
You didn’t ask what about. It almost didn’t matter anymore. Over the last several months, Gloria had become increasingly determined to remind Robby that budgets, staffing numbers, patient satisfaction metrics, documentation compliance, and board expectations somehow mattered just as much as the patients bleeding in front of him. Robby, unsurprisingly, had little patience for conversations that started with spreadsheets while people were dying twenty feet away. You rounded the corner just in time to hear his voice.
“…I’m telling you there physically wasn’t another attending.”
Gloria folded her arms.
“Then perhaps your department needs to learn efficiency.”
Robby laughed once. It wasn’t humor. It was disbelief.
“You think efficiency fixes four attendings calling in sick?”
“I think leadership requires planning.”
“I planned.”
“Then why was your waiting room over capacity?”
“Because trauma doesn’t fucking RSVP.”
The hallway fell silent. A few nurses suddenly found fascinating reasons to study their clipboards. Gloria’s jaw tightened.
“Watch your tone.”
“My tone isn’t the problem.”
“No?”
“The problem is that you walked through this department exactly once today.”
She took one deliberate step closer.
“You are becoming increasingly difficult to work with.”
“And you’re becoming increasingly detached from the people actually doing the work.”
“Michael—”
“No.”
His voice remained remarkably calm. Too calm.
“You want patient satisfaction numbers?” He gestured toward the department. “Walk through there. You want staffing solutions?” He pointed toward the exhausted nurses. “Ask them why they’re working sixteen-hour shifts. You want documentation?” He laughed bitterly. “I’ve got residents charting in supply closets because there aren’t enough computers.”
Gloria stared at him for several seconds before collecting her folder.
“This conversation isn’t over.”
“It never is.”
She walked away without another word. Robby remained exactly where he was. Hands on his hips. Head bowed. Looking, for the first time since you’d known him…Old. Not older. Old.
He didn’t notice you standing there. He simply inhaled once before turning back toward another patient room. The shift continued. Because it always did. He still taught. Still checked every resident’s work. Still comforted frightened families. Still cracked dry jokes to nervous interns. Still carried the department exactly the way he always had.
But something was different. He smiled less. His shoulders stayed tight. Twice you caught him staring into nothing for several seconds before forcing himself back into motion. Near the end of the shift, after the last admission finally left and the department settled into something almost manageable, you went looking for him.
His office was empty. The physician lounge. Empty. Trauma. Nothing. You smiled to yourself.
“You’re predictable.”
The roof door creaked exactly the way it always had. Evening sunlight spilled across the concrete as you stepped outside. Pittsburgh stretched endlessly below, rivers glowing gold beneath the setting sun while helicopters crossed lazily overhead toward hospitals farther across the city. Robby stood near the edge, forearms resting against the railing.nHe didn’t turn around.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you.”
You walked over beside him.
“I’ve gotten faster.”
“I noticed.”
Silence settled comfortably between you. Eventually he sighed.
“You know…”
“What?”
“I used to come up here because it was quiet.”
“And now?”
He looked toward the skyline.
“Now I come up here because nobody expects anything from me.”
The honesty landed heavier than you expected. You rested your elbows against the railing beside him.
“They’re wrong, you know.”
“Who’s they?”
“Everybody.”
He looked over.
“They expect everything from you.”
A humorless smile crossed his face.
“Exactly.”
You studied him for a long moment. He looked exhausted. Not physically. You knew physical exhaustion. You’d watched him function on ninety minutes of sleep without complaint. This was something else. This looked like someone carrying a weight that had slowly become invisible because he’d been carrying it for too long.
“What happened today?”
He laughed quietly.
“Which part?”
“The part where Gloria decided to wage war.”
“The usual.”
“You yelled.”
“I know.”
“You don’t usually yell.”
“I know.”
He rubbed both hands over his face before leaning harder against the railing.
“I’m just…”
He stopped. You waited.
“…tired.” The word came out barely above a whisper. “I’m tired of defending medicine to people who’ve never practiced it.” Another pause. “I’m tired of fighting for nurses. I’m tired of explaining why we can’t treat human beings like numbers.” He swallowed. “I’m tired of walking into this building wondering who’s going to leave next.”
You watched the city below. Not interrupting. Not fixing. Just listening.
“I used to think…” he continued quietly, “…that if I worked hard enough, eventually I’d earn some peace.” He laughed bitterly. “Turns out every promotion just gives you more people to disappoint.”
“You don’t disappoint people.”
“No?” He finally looked at you. “Ask my residents.”
“I am one.”
“You were.”
“I’m still learning from you.”
He smiled faintly.
“I appreciate the charity.”
“This is not charity.”
“No?”
“It’s fact.”
He looked away again.
“I don’t know who I’d be if I left.”
The sentence surprised you.
“You’ve thought about it.”
“Every day.”
“You’d quit?”
“I don’t know.”
“What would you do?”
He shrugged.
“I honestly don’t know.”
The admission seemed to embarrass him.
“I’ve spent so much of my life becoming this…” He gestured vaguely toward the hospital behind you. “…that I don’t know what’s left if I stop.”
You turned fully toward him.
“Can I tell you something?”
He nodded.
“If you quit tomorrow…”
He watched you carefully.
“…I’d still know exactly who you are.”
His eyebrows drew together.
“How?”
“Because none of the things I admire about you require this building.”
He said nothing.
“You remember every janitor’s name.”
His eyes stayed fixed on yours.
“You always carry crackers in your pocket because diabetic patients forget to eat.”
A tiny smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.
“You call families even after your shift ends because you know they’re scared.”
You stepped a little closer.
“You make residents feel like they belong before they believe it themselves.”
His throat moved.
“You’ve convinced more nurses not to quit than you probably realize.” You smiled softly. “And when you think nobody’s looking…”
His voice was almost inaudible.
“…what?”
“…you pet every therapy dog that comes through the department.”
For the first time all day…He laughed. A real laugh.
“You saw that.”
“I’ve seen it four times.”
“I was hoping nobody noticed.”
“You literally get on the floor with them.”
“They’re good dogs.”
“They are.”
Silence settled again. The kind that didn’t need filling. Finally he looked at you.
“I forgot all of that.”
“I know.”
“I only remembered everything I’m failing at.”
“You aren’t failing.”
“I don’t feel like I’m succeeding.”
You reached out before you could second-guess yourself and rested your hand gently against his forearm. The contact was small. Simple. But neither of you pulled away.
He looked down at your hand for several long seconds before lifting his eyes back to yours. There was no surprise there. Only something quieter. Recognition.
“You know…” he said softly, “you’re becoming dangerous.”
“Oh?”
“You keep saying things I believe.”
You smiled.
“I learned from the best.”
“No.”
“I mean it.”
His eyes searched yours with an intensity that made the rest of the city disappear.
“I don’t know when you stopped being the resident I worried about…” Your heart stumbled. “…and started being the person I look for.”
Neither of you breathed. The evening wind moved gently between you. A helicopter passed somewhere in the distance. The world continued. Neither of you did. You stepped closer. Just enough that you could see every fleck of brown hidden inside his tired eyes.
“You asked me once,” you whispered, “if I believed in soulmates.”
“I remember.”
“I still don’t know.”
He nodded once.
“Neither do I.”
“But…”
“But?”
You smiled sadly.
“I think if they’re real…” Your fingers slowly curled around his hand. “…they probably find each other on really ordinary Tuesdays.”
He stared at you. Really stared. Like he was seeing something that had been standing in front of him for months but had only just come into focus. His free hand lifted slowly, deliberately, giving you every opportunity to move away. Instead, it rested lightly against your cheek.
“You should tell me to stop.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You might regret this.”
“I don’t think I will.”
His forehead rested against yours first. A quiet question. A chance to change your minds. Neither of you did.
When he finally kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or desperate or born from adrenaline. It was impossibly gentle, the kind of kiss that felt less like the beginning of something and more like finally admitting something that had been true for a very long time. His lips lingered only for a heartbeat before he drew back just enough to look at you again, his thumb brushing softly across your cheek as though reassuring himself you were actually there. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, with the smallest, most incredulous smile you’d ever seen from him, he whispered, “I spent months telling myself I was just glad you came back.”
You smiled through the tears gathering in your eyes.
“And now?”
His forehead found yours again.
“Now I think I would’ve looked for you anyway.”
******
Almost a year later, the apartment still smelled like coffee. You had teased Robby about it from the first time he’d invited you over after that kiss on the roof. His answer had been that coffee was a personality trait, not a beverage, and you’d laughed so hard you’d nearly spilled your mug. Since then, Sunday mornings had become yours. Some weekends you cooked. Most weekends you ordered takeout because one of you had picked up an extra shift. There were toothbrushes in both bathrooms now. Your shampoo had quietly appeared in his shower. Your favorite sweatshirt lived permanently draped over the back of his couch. He never officially asked you to leave things there. You simply did, and one day you realized he’d started making room for them without saying a word. That was how the two of you loved each other—not through grand declarations, but through ordinary accommodations that slowly became impossible to imagine living without. Which was exactly why the silence felt so wrong.
The front door clicked shut behind you.
“Michael?”
No answer. You slipped your shoes off, setting your overnight bag beside the couch. The apartment was dark except for a single lamp glowing near the bookshelves. Chinese takeout containers sat unopened on the kitchen counter, exactly where you’d left them after dropping dinner off almost four hours earlier when he’d texted that he was stuck finishing charts.
“Mike?”
This time you heard him.
“I’m in here.”
His voice came from the bedroom. You found him sitting on the edge of the bed still wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His glasses sat forgotten beside him. The television wasn’t on. No music played. The room felt unnaturally still. You leaned against the doorframe.
“You didn’t eat.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“You always say that when something’s wrong.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been ‘just tired’ for three weeks.”
“I know.”
You walked over slowly before sitting beside him. The mattress dipped. Neither of you spoke. Finally you nudged his shoulder with yours.
“Talk to me.”
He stared at the hardwood floor.
“I don’t know how.”
“You’ve never had trouble talking to me before.”
“I know.”
“So what’s different?”
His laugh came out flat.
“I am.”
That answer made your stomach tighten. You waited. Because you had learned something over the last year. Robby always found the words eventually. He just needed someone patient enough to stay until they arrived.
“I turned forty-nine last month.”
“I remember.”
“I don’t.”
You frowned.
“You don’t remember your birthday?”
“I don’t remember feeling anything.” Another pause. “I thought I’d wake up and feel…older.”
“You did.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I mean wiser.”
You stayed quiet.
“I’ve been doing this for almost twenty-five years.”
His eyes remained fixed on the floor.
“I know every trauma protocol. I can intubate someone in the dark, know exactly which resident is about to panic before they panic. I can usually tell who’s going to die within thirty seconds of meeting them.”
His voice cracked almost imperceptibly.
“And somehow…” He swallowed. “…I still don’t know who I am when I go home.”
The room became painfully quiet. You reached for his hand. He let you. But his fingers didn’t close around yours.
“I think…” he whispered, “…I’m having one of those pathetic midlife crises everyone jokes about.”
You smiled gently.
“I don’t think it’s pathetic.”
“I do.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I think you’ve spent twenty-five years taking care of everyone else.”
He finally looked at you.
“And?”
“And maybe you’re asking yourself if there’s any version of Michael Robinavitch left underneath Chief.”
Something flickered across his face. Recognition.
“I don’t know if there is.”
“There is.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know him.”
He looked away again.
“You know the version of me that’s useful.”
Your eyebrows pulled together.
“What?”
“The version that fixes things.”
“I don’t—”
“The version that people need.”
He stood abruptly, pacing toward the living room.
“I don’t know what happens if they stop.”
You followed him.
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
“No.” His voice sharpened. “You know the guy who’s good at this.” He gestured wildly toward the window where the lights of Pittsburgh stretched endlessly below. “What if this is all there is?”
“What if I retire and nobody calls? What if I spend the next twenty years realizing the only thing interesting about me was the hospital?”
You crossed your arms.
“Is that really what you think?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
“Yes, you do.”
He laughed bitterly.
“No.”
“You do.”
“I said I don’t.”
“You just don’t like the answer.”
He turned toward you.
“You don’t understand.”
Something inside you snapped.
“No.” Your voice echoed through the apartment. “You don’t understand.”
He froze. For the first time since you’d met him…You were angry. Not frustrated. Angry.
“You don’t get to decide what matters to me.”
His mouth opened. You didn’t let him speak.
“You don’t get to sit here and tell me the only valuable thing about you is your job.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You did.”
“I said—”
“You said if you left medicine there’d be nothing left.”
You stepped closer.
“So let me ask you something.”
He stared at you.
“When my grandmother died…” His face softened immediately. “…who sat on my kitchen floor with me until four in the morning because I couldn’t stop crying?”
Silence.
“When I failed my boards the first time…” He closed his eyes. “…who drove across the city with milkshakes because you knew I hadn’t eaten?”
His shoulders sagged.
“When I got accepted into fellowship…” Your voice began to shake. “…who cried harder than I did?”
He looked at you again. Tears had already started gathering in your eyes.
“That wasn’t Chief.”
Another step.
“That wasn’t emergency medicine.”
Another.
“That was you.”
His breathing became uneven.
“I picked you.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“I didn’t pick the hospital.” You shook your head. “I didn’t fall in love with emergency medicine.” Your voice broke. “I fell in love with a stubborn, grumpy, unbelievably kind man who thinks rescue dogs should be allowed in trauma bays because they’d improve morale.”
Despite everything…A tiny laugh escaped him. You kept going.
“I fell in love with the man who calls my mother every Sunday. The man who reads history books before bed. The man who pretends he doesn’t like Christmas but secretly cries at those ridiculous holiday commercials.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
“I fell in love with the man who still carries guilt over patients from fifteen years ago because he loved them enough to remember.” Tears finally slipped down his face. “You don’t get to rewrite yourself into somebody I only tolerate because you’re good at your job.”
He whispered your name. You shook your head.
“You listen to me.”
He did.
“I picked you.”
The words came out stronger this time.
“I didn’t pick Chief.”
“I didn’t pick emergency medicine.”
“I picked Michael.”
The apartment became so quiet you could hear traffic eight floors below. Finally he spoke.
“I don’t know who I am anymore.”
The confession sounded almost childlike. Lost. Scared. Honest. You walked the last few steps between you until your hands rested gently against his face.
“You don’t have to know tonight.”
“What if I never figure it out?” His voice trembled. “What if this feeling never goes away?”
You smiled through your own tears.
“Then we’ll figure it out together.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then we’ll be confused together.”
He laughed wetly through his tears.
“That’s not much of a plan.”
“It’s an excellent plan.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It absolutely is.”
He rested his forehead against yours.
“You deserve somebody who’s certain.”
You actually rolled your eyes.
“Oh, for the love of God.”
That made him laugh again. You poked him lightly in the chest.
“Would you stop trying to make decisions for me?”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“No.” You shook your head. “You’re trying to leave before I ever get the chance.”
A long silence followed. Then, so quietly you almost missed it…
“I’ve spent my whole life believing people eventually leave.”
Your heart cracked open. There it was. Not the fear of retirement. Not the fear of aging. Not even the fear of losing purpose. The fear beneath all of it. You wrapped both arms around him without another word. At first he remained rigid.
Then, slowly…He folded into you. His face disappeared against your shoulder as the first real sob escaped him. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just years of pressure finally giving way. You held him. You didn’t rush him. You simply let him break. When he finally pulled back several minutes later, his eyes were red and exhausted, but somehow lighter than they’d been all evening.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t apologize for crying.”
“I yelled.”
“So did I.”
“I said things I didn’t mean.”
You smiled softly.
“I know.”
He brushed his thumb across your cheek, wiping away tears you hadn’t realized were still falling.
“What if life looks completely different five years from now?”
You looked into the eyes of the man you’d chosen every single day for more than a year.
“I hope it does.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“I hope we change. I hope our dreams change. I hope our jobs change. I hope we keep becoming people we haven’t met yet.” Your hand slipped into his. “The only thing I don’t want to change…” You intertwined your fingers with his. “…is that when all of those changes happen…”
You lifted his hand to your lips, pressing the gentlest kiss against his knuckles.
“…you’re still the person I reach for first.”
He stared at you for a long time before a small, fragile smile finally appeared. The kind of smile that didn’t solve anything. But promised he was willing to stay. He squeezed your hand once. Not tightly. Just enough for you to feel it.
Enough to remind you both that certainty wasn’t what held people together. Sometimes all it took…was choosing not to let go.
******
Six months later, you almost missed him. The trail wound through the boulders of Joshua Tree National Park in long stretches of silence broken only by the wind moving through the desert and the occasional call of a raven somewhere high overhead. The California sun had already begun its slow descent, softening the hard edges of the rocks into warm shades of amber and gold. You adjusted the backpack on your shoulders, checked the directions he’d texted you one more time, and rounded another massive granite formation before finally spotting him in the distance.
He was sitting on top of one of the rocks, knees bent, baseball cap turned backward, hiking boots dusty, a notebook balanced loosely against one leg. He looked…Different.
Not dramatically. He was still unmistakably Michael Robinavitch. But the constant tension that had lived between his shoulders for years had disappeared. His beard had grown in more fully than you’d ever seen it. The circles beneath his eyes had faded. He’d lost a little weight, probably from hiking every day instead of surviving on cafeteria food and coffee. More than anything, though? He looked rested.
Really rested. Not asleep. Not recovering. Rested.
He looked up just as you stepped into view. For one brief second, the composed expression he’d been wearing shattered completely.
“There you are.”
You laughed.
“I’ve been hiking for forty minutes.”
“I know.”
“You couldn’t have met me at the parking lot?”
“I wanted to see if you’d complain.”
“I am complaining.”
“You made it anyway.”
You rolled your eyes before closing the remaining distance between you.
“You look…”
He tilted his head.
“Older?”
“No.” You smiled. “Happier.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood, stepped down from the rock, and wrapped both arms around you. There were no words. Just the familiar feeling of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.
His chin resting lightly against the top of your head. His hand slowly rubbing circles across your back. The hug lasted long enough that you forgot how long you’d been apart.
“I missed you,” he admitted quietly.
You smiled into his chest.
“I know.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’m not.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
“How?”
“You’ve called me every single night.”
“That doesn’t mean I missed you.”
“It means exactly that.”
He laughed.
“You know me too well.”
“I’ve been trying.”
His thumb brushed gently across your cheek.
“You succeeded.”
The cabin sat tucked between enormous boulders nearly twenty minutes farther down the trail. It wasn’t much, one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a weathered wooden porch with two rocking chairs, and windows that seemed designed solely to frame the endless desert beyond them.
“It’s perfect,” you whispered.
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I love it.”
He unlocked the front door before gesturing dramatically inside.
“My kingdom for the last eleven days.”
You stepped over the threshold. The place looked exactly like him. History books stacked beside the couch. A half-finished crossword puzzle. A cast-iron skillet drying beside the sink
Medical journals shoved carelessly beneath a chair as though he’d tried very hard not to read them and failed anyway. You picked one up.
“Really?”
He looked guilty.
“I only read one article.”
“You packed emergency medicine journals for your sabbatical.”
“It was one weak moment.”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
“You are unbelievable.”
He took the journal from your hands before tossing it into a cabinet.
“There. Problem solved. Now…”
He pointed toward the porch.
“You sit.”
“What are you doing?”
“Dinner.”
“I can help.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
“Oh?”
“You once burned pasta.”
“I still maintain that was the stove’s fault.”
“It was boiling water.”
“The stove was aggressive.”
He laughed, shaking his head.
“You’ve told yourself that story enough times that I almost believe it.”
You surrendered, settling into one of the rocking chairs while he disappeared into the tiny kitchen. The evening settled slowly around the cabin. The desert cooled. The sky shifted from gold to lavender to deep navy. One by one, the stars appeared. Then hundreds. Then thousands.
By the time he carried two bowls of homemade chili outside, the Milky Way stretched across the entire sky. You looked up in complete disbelief.
“Oh…”
He smiled.
“I had the same reaction.”
“I’ve never seen…”
“I know.”
The two of you ate slowly beneath the stars, talking about everything and nothing. The coyote you’d heard on the hike in. The tiny bookstore he’d discovered in Palm Springs. The retired park ranger he’d befriended who insisted the desert taught patience better than any religion.
He seemed lighter than you’d ever known him. Not because his problems had disappeared. Because he’d finally stopped carrying them alone.
After dinner, he built a small fire just beyond the porch. The flames crackled softly while the desert grew quiet around you. You curled beneath the blanket he’d draped across your lap. He stared into the fire for a very long time.
“You were right.”
You looked over.
“About what?”
“I needed to leave.”
You smiled.
“I know.”
“I thought I’d find answers.”
“And?”
“I didn’t.”
Your eyebrow lifted.
“No?”
“I found better questions.”
You waited.
“I kept asking myself who Michael Robinavitch was without the hospital.”
He poked thoughtfully at the fire.
“Turns out…” He laughed quietly. “…was asking the wrong question.”
“What was the right one?”
He turned toward you.
“Who has Michael Robinavitch been…” His voice softened. “…when he’s been at his best?”
You watched him carefully.
“I started writing.”
“The notebook?”
He nodded.
“Every day.”
“What’d you write?”
He reached behind his chair before handing it to you. The notebook was worn now. Pages bent. Corners folded. You opened it. Every page contained dates. Small memories. Nothing elaborate. Just moments.
Called Jack.
Finished a book.
Hiked seven miles.
Helped a couple change a flat tire.
Watched the sunrise.
Then…Your name.
Again. And again. And again.
You looked up. He smiled almost shyly.
“I didn’t notice at first.”
“What?”
“How often you showed up.”
He leaned back, eyes drifting toward the stars.
“I kept thinking about that conversation in the bar.”
Your heart skipped.
“‘Recognition versus destiny.’”
“I remember.”
“I told you people mistake recognition for destiny.”
“You did.”
He laughed softly.
“I’ve been thinking…”
“That’s usually dangerous.”
“It is.” Another smile. “I realized something.”
You waited.
“My entire adult life…” He stared into the fire. “…every time something important happened…”
He began counting quietly on his fingers.
“When my mother died.”
You reached for his hand.
“When I became Chief. When Adamson died. When I almost quit. When Gloria made me question whether I still belonged. When Langdon was an addict. When I came out here.”
He looked down at your intertwined fingers.
“You were the first person I wanted to tell, even if some things happened before I knew you.”
Tears began filling your eyes. He kept going.
“When something made me laugh…You. When something terrified me…You. When I doubted myself…You.”
He looked up.
“When I couldn’t sleep…You.”
His voice had grown almost impossibly gentle.
“I kept trying to figure out why.” The fire crackled softly between you. “I thought maybe it was because you’re my best friend.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“I thought maybe it was because you’re the smartest doctor I’ve ever worked with.”
Another.
“I thought maybe it was because I love you.”
His own eyes had begun to shine.
“But none of those felt…” He searched for the word. “…complete.”
You couldn’t speak. He reached across the space between your chairs and took both of your hands in his.
“So I started paying attention.” His thumbs slowly brushed over your knuckles. “I noticed you’re the first person I look for in every room.”
You smiled through your tears.
“I noticed I still reach for my phone whenever something happens because I assume you’ll want to know.” He laughed quietly. “I noticed every version of myself over the last several years somehow has you standing beside him.”
His breathing hitched.
“The terrified Chief. The burned-out doctor. The man on the roof who thought he had nothing left. The stubborn idiot who thought pushing you away would somehow protect you.”
His eyes finally met yours again.
“You were there.”
Every word landed like a heartbeat.
“You’ve been my anchor.”
Another.
“My voice of reason.”
Another.
“My safest place.”
Another.
“The person who reminds me who I am whenever I forget.”
The tears were falling freely now. He smiled through his own.
“I spent twenty-five years believing purpose came from medicine.” He shook his head. “I had it backwards.”
“You did?”
“My purpose wasn’t the hospital.”
His fingers squeezed yours.
“It was building a life worth coming home to.” Silence. “So I have one last question.”
Your heart was pounding so hard you were certain he could hear it.
“What is it?”
He smiled.
“What do you think all of this means?”
You looked around. The stars. The desert. The tiny cabin. The fire slowly burning lower. Then you looked back at the man who had met you as your attending, become your friend, fallen in love with you one ordinary shift at a time, nearly lost himself, and found his way back not because someone rescued him, but because the two of you refused to stop choosing each other. You lifted one hand, brushing your fingertips gently through his beard.
“I think…” Your voice trembled with quiet certainty. “…we’ve spent years trying to prove whether soulmates are real.”
He smiled.
“I think we’ve been asking the wrong question.”
His brow furrowed slightly.
“What do you mean?”
You leaned forward until your forehead rested against his.
“I don’t think soulmates are people the universe magically ties together.”
He didn’t move.
“I think they’re two people who keep finding each other.”
Your thumb brushed across his cheek.
“Over coffee.”
A small smile.
“On hospital rooftops.”
Another.
“On kitchen floors.”
His eyes closed.
“In ordinary Tuesdays.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
“In the middle of fights. In the middle of healing. In every version of life.” You smiled through your tears. “I think soulmates are people who become each other’s home.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of every shift. Every conversation. Every fight. Every laugh. Every ordinary choice that had slowly become extraordinary simply because it had been repeated with unwavering devotion. Robby opened his eyes.
“I’ve spent most of my life believing destiny was something that happened to people.”
He leaned forward and kissed your forehead with a tenderness that stole your breath.
“I think I finally understand.”
“What?”
His voice was barely more than the wind moving through the Joshua trees.
“Destiny isn’t the day you meet someone.” He smiled, his forehead still resting against yours. “It’s waking up, years later…” His fingers intertwined with yours exactly as they had a hundred times before. “…and realizing you’ve been choosing the same person every day…”
He kissed you then. not with urgency, but with the quiet certainty of a man who had finally stopped searching.
“…until one morning you look at them…” His lips brushed yours once more, slow and lingering. “…and understand they were home all along.”
Did You Eat? - Dr. Robby x Female Reader - Part Two
Request - Hi! I really like your writing style and enjoyed reading through your whole masterlist. I watched the Pitt recently and I was thinking if you would consider writing about Robby with anemic reader who always forgets to eat sometimes to the point of just dropping from ✨low iron moment ✨, some angst with hurt/comfort and fluff? Thank you 🫶🏻
Your chair swiveled around so quickly it made your head throb.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
“Melissa.”
“He told you to eat, didn’t he?”
“How do you know that?”
“Because every person with functioning eyes has told you to eat today.”
“I ate.”
“What?”
“A protein bar.”
“All of it?”
Silence. Melissa crossed her arms.
“How much?”
“Some.”
“How much is some?”
“An amount.”
“Oh my God.”
“It’s fine.”
“You look gray.”
“I do not look gray.”
“You absolutely look gray.”
“People keep changing the color. This morning I was pale. Then I was white. Now apparently I’m gray. By five I’ll be fucking lavender.”
Melissa did not laugh. That was when you knew she was actually worried. You looked away first.
“I’m okay.”
“Then stand up.”
You hated that she had trapped you. You pushed the chair back.
“Fine.”
Slowly, deliberately, you stood. Nothing happened. You lifted both hands.
“Ta-da.”
Melissa stared at you. You smiled
“Happy?”
“No.”
“You should work on that.”
“Walk over there.”
“I know how to walk.”
“Then demonstrate.”
You rolled your eyes and walked toward the other side of the room.
“See?”
Melissa exhaled. Some of the tension left her face.
“You still need to eat.”
“Yes.”
“And sit down.”
“Yes.”
“And maybe call your boyfriend.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s working.”
“That logic is shit.”
“Most hospital logic is shit.”
The phone rang. Melissa picked it up.
“Yeah. Okay. We can take him now.”
She hung up.
“ED’s sending up a trauma.”
“What?”
“Motorcycle versus car.”
You closed your eyes.
“Of course they are.”
“He’s stable enough for imaging. Head, C-spine, chest, abdomen, pelvis.”
You nodded automatically.
“Okay.”
Melissa studied you.
“You’re not doing it.”
“What?”
“You’re not helping transfer.”
“Melissa.”
“No.”
“We’re short.”
“I don’t care. You almost passed out three times today.”
“I got dizzy.”
“Same neighborhood.”
“Not even remotely.”
“Sit at the console.”
“I can help.”
“You can help by not becoming another fucking patient.”
You stared at her. She stared back. The doors opened. The trauma team rolled the patient in.
Conversation over.
The next fifteen minutes moved quickly. That was the dangerous thing about hospital work. Adrenaline could make you forget almost anything.
The patient was a twenty-seven-year-old man, helmeted rider, hit at an intersection, blood pressure holding but borderline, obvious deformity to one leg, scattered road rash, possible abdominal injury. Everyone moved at once.
“On my count.”
“Watch the C-spine.”
“I’ve got the tube.”
“Three, two, one.”
You stayed near the console at first. Just like Melissa told you. Then someone needed another set of hands. Of course they did. You stepped forward automatically.
“Grab the sheet.”
Melissa looked at you.
“I’ve got it.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m fine.”
“Goddammit.”
There wasn’t time to argue. You helped reposition the patient. The effort was minimal. Barely anything. But when you straightened, your heart slammed violently against your ribs. You froze. One beat. Two. Three. Too fast. Your breath caught. You took one slow inhale. Then another. Nobody noticed. Good. You stepped back.
“Ready for scout.”
You moved behind the glass. The scan started. You concentrated on the screen. Images populated. Head. Neck. Chest. Your vision blurred slightly. You blinked. Better. You rubbed one eye. Melissa glanced at you.
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
She frowned. You focused harder. The scan continued. Then suddenly your stomach turned. Hard. You swallowed. The room felt too warm. Much too warm. You tugged at the collar of your scrub top. Melissa noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sweating again.”
“I’m hot.”
“You were freezing an hour ago.”
You looked at her. She was scared now. Not worried. Scared. That irritated something inside you because fear made the situation feel real, and you were still very committed to the idea that nothing real was happening.
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not.”
“I need a second.”
“You need to sit down.”
“I am sitting.”
“Then stay sitting.”
The scan finished. The patient needed to be moved. A nurse opened the door.
“We’re clear?”
Melissa nodded.
“Yeah.”
You stood. Melissa immediately grabbed your arm.
“No.”
“I’m just moving out of the way.”
“Sit.”
“I’m in the way.”
“Then I’ll move the chair.”
You laughed weakly.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I am standing.”
Barely. The floor felt wrong. Soft. Like walking on a mattress. You gripped the edge of the console. The rushing sound started in your ears.
“Hey.”
Melissa’s voice sounded farther away. You opened them again. The room had narrowed. Not black. Not yet. Just a tunnel. You could see Melissa’s face. Everything around her was blurry.
“Sit down.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
You looked down. She was right. You were standing. When had you stood? You couldn’t remember. That frightened you.
“I’m okay.”
Your voice sounded strange. Too soft. Melissa stepped closer.
“Sit.”
“Give me a second.”
“You’re going down.”
You took one step backward. Bad idea. The room tilted violently. You reached for the counter. Missed. Melissa grabbed your forearm.
“Hey!”
“I’m okay.”
“You keep saying that.”
Your knees felt weak. Not metaphorically. Actually weak. Like the muscles had disconnected. You locked them. Stupid instinct. Your vision dimmed further. Someone else entered the room.
“What’s happening?”
“She’s about to pass out.”
“I’m not.”
The words barely came out. Melissa tightened her grip.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
You didn’t know. You tried to bend your knees. Your body didn’t respond correctly. A cold wave moved through you. Your skin prickled. Then heat. Then cold again. Your heart was racing. Your breathing was too fast. You knew enough about medicine to understand that none of this was good. You also knew enough about yourself to keep arguing anyway.
“Just give me a second.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I just need—”
The room disappeared. Not completely. There were still voices. Shapes. Light. But your body suddenly felt impossibly heavy. Someone said your name. You tried to answer. Nothing happened. Then your knees gave out.
It was terrifying how quickly control vanished. One second you were standing. The next, you weren’t. Melissa caught one arm. Someone else grabbed you around the waist. Your shoulder hit something. Not the floor. Maybe the chair. You couldn’t tell.
“Got her.”
“Easy.”
“Get her down.”
“Hey. Stay with me.”
“Can you hear me?”
You nodded. Or thought you did.
“Don’t move.”
“I’m okay.”
This time you heard yourself. Slurred slightly. Melissa swore.
“No, you’re fucking not.”
You tried to sit up. Several hands stopped you.
“Stay down.”
“I have a patient.”
“The patient is fine.”
“I need to—”
“No.”
You blinked. The ceiling moved. Or maybe you moved. You couldn’t tell.
“Hey.” She touched your cheek. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I didn’t pass out.”
“You fucking folded.”
“I’m awake.”
“Barely.”
Someone crouched beside you. Another tech.
“Pulse is fast.”
“How fast?”
“One twenty.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m fine.”
Three people answered at once.
“Shut up.”
You would have laughed if you had enough energy. Your eyes closed.
Nobody listened. Of course nobody listened. You tried to push yourself upright. The moment you lifted your head, nausea rolled through you. You dropped back down.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Easy.”
“I’m going to throw up.”
“Turn her.”
Someone rolled you slightly. Nothing happened. The nausea passed. Mostly. You breathed through it.
“This is embarrassing.”
Melissa gave you an incredulous look.
“You almost face-planted in CT and you’re worried about being embarrassed?”
“Yes.”
“Your priorities are fucked.”
“I know.”
A stretcher appeared. You stared at it.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not getting on that.”
“You know what would be more embarrassing?”
“What?”
“Passing out again in the hallway.”
You considered that.
“I hate you.”
Two people helped move you. You tried to assist. Your arms shook. That shut you up. You lay back. The ceiling above you swayed slightly. Someone tucked a blanket over you. You immediately realized how cold you were. Really cold. Your teeth almost wanted to chatter. Melissa touched your forehead.
The stretcher started moving. You grabbed the rail.
“Where are we going?”
“Downstairs.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t need the ED.”
“You nearly lost consciousness.”
“Nearly.”
Melissa stared at you.
“That distinction is not helping.”
“I can go home.”
“You can’t even sit up.”
“I can sit up.”
You attempted it. The room tilted. You lay back down. Melissa raised her eyebrows.
The elevator doors opened. Someone pushed the stretcher inside. The movement made your stomach twist again. You closed your eyes.
“Don’t close your eyes.”
You opened them. Melissa was watching you. Someone else stood at the foot of the stretcher. A nurse from radiology. You recognized her. Barely.
“What happened?” she asked.
Melissa answered.
“She’s anemic, hasn’t eaten shit all day, got dizzy multiple times, then almost passed out.”
“I ate.”
Melissa looked at you.
“Half a protein bar does not count.”
The nurse stared at you.
“Is she always like this?”
“Unfortunately.”
The elevator descended. Your pulse still felt fast. The adrenaline was fading. In its place came something worse. Weakness. Heavy, deep weakness. Your arms felt weighted. Your legs felt like they belonged to somebody else. You swallowed.
“Melissa.”
Her expression changed immediately.
“What?”
“I feel weird.”
That one sentence erased every trace of humor. She moved closer.
“What kind of weird?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Nauseous?”
“No.”
“Chest pain?”
“No.”
“Can you see me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
You closed your fingers around the blanket.
“I’m really tired.”
“I know.”
“No.” Your voice dropped. “Like really tired.”
Melissa looked toward the nurse. The nurse stepped closer.
“Stay awake for me.”
You frowned.
“I am awake.”
“Good. Stay that way.”
The elevator doors opened. Emergency department. The noise spilled in. Your heart sank.
“He’s going to be pissed.”
She knew exactly who you meant.
“Good.”
“I promised him.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I told him I’d call.”
“And did you?”
You said nothing. Melissa sighed.
“Oh, you’re dead.”
“I know.”
The stretcher rolled into the department. Princess looked up.
“What’ve we got?”
“Near syncope upstairs.”
“Patient or staff?”
“Staff.”
She looked at you. Recognition.
“Oh.”
You knew that expression. You hated that expression.
“No.”
Princess looked toward the central desk. You grabbed Melissa’s sleeve weakly.
“No.”
She looked down.
“What?”
“Don’t call him.”
Melissa stared at you.
“You cannot be serious.”
“He’s busy.”
“You almost passed out.”
“I know.”
“You think nobody’s going to tell him?”
You looked toward the department. Your vision blurred again briefly. Princess was already speaking to someone. You couldn’t hear the words. Then another person looked toward you. Then toward the trauma bays. Your stomach dropped.
“Melissa.”
“What?”
“Please.”
Her face softened. For half a second. Then she squeezed your hand.
“Sorry.”
You closed your eyes.
Across the department, someone called loudly,
“Where’s Robby?”
Your eyes opened. No. Another voice answered.
“Trauma Three.”
“Get him.”
You swallowed.
“I’m going to kill all of you.”
Melissa looked down at you.
“You’ll have to stay conscious first.”
You would have told her to fuck off. But the room tilted again. Your eyes closed. And this time, somewhere beyond the noise of the emergency department, you heard someone say,
“Call Robby. Now.”
******
Robby knew something was wrong before anyone said your name. It was the way Dana looked at him. He had been standing in Trauma Three with blood drying across the knuckles of his left glove, listening to Whitaker run through repeat vitals on the motorcycle patient who had come through CT less than twenty minutes earlier, when Dana appeared at the opening of the bay and didn’t immediately speak.
That alone got his attention. Dana Evans did not hover. She did not hesitate. She did not stand silently in doorways looking at him like she was trying to decide the least catastrophic arrangement of words. Robby looked up.
“What?”
Dana’s eyes flicked briefly toward Whitaker. Then back to him.
“Robby.”
Something cold moved through his chest.
“What?”
“You need to come out here.”
He stared at her.
“Why?”
“Just come with me.”
“No.” His voice sharpened immediately. “Tell me what happened.”
Dana stepped closer.
“It’s not a patient.”
He stopped. The noise of the trauma bay seemed to recede around him.
“What?”
“One of the staff came down from Radiology.”
For one stupid second, his brain did not connect the words. Staff. Radiology. Then it did. Everything inside him dropped.
“Where is she?”
Dana’s face answered before her mouth did. Robby was already moving.
“Robby—”
“Where the fuck is she?”
“Bay Nine.”
He ripped the gloves from his hands as he walked.
“What happened?”
“Near syncope upstairs.”
“Near?”
“She went down.”
His stride lengthened.
“Did she lose consciousness?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she hit her head?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I haven’t assessed her yet. They literally just brought her down.”
“Vitals?”
“Robby.”
“Vitals.”
“I don’t have them yet.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
He rounded the corner. And saw you. That was the moment everything changed. You were lying on a stretcher. There were probably a hundred things he should have noticed first.
That you were awake. That you were breathing. That you were talking to Melissa. That you weren’t intubated. That there was no blood. That nobody was doing compressions. That nobody around you was moving with the frantic urgency that meant someone was actively dying.
None of that registered first. He saw you on a stretcher. Pale. A blanket pulled over you. Eyes half-closed. And for approximately three seconds, Michael Robinavich was not a physician.
He was just a man looking at the woman he loved lying in his emergency department. His heart stopped. Not literally. It felt like it. Someone said something to him. He didn’t hear it. Then your eyes opened.
You saw him. And somehow, impossibly, your first reaction was guilt.
“Oh, fuck.”
Robby stopped beside the stretcher. You looked up at him.
“Hi.”
He stared at you. You swallowed.
“You look mad.”
Nothing.
“Robby?”
He reached for your wrist. His fingers found your pulse automatically. Fast. Too fast. His other hand touched your forehead. Clammy.
“You with me?”
“Yes.”
“Any chest pain?”
“No.”
“Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“Not anymore.”
“Headache?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No.”
Melissa spoke from the other side of the stretcher.
“We caught her.”
Robby’s eyes snapped toward her.
“What happened?”
“She got lightheaded in CT, tried to keep working, then her knees buckled.”
“Did she lose consciousness?”
“I don’t think completely. Maybe a few seconds where she wasn’t really responding.”
“I was responding.”
Three people ignored you. Robby looked back at Melissa.
“How long?”
“Seconds. Ten, maybe.”
“I did not lose consciousness.”
Robby finally looked down at you.
“Stop talking.”
You blinked.
“That seems rude.”
“Stop.”
There was something in his face that made you obey. Not anger. Not exactly. Fear. Pure, unfiltered fear. You had seen Robby afraid before. At work. During traumas. When patients crashed. When something went wrong faster than medicine could fix it.
But this was different. This was personal. His hand remained around your wrist even though there was now a pulse oximeter clipped to your finger and a monitor displaying your heart rate directly beside him. He didn’t seem to realize he was still counting it himself. Dana stepped in.
“Let’s get her hooked up.”
“I’m hooked up.”
“You have a pulse ox.”
“That counts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
You sighed. Robby looked at Dana.
“ECG. Fingerstick. CBC, CMP, ferritin, iron studies.”
Dana nodded.
“Already ordered.”
“Orthostatics when she can tolerate it.”
“Yep.”
IV fluids.”
“Working on it.”
“Pregnancy test.”
You stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
He looked at you.
“Standard.”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“Great.”
“I would know.”
“Fantastic.”
“Robby.”
“Standard workup.”
You looked at Dana.
“He’s being a dick.”
Dana was opening an IV kit.
“He’s scared.”
Robby’s jaw tightened.
“Dana.”
“What?”
“IV.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“Then do it.”
Dana gave him a look. You looked between them.
“Okay.”
Nobody answered.
“Everybody is being very intense.”
Robby looked down at you.
“You collapsed.”
“I did not collapse.”
Melissa made an incredulous noise. You looked at her.
“Whose side are you on?”
“The side where you stop pretending you didn’t fucking fold like a lawn chair.”
Dana snorted. Robby did not. You pointed weakly at Melissa.
“That was unnecessarily descriptive.”
“It was accurate.”
Robby looked at her.
“She ate?”
Melissa’s face changed. You closed your eyes.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Robby went very still. Melissa hesitated. Robby’s voice dropped.
“What did she eat?”
You answered quickly.
“Protein bar.”
Melissa looked at you. You looked at Melissa.
Do not.
She looked back at Robby.
“Half.”
Traitor.
Robby’s eyes closed. You stared at the ceiling.
“Technically more than half.”
“Bullshit,” Melissa said.
“Whose fucking friend are you?”
“Yours. Unfortunately.”
Robby opened his eyes.
“What else?”
Silence. His gaze moved to you.
“What else did you eat?”
You knew better than to answer. Unfortunately, silence was also an answer. His jaw flexed.
“Coffee?” You smiled weakly. “Large.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Oat milk.”
“Stop saying that like it helps.”
“I’m just giving you the complete nutritional profile.”
Dana turned away suspiciously quickly. You were fairly certain she was laughing. Robby was not.
“When did you last eat an actual meal?”
You thought about it. That was another mistake. His expression changed as he watched you calculate.
“Last night?”
You hesitated.
“What did you have last night?”
“I ate.”
“What?”
“Food.”
“What food?”
You frowned.
“I don’t remember.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I was tired.”
“So was I. I still ate.”
“You had half a sandwich today.”
“That was lunch.”
“That’s pathetic.”
“We are not discussing my eating habits while you are horizontal in my emergency department because you forgot food exists.”
“Your emergency department?”
Robby stared at you. You smiled faintly.
“Very territorial.”
“Do not fuck with me right now.”
The smile disappeared. His voice had changed. You looked at him. He looked exhausted. Not the normal exhaustion. Something deeper. His eyes were darker. His face pale beneath the fluorescent lights. You suddenly remembered what you had promised him.
If it happens again, you call me.
You had promised. And you hadn’t. Your stomach sank.
“Robby.”
He looked away. Dana slid the IV into your arm. You barely noticed.
“Got it.”
Robby nodded.
“Fluids.”
“Already hanging.”
He stepped back. Not far. Just enough to create distance. That was worse. You watched him.
“Hey.”
He looked at the monitor.
“Robby.”
Nothing.
“Michael.”
His eyes closed.
“Don’t.”
Your voice softened.
“I’m sorry.”
He opened his eyes. The fear was still there. Now there was anger wrapped around it.
“You promised me.”
“I know.”
“You fucking promised me.”
“I know.”
“I asked you one thing.”
“I know.”
“If you got dizzy again, call me.”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
You swallowed.
“After the patient.”
He laughed once. There was no humor in it.
“Of course.”
“Robby.”
“After the patient.”
“I was working.”
“So was I.”
“I know.”
“You think I wouldn’t have come?”
“No.”
“You think whatever I was doing mattered more than this?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
You didn’t have a good answer. Because there wasn’t one.
“I thought it would pass.”
His face tightened.
“You thought.”
“I’ve had this happen before.”
“Not like this.”
“No.”
“No. Not like this.”
You looked down at your hands. The IV tubing crossed over your wrist. Robby was quiet. Then you heard him say, much softer,
“I watched them bring you through those doors.”
You looked up. He wasn’t looking at you. He was looking toward the entrance to the department.
“I didn’t know what happened.”
Your chest tightened.
“Robby.”
“Dana came and got me. She said Radiology staff. She didn’t say your name right away.” He swallowed. “And then I walked out here and saw you on a stretcher.”
You reached for him. He hesitated. Only for a second. Then he took your hand.
“I’m sorry.”
His fingers closed tightly around yours.
“For about three seconds,” he said quietly, “nobody told me what the fuck happened.”
Your eyes burned. He finally looked at you.
“I see people I love come through those doors in my head all the fucking time.”
You knew what he meant. You didn’t need him to explain. Robby had spent years surrounded by the worst moments of other people’s lives. He knew exactly what could happen. Exactly how quickly. Exactly how little warning the universe sometimes gave. And because he knew all of it, there was no such thing as innocent uncertainty for him. His mind had filled those three seconds with every possible catastrophe. You squeezed his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked down at your fingers intertwined with his.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
His voice cracked slightly. Barely. But you heard it. Your eyes filled.
“Come here.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“Closer.”
Robby looked around. You didn’t care.
“Closer.”
He stepped toward the stretcher. You lifted your free hand and touched his face. His cheek was rough beneath your fingers.He had probably shaved yesterday morning. Maybe the morning before. You rubbed your thumb gently along his cheekbone.
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes closed. He leaned into your hand. Just slightly. Enough.
“I’m okay.”
His eyes opened.
“You’re not allowed to say that anymore.”
A laugh escaped you through the emotion.
“What?”
“You’ve lost privileges.”
“That seems unconstitutional.”
“I don’t care.”
“You can’t ban a phrase.”
“I just did.”
“You’re abusing your authority.”
“I’m not your attending.”
“You’ve made that very clear.”
His mouth twitched. Finally. Just barely
You smiled. His expression changed. You rubbed your thumb over his cheek.
“You don’t have to turn one into the other with me.”
Robby looked at you for a long time. Then he turned his face and pressed a kiss into your palm. Small. Private. Devastating.
“I know,” he whispered.
The fluids helped. Food helped more. Robby personally acquired you a turkey sandwich, crackers, apple juice, and something resembling pudding from somewhere in the emergency department, then stood beside your stretcher like an armed guard until you ate enough of it to satisfy him. You held up the pudding.
“This is objectively terrible.”
“Eat it.”
“It tastes like drywall.”
“You’ve eaten drywall?”
“I imagine this is similar.”
“Eat.”
“You’re very nurturing.”
“I’m a goddamn delight.”
You smiled.
“That’s what I tell everyone.”
“I’m sure.”
Your labs came back gradually. Your hemoglobin was low. Not catastrophically low. Not transfusion low. But lower than your last recorded result. Your iron studies were unsurprising. Your glucose had been low-normal by the time they checked it. You were dehydrated. Exhausted. Underfed. Anemic. And spectacularly stubborn.
Robby reviewed every result personally. Twice. Then had another attending review them because, as he said flatly when you teased him about it, “I’m compromised.” That made you stop smiling.
“You’re not compromised.”
“I’m emotionally involved.”
“That sounds nicer.”
“It means the same thing.”
“You love me.”
Robby looked up from the tablet. There was a pause. You had said it casually. Almost teasingly. But the words sat between you.
You had said I love you before.
Of course you had. But sometimes those words still landed differently. Robby set the tablet down.
“Unfortunately.”
You smiled.
“Asshole.”
He leaned down and kissed your forehead.
“Menace.”
By six thirty, you were medically cleared. By six thirty-one, Robby had decided you were going home. By six thirty-two, you discovered you apparently had no vote regarding transportation.
“I can drive.”
“No.”
“My car is here.”
“It can stay here.”
“I need it tomorrow.”
“You’re not working tomorrow.”
You stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“You cannot call me out of work.”
“I can strongly suggest it.”
“You’re the chief of emergency medicine, not Radiology.”
“Thank you for explaining the organizational structure of the hospital.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I’m fine.”
Robby pointed at you.
“Banned.”
You sighed.
“I am medically stable.”
“Better.”
“I can work.”
“No.”
“Robby.”
“Your hemoglobin is down, you nearly lost consciousness, you’re dehydrated, you haven’t eaten properly in God knows how long, and you look like Casper’s exhausted cousin.”
“That was mean.”
“That was restrained.”
“You’re still on shift.”
“Not anymore.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“Langdon’s covering.”
“Why?”
Robby looked at you.
“Why do you think?”
“You didn’t have to leave.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“Robby—”
“I’m taking you home.”
The way he said it ended the argument. You looked at him. He looked back.
Then quieter, “I need to take you home.”
That was different. You nodded.
“Okay.”
His shoulders dropped slightly.
“Okay.”
The drive to his apartment was quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just tired. Robby kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on your thigh. He had touched you almost continuously since leaving the hospital. Your hand. Your back. Your knee. The nape of your neck while waiting for the elevator.
It wasn’t conscious. You didn’t think he even realized he was doing it. Every few minutes his thumb moved against your leg. Checking. Reassuring himself. You covered his hand with yours.
“You know I’m still here.”
His eyes stayed on the road.
“I know.”
“You keep checking.”
“I know.”
You intertwined your fingers with his. He squeezed. When you reached his apartment, he carried your bag despite your protests.
“I can carry a bag.”
“I know.”
“Then give it to me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m carrying it.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You’re also bossy.”
“Frequently.”
“Controlling.”
“Occasionally.”
“Old.”
He stopped in the hallway. You almost walked into him. Slowly, he turned his head.
“What?”
You smiled sweetly.
“Nothing.”
“Say it again.”
“I said you’re bold.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“Must be your hearing.”
Robby stared at you. You laughed.
“Keep walking, Grandpa.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
He unlocked the door.
“You’re sleeping on the couch.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re right. I don’t trust you unsupervised.”
You smiled as you walked inside. Home. The thought came without permission. His apartment. His furniture. His stupid three-thousand-dollar concrete mattress. His coffee cups. His books. His shoes kicked beneath the table.
Home.
Robby locked the door behind you.
“Sit.”
You turned.
“I have been sitting for four hours.”
“Then continue your impressive streak.”
“I want a shower.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You’re still a little orthostatic.”
“I can shower.”
“You can shower when I’m nearby.”
You stared at him.
“That sounded vaguely threatening.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Vaguely sexual?”
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
Robby’s mouth twitched.
“There she is.”
You smiled.
“Hi.”
He walked toward you. Slowly. Something in the room changed. The hospital was gone now. No monitors. No fluorescent lights. No scrubs moving around you. No one watching. Just him. Just you.
Robby stopped close enough that your bodies almost touched. His hand lifted. He brushed your hair away from your face.
“You scared me.”
You leaned into his palm.
“I know.”
“Don’t do that again.”
“I’ll try.”
“That’s not good enough.”
You smiled faintly.
“It’s the most honest answer I have.”
He studied you. Then nodded.
“Fair.”
His thumb moved across your cheek. You turned your face and kissed the inside of his wrist. Robby exhaled. Something in him softened.
“Shower?”
You nodded.
“Shower.”
He followed you into the bathroom. Not because you needed supervision. At least that was what you told yourself. You turned on the water. Robby leaned against the counter.
“You’re really going to stand there?”
“Yes.”
You looked at him. His eyebrows lifted. You pulled your scrub top over your head. Robby’s expression changed. Not lust. Not exactly. Something quieter. His eyes moved over you. Checking. You knew him well enough to recognize it.
“You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Assessing me.”
“I’m looking at you.”
“You’re checking for bruises.”
He didn’t deny it. You stepped closer.
“There aren’t any.”
His hand moved to your hip. Then around your waist. His fingers spread against your bare back. Warm. Familiar. You relaxed immediately.
You rested your forehead against his chest. Robby’s arms closed around you. Skin against scrubs. Your cheek against the familiar softness of his shirt. His chin resting lightly against the top of your head.
You knew this body.The shape of him. The warmth of him. The places tension collected between his shoulders. The scar near his ribs. The way his breathing changed when he was exhausted. The exact place beneath his jaw where your mouth could make him forget whatever sentence he had been trying to finish.
And he knew yours. Every curve. Every scar. Every place you were ticklish. Every place you weren’t. The way your shoulders relaxed when his hand moved slowly up your spine. The way you always tucked your cold feet beneath his legs in bed. The way you wanted to be held when you were frightened but hated admitting you were frightened.
His hand moved beneath the edge of your undershirt. Warm palm against your back. Not asking. Not taking. Just touching. Knowing. You closed your eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
His fingers moved slowly along your spine.
“I know.”
“I should’ve called.”
“Yes.”
“I knew you’d come.”
“I would’ve.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
You were quiet.
“Because I didn’t want to need you.”
His hand stopped. You immediately wished you could take it back. Robby leaned away enough to look at you.
“What?”
You swallowed.
“Not like that.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
You looked down. His hand moved beneath your chin.
“Hey.”
You looked at him.
“I like being independent.”
“I know you do. You do it too well sometimes.”
“I like handling my own shit and sometimes…” You sighed. “Sometimes I don’t know where the line is between letting someone love me and becoming dependent on them.”
Robby stared at you. Then his expression softened so completely it hurt.
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“You think calling your boyfriend because you’re about to pass out is codependent?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It is stupid.”
You shoved his chest lightly.
“Fuck off.”
“I’m serious.”
“You could be nicer about it.”
“I could. But then you might misunderstand.”
You rolled your eyes. Robby’s hand returned to your waist.
“You needing me sometimes does not make you dependent on me.”
You looked at him.
“And me needing you doesn’t make me weak.”
Your expression changed. He saw it.
“I missed you last night.”
“I…kinda liked that you did.”
“I hated sleeping without you.”
Your throat tightened.
“I thought about calling you at midnight and asking you to come over.”
“You should have.”
“You had work.”
“So did you.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve called.”
“Yeah.”
You smiled slightly.
“Sounds familiar.”
Robby sighed.
“Got you.”
“Don’t enjoy it.”
“I’m enjoying it a little.”
He shook his head. Then kissed you. Slowly. No urgency. No desperation. His mouth settled against yours with the familiarity of something done hundreds of times and still wanted every time.
You kissed him back. Your hands moved naturally to his waist. His slid along your bare back. You knew exactly how to lean into him. He knew exactly how to hold you.
When the kiss deepened slightly, you smiled against his mouth. Robby pulled back.
“What?”
“You’re supposed to be monitoring me.”
“I am.”
“With your tongue?”
He stared at you. You started laughing.
“God, you’re annoying.”
“That’s not medically indicated.”
“You are feeling better.”
“I told you.”
“Don’t push it.”
He kissed you again. Once. Twice. Then your cheek. Your forehead. Your temple. Softer each time. The last kiss lingered.
“Get in the shower.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“I’ll make food.”
“You already made me eat and that pudding was terrible.”
“You’re getting soup.”
“I don’t want soup.”
“You’re getting soup.”
“Can I have grilled cheese?”
Robby considered.
“Yes.”
You smiled.
“I love you.”
“Apparently only when I provide cheese.”
“It’s your best quality.”
“Shower.”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyebrows lifted. You pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
You laughed as he left. An hour later, you were in his bed. His terrible, expensive, aggressively firm bed.
You were wearing one of his T-shirts and underwear, your hair still damp from the shower, one leg tangled between his beneath the blankets. You had eaten. All of it. Grilled cheese. Soup. Water. Half an orange because Robby had read something about vitamin C helping iron absorption approximately six years ago and apparently intended to personally enforce nutritional science until death.
Now he was lying beside you wearing nothing but an old pair of sweatpants, glasses on, reading something on his phone. You watched him. He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed.”
“Why?”
“You’re my boyfriend.”
“Questionable judgment on my part.”
“Terrible.”
He went back to his phone. You moved closer. Your hand slid across his stomach. Robby glanced down. You traced the familiar line of an old scar near his side. He didn’t flinch. He never did anymore. Not with you.
Your fingers moved slowly across his skin. Not sexual. Not entirely innocent either. Just familiar. Intimate.
The absent-minded touching of two people who knew each other well enough that bodies had stopped being mysterious territories and become places of comfort. Robby set his phone aside.
“You need something?”
“You.”
His expression softened.
“I’m right here.”
“Closer.”
“There is physically almost no closer.”
“Figure it out.”
He sighed dramatically. Then rolled toward you. You immediately tucked yourself against him. Your head beneath his chin. One arm around his waist.Your cold feet pushed between his calves. Robby jerked.
“Jesus Christ.”
You laughed.
“Cold?”
“You’re a fucking corpse.”
His hand slid beneath the back of your shirt. Warm palm settling against your skin. You sighed.
“There.”
“Better?”
“Yes…you know,” you murmured, “I told you.”
“What?”
“This morning.”
“What did you tell me?”
“I said I’d come home with you tonight.”
His hand stilled. You felt his breathing change. Just slightly. You lifted your head. Robby was looking down at you.
“What?” You asked.
“You said home.”
“So did you.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
He frowned.
“I said my place.”
You shook your head.
“I think I know what I said.”
“You said, ‘You coming home with me tonight?’”
Robby stared at you. You smiled.
“Do you want me to live here?”
“I want you to stop talking.”
“You want me to move in.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
Robby rolled onto his back. You followed him immediately, resting partly over his chest.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, apparently.”
“You want me here.”
He looked at the ceiling.
“Unfortunately.”
“Robby.”
His hand settled automatically on your thigh. You waited. He knew you would. That was another thing he hated about you. You could outwait him. Finally, he sighed.
“Yes.”
Your teasing disappeared.
“Yes what?”
He looked at you.
“I want you here.”
Your heart turned over.
“Like tonight?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
You stayed still. Robby’s fingers moved gently against your thigh.
“I mean here.”
You swallowed.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you spoke for several seconds. Then Robby looked away.
“This is probably a terrible time to have this conversation.”
“Probably.”
“You nearly passed out six hours ago.”
“I remember.”
“And I don’t want you thinking I’m asking because I’ve suddenly decided you require twenty-four-hour supervision.”
“That was going to be my first question.”
“I figured.”
“So why are you asking?”
Robby looked at you.
“Because your shit is already everywhere.”
You stared at him.
“That’s your romantic declaration?”
“You have two drawers.”
“Wow.”
“Half my closet.” He smirked. “You’re here four nights a week.”
“Sometimes five.”
“Exactly.”
You smiled. Robby’s voice softened.
“And I miss you on the nights you’re not.”
There it was. You stopped breathing for a second. He looked at you.
“I don’t want to keep missing you in a place that already feels like yours.”
Your eyes burned. You looked at him. Really looked. The tired lines around his eyes. The gray beginning to thread through his hair. The man who had stood beside your stretcher holding your pulse with his own fingers even while a monitor displayed it directly beside him. The man who had missed you last night. The man whose apartment already contained pieces of you everywhere. You touched his face.
“Yes.”
His expression changed. His hand moved behind your neck. He pulled you down and kissed you. This kiss was different. Still familiar. Still him. But deeper. Warmer. You smiled against his mouth. His arm tightened around your waist. When you finally pulled back, you stayed close enough that your noses touched.
“I love you.”
No joke. No hesitation. Just yes. Your expression softened.
“I love you too.”
Robby kissed your forehead. Then pulled you back against his chest. You settled into him. His hand returned beneath your shirt. Slow circles against your back. Your fingers rested against his ribs. The room became quiet. Several minutes passed.
“You scared the fucking shit out of me today.”
“I know.”
“Don’t ever do that again.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s still not good enough.”
“It’s still the most honest answer I have.”
He sighed.
“Fine.”
You settled back against him. His arms tightened. You closed your eyes. Warm. Fed. Safe. Home. Then Robby’s voice came quietly through the darkness.
“You really called me dad earlier?”
Your eyes opened. You started laughing. His arm tightened around you.
“I’m thirteen years older than you.”
“Ancient.”
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe tomorrow. Doctor said I need rest.”
There was silence. Then you felt his chest move beneath your cheek. He was laughing. Actually laughing. Quiet and tired and helpless against it. You smiled.
“You’re a fucking nightmare.”
“You asked me to move in.”
“Clearly I’m cognitively impaired.”
“Too late.”
“Maybe there’s a rescission period.”
“Nope.”
“I should’ve checked.”
“You’re stuck with me.”
His laughter faded. His hand moved slowly up your back until it rested between your shoulder blades. Then he kissed the top of your head.
“Yeah,” he whispered.
You waited. His arms tightened around you. And sometime later, with your leg tangled through his, your hand resting over his heart and his palm warm against the bare skin beneath your shirt, you fell asleep in the place neither of you had to pretend was only his anymore.
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Did You Eat? - Dr. Robby x Female Reader - Part One
Request - Hi! I really like your writing style and enjoyed reading through your whole masterlist. I watched the Pitt recently and I was thinking if you would consider writing about Robby with anemic reader who always forgets to eat sometimes to the point of just dropping from ✨low iron moment ✨, some angst with hurt/comfort and fluff? Thank you 🫶🏻
There were at least three different ways to get to Radiology without walking through the emergency department. You knew this because you had worked at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for nearly six years, because you had spent the better part of those six years learning every shortcut, stairwell, service elevator and poorly designed hallway in a building that seemed to have been constructed by someone with a personal vendetta against logical navigation, and because approximately eight months ago, when you had started sleeping with the chief attending of the emergency department, you had suddenly developed an inexplicable preference for the one route to Radiology that added almost seven minutes to your morning commute through the hospital.
It was inefficient. It was inconvenient. It was also 6:43 in the morning, you had slept approximately five hours, you were carrying a coffee large enough to qualify as an IV fluid replacement, and you knew Michael Robinavich had been at PTMC since five. So, really, there was no other reasonable choice.
The emergency department was already awake in the particular way hospitals were awake before the rest of the world had properly opened its eyes, fluorescent lights painfully bright against exhausted faces, monitors chirping behind curtains, phones ringing at the desk, wheels rattling against linoleum as someone pushed an empty stretcher down the hall, and somewhere near the ambulance bay a patient was loudly informing anyone willing to listen that he had been waiting for forty-five fucking minutes despite the fact that you distinctly remembered passing him smoking a cigarette outside less than ten minutes ago. You took another drink of coffee and slipped sideways around a transport tech pushing a wheelchair.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“Radiology’s the other way.”
“Fuck off, Donny.”
He laughed without looking back. Apparently, you weren’t nearly as subtle as you believed yourself to be. You spotted Robby before he saw you.
He was standing at the central desk with one hip against the counter, scrub top slightly wrinkled, stethoscope hanging around his neck, glasses sitting low enough on his nose that you knew he had been reading something for too long, and a paper coffee cup abandoned beside his elbow that had probably been poured sometime during the previous presidential administration judging by the fact that he wasn’t touching it. His hair was already doing that thing where the front had been pushed backward too many times by his own hand, and there were tired shadows beneath his eyes that had become so permanently familiar you sometimes wondered whether you would recognize him if he ever slept eight consecutive hours. Probably not.
He was listening to Langdon say something while scrolling through a chart, his expression somewhere between concentration and irritation, which was admittedly where Robby lived approximately seventy percent of his professional life.
“No,” he said flatly.
Langdon stared at him. “I haven’t even finished.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“That seems unfair.”
“I’ve worked with you for years. I know where your sentences are going.”
“You do not.”
“You want to switch your Saturday.”
Langdon paused. Robby finally looked up from the computer.
Langdon pointed at him. “That’s fucking creepy.”
“That’s experience.”
“I have tickets.”
“I don’t care.”
“They’re good tickets.”
“I still don’t care.”
“Pirates.”
“Frank.”
“Behind home plate.”
“Frank.”
“I’ll buy you dinner.”
“You already owe me dinner.”
“I’ll buy you a better dinner.”
Robby sighed, rubbing two fingers beneath his glasses, and that was when his gaze drifted absently past Langdon’s shoulder and landed on you. The change was small. So small you probably wouldn’t have noticed it eight months ago.
His shoulders dropped maybe half an inch. The irritation around his mouth softened. And something warm appeared behind tired brown eyes. You smiled over the rim of your coffee. Langdon followed Robby’s gaze, saw you standing there and immediately groaned.
“Oh, thank God.”
Robby glanced at him. “Why are you thanking God?”
“Because you like her.”
“I tolerate her.”
“You voluntarily spend time with her.”
“She has cable.”
You started walking toward them. “I don’t have cable.”
Robby’s mouth twitched.
Langdon pointed between the two of you. “Whatever this is, use it to convince him to take my Saturday.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You don’t even know why.”
“I heard Pirates tickets.”
“Behind home plate.”
“I don’t care.”
Langdon looked genuinely wounded. “Nobody in this hospital respects me.”
Robby returned his attention to the computer. “There are probably several reasons for that.”
“Good morning to you too, sweetheart,” you said.
That got his attention again. His eyes moved over you slowly, not sexually exactly, although there was enough familiarity in the look to remind you that the man currently standing beneath aggressively unflattering hospital lighting had been naked in your bed two nights ago, but more like he was taking inventory.
Hair. Face. Scrubs. Coffee. You.
His gaze stopped on the coffee. Then returned to your face.
“Morning.”
You stepped around the desk until you were standing beside him. “That’s all I get?”
“You’re at work.”
“So are you.”
“Exactly.”
You stared at him. Robby stared back. Langdon looked between you both.
“I’m going to leave before this becomes foreplay.”
“Please do,” Robby said.
Langdon grabbed a chart from the counter. “Saturday’s still on the table.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Think about it.”
“I won’t.”
“Ask your girlfriend.”
“She doesn’t make my schedule.”
You lifted one shoulder. “I could.”
Robby turned his head slowly toward you. You smiled.
Langdon pointed at you. “I like her.”
“Go away, Frank.”
He did, still laughing under his breath, and Robby waited until he was several feet down the hall before turning fully toward you.
“You know Radiology isn’t this way.”
There it was.
You widened your eyes innocently. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
“You’ve worked here six years.”
“I have.”
“And somehow you still get lost every morning I’m here.”
“It’s a confusing building.”
“It’s a straight hallway.”
“There are turns.”
“There are no turns.”
“There could be.”
Robby looked at you over the top of his glasses. You took another drink of coffee.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he said.
“I’m actually an excellent liar.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You have no evidence of that.”
“I have eight months of evidence.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“It’s accurate.”
You smiled despite yourself, stepping a little closer until your shoulder brushed his arm. “Maybe I wanted to see you.”
His expression softened again. There. That tiny shift. It was one of the things you had learned about Robby slowly, because nothing important about him came easily. He could be funny without meaning to be, affectionate without touching you, worried without saying the word, and exhausted in ways he had long ago stopped acknowledging. Loving Michael Robinavich required learning a language composed mostly of pauses, glances, dry comments and hands that somehow always found the small of your back in crowded rooms. He looked down at you.
“You could’ve texted.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
Robby pulled his phone from his scrub pocket, looked at the screen and frowned.
“You have seventeen unread messages,” you said.
“I’ve been busy.”
“It’s six forty-five.”
“People don’t schedule emergencies around my convenience.”
“They should.”
“I’ll bring it up at the next staff meeting.”
“You should.”
He slipped the phone back into his pocket without reading anything.
“You sleep okay?”
The question was casual. His voice wasn’t.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“At your place?”
“Yes, Michael.”
His eyes narrowed slightly at the use of his first name.
“You hate my mattress.”
“I don’t hate your mattress.”
“You called it a medieval torture device.”
“It’s very firm.”
“It’s orthopedic.”
“It’s concrete with a fitted sheet.”
“It cost three thousand dollars.”
“You got ripped off.”
Robby gave you a tired look. “I slept on a couch for half of residency. Forgive me for not developing sophisticated mattress preferences.”
“You could sleep standing up.”
“I have.”
“I know.”
His mouth twitched again, but then he looked down at the counter, fingertips tapping once against the edge before he said, quieter, “Missed you last night.”
The teasing disappeared from your face. It wasn’t that Robby never said things like that. He did. Sometimes. Usually in bed, late at night, when the room was dark enough that he didn’t have to watch you react to whatever vulnerable thing had accidentally escaped him.
But not usually here. Not under fluorescent lights with thirty people moving around you and someone vomiting loudly behind Curtain Four. You studied him.
“You missed me?”
“Don’t make me regret saying it.”
“I’m just clarifying.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no.” You caught lightly at the sleeve of his scrub top before he could turn away. “Come back.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“Emotionally, you just left the building.”
“I’m working.”
“You told me you missed me.”
“I made a mistake.”
You laughed softly, and Robby finally looked at you again. There was something almost sheepish beneath the exhaustion. You lowered your voice.
“I missed you too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He watched you for another second.
“I got home around one.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You texted me.”
“I did?”
“At one seventeen. You said, and I quote, ‘Home. Shower. Dead.’”
“That sounds like me.”
“You’re very romantic.”
“I was tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
“That’s because I work here.”
“So do I.”
“You occasionally escape.”
“You could occasionally escape.”
“I’m the chief attending.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
Robby leaned slightly closer. “You’re very mouthy before seven in the morning.”
“You like me mouthy.”
His eyebrows lifted. You realized exactly how that had sounded approximately half a second too late. Robby’s gaze changed.
“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I genuinely didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is innocent.”
“Your face has never been innocent.”
His eyes moved briefly to your mouth. It was quick. Barely noticeable. But you noticed.
“You coming home with me tonight?” he asked.
There was something about the question that made your stomach warm.
Not coming over.
Not staying at my place.
Home.
Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and was pretending he hadn’t. That was the strange, quiet territory the two of you had drifted into lately, somewhere between dating and something more settled, your shampoo appearing permanently in his shower, his favorite coffee somehow always stocked in your kitchen, a drawer at his place that had gradually become two drawers and then half a closet without either of you acknowledging the territorial expansion. There was a phone charger beside his bed that belonged exclusively to you. Your moisturizer sat beside his shaving cream. He had dog-eared a book on his nightstand because you were halfway through reading it and kept forgetting to take it home.
You didn’t live together. Technically. But the technicalities were getting increasingly stupid. You smiled.
“I’ll come home with you tonight.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“Promise?”
The word surprised you. Maybe him too. Your smile softened.
“Promise.”
Robby nodded once.
“Okay.”
“That sounded suspiciously pleased.”
“I’m indifferent.”
“Obviously.”
“I may not even be there.”
“You just invited me.”
“Plans change.”
“Asshole.”
“Menace.”
You smiled, and for one brief second his hand settled against your hip, hidden mostly by the counter between you, his thumb pressing once through the fabric of your scrub top. Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone would notice.
Just Robby. Just you.
Then a nurse called his name from across the department.
“Dr. Robby?”
He looked over.
“EMS is three minutes out. Fifty-eight-year-old male, chest pain, hypotensive, possible inferior STEMI.”
And just like that, the softness disappeared behind the physician.
“I’m coming.”
He turned back toward you, already reaching for his stethoscope.
“Go.”
“I’m going.”
“You’re going to be late.”
“I have four minutes.”
“You’re seven minutes from Radiology.”
“Only because I took the scenic route.”
“You took the wrong route.”
“Debatable.”
You started backing away. Robby watched you. Then his eyes dropped to the coffee in your hand. He frowned.
“Wait.”
You stopped. There was a very specific tone Robby used when he had just noticed something. You knew that tone. You hated that tone.
“What?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Did you eat?”
You blinked. There it was. The fucking question. You looked down at your coffee as though it might offer legal counsel. Robby waited. You looked back at him.
“Good talk.”
You turned.
“Hey.”
You stopped again with a sigh.
“Robby.”
“Did you eat?”
“I’m going to be late.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I have to clock in.”
“Also not an answer.”
You glanced toward the hallway. He stepped around the desk.
“Oh my God.”
“What did you eat?”
“I’m thirty-six years old.”
“Congratulations.”
“I don’t need you checking whether I ate breakfast.”
“Then answer the question and I’ll stop checking.”
You stared at him. Robby stared back. The problem with dating a physician was that physicians were annoyingly observant when it suited them. The bigger problem with dating this physician was that he already knew the answer. You attempted casual.
“I had coffee.”
His expression went completely blank. You immediately regretted your strategy
“That’s not food.”
“It has calories.”
“So does bourbon. I wouldn’t recommend that for breakfast either.”
“There’s milk in it.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Oat milk.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
“It absolutely does not.”
“What did you eat?”
“I’m going to eat.”
“When?”
“When I get upstairs.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
“What is something?”
“Food, generally.”
He closed his eyes for one long second. You smiled.
“Don’t.” Robby warned.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where you think being cute is going to make me forget you’re full of shit.”
Your smile widened. “You think I’m cute?”
Robby opened his eyes.
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet you missed me.”
“I take it back.”
“Too late.”
Behind him, the ambulance bay doors opened and the department shifted immediately into motion. Robby glanced over his shoulder. You knew he had to go. He knew he had to go.
But when he looked back at you, the concern was still there. Not dramatic. Not yet. Just familiar. Because this wasn’t a new conversation between you.
You had been anemic for years. Not the kind that kept you permanently sick or unable to work, not something that defined your life, just chronic enough that you were supposed to pay attention to it and stubborn enough that sometimes you didn’t. You took iron when you remembered. You tried to eat properly when your schedule allowed. You knew the warning signs well enough to recognize them and had become far too comfortable dismissing them anyway.
The fatigue. The cold hands. The headaches. The occasional rush of dizziness when you stood too quickly after crouching beside a patient.
You knew your body. At least that was what you always told Robby. Robby’s counterargument was usually that knowing your body meant absolutely nothing if you routinely ignored everything it was trying to tell you. He pointed at you.
“Eat.”
You rolled your eyes.
“I mean it.”
“Yes, Dad.”
His entire face changed.
“Don’t ever fucking call me that again.”
You burst out laughing.
“I’m serious.”
“You should’ve seen your face.”
“That was deeply upsetting.”
“Sorry, Daddy.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
You were laughing hard enough now that a passing nurse looked between the two of you with open curiosity. Robby shook his head, already turning toward the incoming stretcher.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Currently evaluating.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“Eat something.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
You started down the hall.
“Hey.”
You turned one last time. Robby was several feet away now, walking backward toward the trauma bays while pulling gloves from a box. He looked exhausted. He looked irritated. He looked like he had already worked ten hours despite the sun barely being up. And somehow, even with an ambulance crew rolling a critically ill patient through the doors behind him, his eyes found yours.
“Tonight,” he said.
You smiled.
“Tonight.”
Then he disappeared behind the curtain. You stood there for half a second longer than necessary before turning toward the elevators, warmth still sitting somewhere beneath your ribs. You would go home with him tonight. Maybe you would pick something up for dinner on the way. Maybe you would finally finish the movie the two of you had started three separate times and never managed to stay awake through.
Maybe you would tease him about missing you until he threatened to revoke your key. Maybe you would leave another piece of yourself at his apartment without either of you acknowledging that, slowly and quietly, you were beginning to leave more things there than you took home.
The elevator doors opened. You stepped inside and pressed the button for Radiology. Your stomach growled. You looked down at your coffee.
“Yeah, yeah.”
You’d eat when you got upstairs. Except when the elevator doors opened, one of the other technologists was already waiting for you.
“Thank fuck. There you are.”
You stepped out.
“That sounds promising.”
“CT is backed up, Mike called out, we’ve got six portables waiting, and apparently every person in Pittsburgh decided today was a good day to aspirate something.”
You sighed.
“Fantastic.”
“You eat yet?”
You walked past her toward the locker room.
“Why is everybody so fucking interested in my breakfast?”
She followed you.
“That means no.”
“It means mind your business.”
“Your boyfriend ask too?”
You opened your locker.
“He interrogated me.”
“Because he has eyes.”
“I had coffee.”
“That’s not breakfast.”
“You and Robby should start a support group.”
“We already have one. It’s called People Tired of Watching You Forget Basic Human Maintenance.”
You shoved your bag into the locker.
“Catchy.”
“We’re getting shirts.”
“Make mine a medium.”
“You’re not invited.”
You laughed, pulled your badge into place and closed the locker door.
“Okay. What’s first?”
She handed you a list.
“Portables.”
You looked at the page. Six had become eight.
“Jesus.”
“Welcome to Thursday.”
You grabbed the portable unit and started toward the hall. Behind you, your untouched protein bar sat exactly where you had tossed it inside your locker. Your stomach growled again. You ignored it. You’d eat after the first few patients. You always did. Or at least, you always meant to.
******
By ten thirty in the morning, you had stopped being hungry. That was usually how it happened. There was a window somewhere between the first growl of your stomach and the point when your body apparently decided food was no longer coming and simply gave up asking for it, and once you crossed that invisible line, eating became something you remembered you were supposed to do rather than something you actually wanted to do. It was a terrible habit, one you had been lectured about by your primary care physician, your mother, several coworkers, and most recently the deeply irritating emergency medicine attending you had made the questionable decision to fall in love with, but hospital work had a way of turning basic human needs into vague suggestions. You could need to pee for two hours and forget about it until you happened to pass a bathroom. You could be thirsty until someone mentioned water. You could carry a granola bar in your scrub pocket for an entire twelve-hour shift and somehow never find the thirty seconds required to open the fucking wrapper.
Today was worse than usual. Mike calling out had left Radiology short, CT had never recovered from the morning backlog, one of the portable units had developed an intermittent error that required you to smack the side of it with significantly more violence than the manufacturer probably recommended, and by nine fifteen you had already been to the ICU twice, the orthopedic floor three times, and the ED enough times that one of the nurses downstairs had started greeting you with, “Welcome home.”
At nine forty, you had gone back to your locker with every intention of eating the protein bar inside. Then CT called. At ten twelve, you remembered again. Then a stroke alert came through. At ten thirty-seven, your coworker Melissa found you standing in front of the workstation staring at the same image for considerably longer than necessary.
“You alive?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I asked if you were alive.”
“I’m standing.”
“That was not my question.”
You looked at the chest film on the monitor. Something felt slightly off. Not wrong. Just off.
Like your brain was operating half a second behind everything happening around you. You blinked again and leaned closer to the screen.
“What are you doing?” Melissa asked.
“Looking.”
“You’ve been looking at that same portable chest for, like, two minutes.”
“I’m admiring my work.”
“It’s a chest X-ray.”
“And?”
“It’s not the fucking Mona Lisa.”
“You don’t appreciate art.”
“I appreciate lunch.”
“Good for you.”
Melissa crossed her arms. You could feel her looking at you. You ignored her.
“You look like shit.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean more than usual.”
“Again, thank you.”
“You’re pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
“No, you’re white.”
“That is generally how ethnicity works.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You clicked through the images. Melissa stepped closer.
“Did you eat?”
You stopped. Slowly, you turned your head toward her.
“Is there a fucking group chat?”
“What?”
“Did Robby start a group chat?”
“Why would Dr. Robby start a group chat?”
“To coordinate surveillance.”
Melissa stared at you.
“You’re weird.”
“I’m being harassed.”
“You’re being asked if you ate breakfast.”
“Repeatedly.”
“Which means you didn’t.”
You turned back to the monitor.
“I’m going to.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“God, you sound like him.”
“Maybe because he’s right.”
“Don’t ever tell him that.”
“I’m absolutely telling him that.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You don’t even have his number.”
“I can get it.”
“You’re threatening to contact my boyfriend because I skipped breakfast?”
“I’m threatening to contact your boyfriend because apparently he’s the only person you’re mildly afraid of.”
You laughed.
“I’m not afraid of Robby.”
Melissa gave you a look.
“You become significantly more cooperative when he takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose.”
“That’s because it means I’m about three seconds away from hearing a lecture.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s not fear. That’s self-preservation.”
Melissa shook her head.
“Go eat.”
“I have patients.”
“So do I.”
“We’re short.”
“We’ll survive ten minutes.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re pale.”
“You mentioned that.”
“You’re also doing that thing.”
You frowned.
“What thing?”
“Rubbing your hand.”
You looked down. Without realizing it, you had tucked your left hand beneath your right arm, rubbing your fingers against the warmth of your scrub top. They were cold. Really cold. You pulled your hand away.
“The hospital is freezing.”
“It’s seventy-two degrees.”
“That’s freezing.”
“You bitch when your apartment gets below seventy.”
“Exactly.”
Melissa stared at you another moment.
“Go eat.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I have to take this portable upstairs.”
“I’ll take it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“It’s an X-ray, not a fucking puppy.”
You grabbed the requisition from the printer.
“I’m fine.”
Melissa sighed. There it was. The phrase you had already said approximately twelve times that morning. You were fine. And technically, you were. You weren’t sick. You weren’t injured. You weren’t dying. You were tired. Everybody in the building was tired.
Your hands were cold. Your hands were always cold. You had a slight headache beginning behind your eyes, but you had been staring at screens beneath fluorescent lighting since before seven in the morning. You hadn’t eaten, but neither had half the hospital. Nothing happening inside your body was particularly unusual.
That was the problem. You were accustomed to feeling slightly shitty. You had been anemic long enough that symptoms rarely announced themselves dramatically. They accumulated quietly, one small inconvenience at a time, until you realized you had been compensating for something for hours.
Cold hands. Fatigue. A headache. A little breathless after pushing equipment too quickly down a hallway. Standing up and seeing stars. None of it felt alarming individually. And because none of it felt alarming, you had become very good at ignoring all of it collectively.
You grabbed the portable unit. Melissa called after you.
“Eat when you get back.”
You lifted one hand without turning around.
“Yes, Mom.”
“I’m serious.”
“So is my boyfriend.”
“He’s smarter than you.”
You stopped walking. Turned around. Pointed at her.
“Watch yourself.”
She grinned. You continued down the hallway. The headache worsened around eleven fifteen. Not dramatically. Just enough that you became aware of it every time you moved your eyes too quickly. You took two ibuprofen from the bottle someone kept in the staff room, swallowed them with three mouthfuls of water and considered that adequate healthcare.
At eleven forty-two, you crouched beside an elderly woman’s bed to adjust the detector behind her back.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” you said gently. “I know this isn’t comfortable. Just lean forward for me a little bit.”
The woman groaned.
“I’m ninety-one.”
“I know.”
“I’ve earned the right not to do this shit anymore.”
You smiled.
“Honestly? Fair.”
Her daughter laughed from the chair beside the bed. The woman pointed one thin finger at you.
“You tell the doctor I’m done.”
“I’ll put it in the official report.”
“Put it in bold.”
“Absolutely.”
You positioned the detector.
“Okay. Deep breath for me.”
You stepped back. Took the image. Checked it. Perfect.
“Beautiful.”
“I haven’t been beautiful since 1978.”
“I was talking about the X-ray.”
The woman stared at you. You smiled. Her daughter burst out laughing.
“Smartass,” the woman muttered.
“I’ve been called worse.”
You moved back toward the bed and crouched again to remove the detector. Everything was fine until you stood. The world tilted. Not spun. Tilted.
Like the floor had suddenly shifted several inches beneath your feet. Your vision darkened at the edges. You stopped breathing. Your hand found the bed rail automatically. You stayed perfectly still.
One second. Two. Three.
The room returned. You blinked. The daughter was looking at you.
“You okay?”
You straightened slowly.
“Yes.”
“You looked dizzy.”
“Stood up too fast.”
You smiled. Easy. Normal. Nothing to worry about. The woman in the bed narrowed her eyes.
“You’re pale.”
You almost laughed.
“Apparently everyone’s decided to tell me that today.”
“You should listen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You eat breakfast?”
You stared at her. She stared back. Her daughter covered her mouth. You pointed at the woman.
“You’ve been talking to my boyfriend.”
“I don’t know your boyfriend.”
“He’d love you.”
“Is he handsome?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Doctor?”
You hesitated.
“Yes.”
She made a face.
“Doctors are trouble.”
You laughed.
“You have no idea.”
You packed your equipment. The dizziness was gone. Completely. See? Fine.
You pushed the portable back into the hall. By twelve fifteen, you had forgotten about it. By twelve forty, you had missed lunch. Not intentionally. You had actually walked into the break room. You had opened your locker. You had taken out the protein bar. You had even ripped open the wrapper. Then someone stuck their head through the doorway.
“We need a tech in CT now.”
You looked at the protein bar. Then at the door.
“How now is now?”
“Stroke.”
“Fuck.”
You shoved the bar into your scrub pocket.
“I’m coming.”
Forty minutes later, it was still there. At one twenty-eight, you finally remembered it while walking toward the ED for another portable. You reached into your pocket. Your fingers closed around the wrapper. You could eat it while walking. That was reasonable. You pulled it halfway out.
“Radiology!”
Someone shouted from behind you. You stopped. A nurse jogged toward you.
“Please tell me you’re going downstairs.”
“I am.”
“Can you grab Eleven after your current one? They just put in a chest.”
You shoved the protein bar back into your pocket.
“Sure.”
“You’re my favorite person.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it again if you do Twelve too.”
“Buy me dinner first.”
“Deal.”
You continued toward the elevator. When the doors opened on the emergency department floor, the noise hit you immediately. The ED had deteriorated significantly since morning.
Every bed appeared full. Several stretchers lined the hallway. The waiting room was overflowing. A trauma alert had apparently come in recently because there were bloody footprints near one of the bays and someone was shouting for more gauze. You exhaled slowly.
“Jesus.”
You pushed the portable into the department. Dana saw you first.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Seven needs a chest.”
“That’s where I’m headed.”
“Then Eleven.”
“I know.”
“And Twelve.”
“I know.”
“And probably Fourteen.”
“Dana.”
She smiled.
“Welcome to hell.”
“I work in a basement. I’m familiar.”
You pushed past the desk. That was when the headache pulsed sharply behind your eyes. You winced. Stopped for half a second. Then continued.
Room Seven was straightforward. Sixty-eight-year-old male. Shortness of breath. Possible pneumonia. You introduced yourself, positioned the detector, took the image. You crouched to retrieve the plate. Fine. You stood. Not fine.
The darkness came faster this time. Your hand shot out. Hit the wall. Hard. You closed your eyes.
“Miss?”
You heard the patient. You couldn’t answer immediately. Your ears filled with a strange rushing sound. You swallowed. Breathed through your nose.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The sensation passed. You opened your eyes. The patient was watching you.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
Your voice sounded normal. Good. You smiled.
“Just stood up too fast.”
“You people work too hard.”
“You have no idea.”
You pulled the detector free. Your heart was beating harder than it should have been. Not fast exactly. Just heavy. You could feel each beat in your chest. You pushed the machine back into the hallway. You should eat. The thought appeared clearly. Finally. You should eat now. Not later. Now. You reached into your pocket for the protein bar.
“Hey.”
You froze. You knew that voice. Slowly, you looked up. Robby was standing approximately fifteen feet away. Of course he was. Because apparently the universe had decided you required supervision. He was standing outside one of the trauma bays, gloves in one hand, glasses pushed up into his hair, speaking to a resident when he noticed you.
His sentence stopped. His eyes narrowed. Fuck. You smiled. Bad decision. Robby handed the gloves to the resident without looking away from you.
“I’ll be right back.”
The resident looked confused. Robby was already walking toward you. You considered fleeing. Unfortunately, pushing a five-hundred-pound portable X-ray machine made fleeing difficult.
“Hi,” you said brightly.
Robby stopped in front of you. His expression changed almost immediately.
“What?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes moved over your face.
“You look like shit.”
You stared at him.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“Romance is alive.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You really know how to make a woman feel special.”
Robby stepped closer.
“Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“No, you’re performing. Stop.”
That shut you up. His voice wasn’t harsh. It was quiet. Clinical. You hated when he used that tone on you. You looked at him properly. Robby studied your face. His hand came up and touched the side of your neck. Not romantic. Assessing. His fingers were warm. Yours were freezing.
“You’re pale.”
“So I’ve been informed by approximately twelve people.”
“More than usual.”
“That’s also been mentioned.”
His thumb shifted slightly beneath your jaw.
“You dizzy?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly. Robby’s eyes narrowed. You sighed.
“Not currently.”
His hand dropped.
“What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I said.”
“When were you dizzy?”
“I stood up too fast.”
“When?”
“Earlier.”
“How much earlier?”
“I don’t know.”
“An hour?”
“Maybe.”
“Once?”
You looked away. Robby went still.
“Hey.”
You looked back.
“How many times?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“How many?”
“Twice.”
His jaw tightened.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”
“To who?”
“To fucking anybody.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Robby.”
“When did you eat?”
There it was again. You glanced toward the portable. He followed your eyes. Then looked back at you.
“When?”
“I’m literally about to.”
“What did you eat after you left me this morning?”
Silence. His face changed.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So have I. I managed half a sandwich.”
“Congratulations.”
“That wasn’t a fucking accomplishment.”
“Then why are you bragging?”
“I’m not bragging.”
“You sound like you’re bragging.”
“I’m trying very hard not to lose my patience with you.”
“Then maybe go back to your patient.”
“Maybe answer the question.”
“I had—”
You stopped. Robby waited. You searched mentally. Coffee. Water. Ibuprofen. Technically oat milk.
Fuck.
His expression told you he had watched the entire calculation happen behind your eyes.
“You haven’t eaten anything.”
“I was going to.”
“It’s one thirty.”
“I know what time it is.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because apparently you’ve forgotten several other basic concepts today.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
“You’re doing the doctor voice.”
“I am a doctor.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“No, I’m your boyfriend who apparently has to remind you that humans require fucking food.”
You glanced around. A nurse walking past suddenly became very interested in something across the department.
“Can you lower your voice?”
“I’m not yelling.”
“You’re doing that quiet yelling thing.”
“I don’t quite yell.”
“You absolutely quiet yell.”
Robby closed his eyes briefly. There. The glasses were already in his hair. Now the bridge of the nose. Melissa was right. You were fucked. He pinched between his eyes.
“Do you have anything with you?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
You pulled the protein bar from your pocket. Still unopened. Robby stared at it. Then stared at you. You held it up.
“See?”
“That is not helping your argument.”
“I was literally about to eat it.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“You’ve been carrying it around all day, haven’t you?”
“No.”
He looked at you. You sighed.
“Since lunch.”
“You missed lunch.”
“I was busy.”
“Stop saying that like it changes anything.”
“It explains it.”
“It doesn’t excuse it.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“You have chronic anemia.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
That irritated you.
“Yes, Michael. I am aware of my own medical history.”
“Then act like it.”
You stared at him. He stared back. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The emergency department moved around you. Phones. Monitors. Voices. Someone crying behind a curtain. Someone calling for respiratory. You could see the tension in Robby’s jaw.
You knew where it came from. Fear disguised as irritation. It was one of his favorite tricks. You softened slightly
“I’m okay.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“You’re pale, you’re dizzy, you haven’t eaten, and your hands are freezing.”
You frowned.
“You haven’t touched my hands.”
Robby reached down. Took one. His fingers closed around yours. He stared at you. You stared back.
“Okay,” you said. “That was unnecessary.”
“You’re freezing.”
“The hospital is cold.”
“It’s not that cold.”
“I’m always cold.”
“Because you’re fucking anemic.”
“Which we already established.”
“And because you haven’t eaten.”
“I’m going to eat.”
“When?”
You lifted the protein bar.
“Now.”
“Open it.”
You stared at him. He stared back
“You cannot be serious.”
“Open it.”
“You’re standing here waiting for me to open a protein bar?”
“Yes.”
“Robby.”
“Open the fucking protein bar.”
You ripped the wrapper open dramatically.
“There.”
“Eat it.”
“Oh my God.”
“Take a bite.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“Take. A. Bite.”
You took the largest, most aggressive bite possible. Chewed. Stared directly into his eyes. Robby looked unimpressed. You swallowed.
“Happy?”
“Thrilled.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re a pain in my ass.”
“You missed me last night.”
“Momentary lapse in judgment.”
You smiled despite yourself. He didn’t. Not completely. His thumb moved once across your knuckles.
“You really dizzy?”
The question was quieter now. You shook your head.
“Not now.”
“Headache?”
You hesitated. His eyes narrowed.
“A little.”
“Nauseous?”
“No.”
“Short of breath?”
“No.”
“Palpitations?”
“No.”
“Chest pain?”
“Jesus, no.”
“Don’t ‘Jesus’ me. I’m asking.”
“I know.”
“When was your last hemoglobin?”
“Couple months ago.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Bullshit.”
“Ten-point-something.”
His face tightened.
“It’s usually around there.”
“That doesn’t make it normal.”
“It makes it normal for me.”
“No. It makes it your baseline. Those are different things.”
You sighed.
“I know.”
“You taking your iron?”
Another hesitation. Robby’s face went flat.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“I take it.”
“When?”
“When I remember.”
“That isn’t taking it.”
“It upsets my stomach.”
“Then take it with food.”
“I forget to eat.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
You laughed. He did not.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“You scared me just looking at you.”
That stopped you. The irritation left his voice completely. He looked tired suddenly. Not physician tired. Robby tired. The kind you knew better than most people did. His hand was still around yours. You squeezed his fingers.
“I’m okay.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I am.”
“You almost passed out?”
“I did not almost pass out.”
“You got dizzy twice.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Did your vision go dark?”
You said nothing. His jaw tightened.
“Did it?”
“A little.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“But it passed.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It happens sometimes.”
“That is also not reassuring.”
“Robby.”
He looked at you. You stepped closer.
“I know my body.”
His expression changed immediately.
“Oh, I fucking hate when you say that.”
“Why?”
“Because you say it every time you’re about to make a stupid decision.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is absolutely true.”
“I know when something is actually wrong.”
“You know when something is wrong. You just decide whether it’s inconvenient enough to acknowledge.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Annoyingly accurate. Robby nodded.
“Exactly.”
“Don’t look smug.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You’re smug.”
“I’m concerned.”
“You look smug when you’re concerned.”
“I have one face.”
“You have many faces.”
“I really don’t.”
“You do.”
He shook his head. Then his gaze dropped to the protein bar.
“Finish that.”
“I have two more patients.”
“Finish it while you walk.”
“That feels medically irresponsible.”
“So does passing out in Radiology.”
“I’m not going to pass out.”
“Good.”
“I’m not.”
“Then eat.”
You took another bite. Robby watched.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m enjoying being right.”
“That’s worse.”
“Probably.”
A voice came sharply from across the department.
“Robby!”
He turned. A resident was standing outside Trauma Two.
“We need you.”
Robby looked toward them. Then back at you. You could actually see the conflict.
Work. You. Work. You touched his arm.
“Go.”
He didn’t move.
“I’m fine.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I’ m stable.”
“That’s marginally better.”
“Go.”
He looked at the protein bar. You took another bite.
“See?”
His eyes returned to your face.
“Eat the whole thing.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And drink water.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And after these patients, sit down for ten minutes.”
You smiled.
“Yes, Dad.”
Robby’s face went blank. You laughed.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“I couldn’t resist.”
“That joke needs to die.”
“It’s never dying.”
“Robby!”
He looked over his shoulder again.
“Coming.”
Then back to you. His hand briefly touched your waist.
“You call me if you get dizzy again.”
“I will.”
“No.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“No bullshit answer. Look at me.”
You did.
“If it happens again, you call me.”
There was something in his voice that made you stop teasing. You nodded.
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
The word again. The same one from this morning. You softened
“Promise.”
Robby studied you for another second. Then nodded.
“Tonight.”
You smiled.
“Tonight.”
He turned and walked quickly toward the trauma bay. You watched him disappear behind the curtain. Then looked down at the protein bar in your hand. You took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
See? Problem solved. You pushed the portable toward Eleven. You finished almost half the protein bar before a nurse stopped you to ask about another image. Then you tucked it back into your pocket. You forgot about it again.
At two fifteen, you were back upstairs. At two thirty-seven, you realized the ibuprofen had done absolutely nothing for your headache. At two fifty, you stood from a chair too quickly and had to grab the edge of the desk.
This time, nobody saw. You stayed still. Waited. The rushing sound filled your ears. Your heart thudded.
Once. Twice. Hard.
You breathed slowly. The darkness retreated.
“Fuck.”
You looked around. Nobody had noticed. Good. You remembered Robby’s voice.
If it happens again, you call me.
You reached into your scrub pocket. Pulled out your phone. Looked at his name. Your thumb hovered over it. Then someone shouted from CT.
“We need help in here!”
You closed your eyes. Just for a second. You put the phone back into your pocket. You’d call him after. You’d eat after. You’d sit down after. You would take care of yourself after you got through the next patient.
It was always after. And for the first time that day, when you started walking toward CT, the floor didn’t feel completely steady beneath your feet.
******
For about forty-five minutes, you convinced yourself you were feeling better. It was almost impressive. The headache was still there, but it had dulled from a sharp pressure behind your eyes into something more diffuse, the sort of miserable background ache you could work through if you stopped thinking about it. The dizziness had passed. Mostly. Your hands were still cold, but your hands were always cold, and the protein bar in your pocket had technically been opened, which in your mind apparently counted as evidence of responsible nutritional behavior even though you had eaten less than half of it.
You drank some water. Not enough. You sat down once. For maybe three minutes. You even found yourself feeling slightly smug about the entire thing.
Robby had worried. You had been fine. You had eaten. Nothing terrible had happened. See?
You knew your body. That thought would become deeply irritating in retrospect. At three seventeen, Melissa found you in the control room staring at a CT study.
“You look worse.”
You didn’t turn around.
“Hello to you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve all become very repetitive today.”
“You’re sweating.”
That made you look at her.
“I’m not sweating.”
Melissa pointed at your forehead. You lifted a hand. Your skin was damp. That was odd. The department wasn’t warm. If anything, you had spent most of the day complaining that it was too cold. You wiped your forehead with the back of your wrist.
“Huh.”
“Huh?”
“I’m warm now.”
“That’s your medical assessment?”
“Yes.”
“Brilliant.”
You turned back to the monitor. Melissa did not leave. You could feel her behind you.
“What?”
“You’re breathing weird.”
“I’m breathing.”
“Congratulations.”
You sighed.
“I’m fine.”
“God, I hate that sentence.”
“So does Robby.”
“Then maybe everybody but you is onto something.”
You leaned back slightly in the chair. The movement made something inside your head shift. Not dizziness exactly. A brief swimming sensation. You waited for it to pass. It did. Melissa saw your face.
“There.”
“What?”
“That.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You just stopped moving.”
“I was thinking.”
“You don’t usually look like you’re about to throw up when you think.”
“I do depending on the topic.”
“Stand up.”
You looked at her.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s weird.”
“I want to see if you get dizzy.”
“You are not conducting neurological field testing on me in CT.”
Request - sooo i adore the way you write angst/ comfort!! I was thinking about robby x reader where she's got a crush on him and is always trying to be nice and friendly to him so they spend time together, but he doesn't really give her much attention. then she's hurt by this dynamics and decides to pull away, that's when he gets confused and notices that he does appreciate her and maybe should try to get to know her more? and how it goes from there it's up to you <3
The emergency department was loud in the way it always was during the middle of a day shift, every monitor chirping over another, stretchers rolling across worn tile, voices rising and falling with urgency until they all blended into one endless rhythm. Somewhere down the hall a trauma alert had just been called, Dana was already barking orders before anyone else had a chance to react, Javadi was jogging after McKay with a clipboard tucked awkwardly against her chest, and Robby stood exactly where he always seemed to stand, in the center of absolute chaos, somehow making it look manageable. He looked exhausted before noon. His dark hair had surrendered to the humidity of the department hours ago, the sleeves of his navy undershirt were shoved to his forearms, and there was a fresh cup of coffee sitting abandoned on the physician workstation that had long since gone cold. You’d watched him take exactly two sips from it over the last hour.
“Robby!” Langdon called from the other side of the nurses’ station. “Eight-year-old in Three. Belly pain. Mom says he’s been throwing up all morning.”
“I’m coming.”
He was already walking before he’d finished speaking. You fell into step beside him without thinking.
“I already looked at his vitals,” you said, flipping through the chart on your tablet. “Heart rate’s one-thirty, low-grade fever, blood pressure’s holding. Pain started around his belly button yesterday and migrated to the right lower quadrant this morning.”
“You examined him?”
“Quickly.”
“And?”
“He guarded before I even touched him.”
Robby glanced sideways.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s appendicitis until someone proves me wrong.”
One corner of his mouth twitched.
“Good.”
That single word shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. It did anyway.
Inside the room sat a small blond boy curled tightly around a stuffed dinosaur while his mother rubbed circles across his back, trying unsuccessfully to comfort him. The second Robby entered, his entire demeanor shifted. The clipped attending disappeared. His voice softened naturally as he crouched until he was eye level with the child.
“Hey, buddy. I’m Dr. Robby.”
The boy sniffled.
“My stomach hurts.”
“I heard.” Robby nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that. Think you can let me help your doctor for a minute?” He motioned toward you with his head. “She’s one of the smartest residents around.”
Your cheeks warmed despite yourself. The little boy looked at you uncertainly before nodding.
“Perfect.” Robby smiled. “We’ll both make this as quick as we can.”
You watched him work the way you always did, with equal parts admiration and fascination. He never rushed children. Never forced them. He distracted while he examined, asked about dinosaurs while palpating an abdomen, guessed favorite cartoons while assessing rebound tenderness. By the time the exam was finished, the little boy was smiling despite the obvious pain. Robby stood and looked toward you.
“Walk me through it.”
You stepped closer to the bed. “Pain migration. Fever. Guarding. McBurney’s point tenderness. Positive Rovsing’s.”
He nodded once.
“What else?”
“No urinary symptoms. No diarrhea. Labs are already pending. I’d like an ultrasound before CT if possible.”
“Why?”
“He’s eight.”
“And?”
“I don’t want to irradiate him unless we absolutely have to.”
Another nod.
“What if the ultrasound’s equivocal?”
“Then we move to CT.”
“Good.”
He turned back toward the mother.
“We think your son probably has appendicitis, but we’re going to make sure before we call surgery.”
She visibly relaxed.
“Thank you.”
“No promises yet,” Robby said gently. “But I think we’re headed in the right direction.”
Outside the room he continued walking, expecting you beside him.
“What antibiotics?”
“Ceftriaxone and Flagyl.”
“Dosing?”
You answered immediately. He nodded again.
“You’ve been studying.”
“I try.”
“I can tell.”
Those four words settled somewhere embarrassingly deep inside your chest. It wasn’t even flirting. It wasn’t meant to be. It was simply praise coming from the one person whose opinion seemed to matter more than it probably should.
The rest of the afternoon disappeared into consults, imaging, surgery confirming uncomplicated appendicitis, reassuring frightened parents, and convincing an eight-year-old that anesthesia was, in fact, much cooler than it sounded. Somewhere in the middle of it all, you’d quietly replaced Robby’s cold coffee with a fresh one from the physician lounge. He looked at the cup.
“This wasn’t here.”
“No.”
“You?”
You shrugged.
“You looked like you needed one.”
“Hm.”
He picked it up, took a sip, and sighed so quietly you almost missed it.
“Thanks.”
It was simple. Genuine. Then someone shouted his name from Trauma Two, and he was gone before you could answer. That was always the rhythm between the two of you. Little moments. Interrupted. You spent the remainder of the shift trying very hard not to notice how often you looked for him across the department. Trying and failing.
Every time you presented a patient, you found yourself hoping he would be the attending reviewing your plan. Every time he laughed with Langdon or leaned over Dana’s workstation discussing a trauma activation, you caught yourself watching for just a second too long before forcing yourself back to your own work. It had been like this for months now, ever since somewhere between your second and third year of residency your admiration for Robby Robinavitch had quietly evolved into something infinitely more dangerous.
He was your mentor. He challenged you. He trusted you. He made you a better physician.
None of those things meant he saw you as anything other than his resident. You knew that. God, you knew that. It didn’t stop your heart from racing whenever he smiled at you.
The shift finally crawled to an end nearly thirteen hours after it had begun. Residents drifted toward the locker rooms, nurses peeled off trauma shears and compression socks, and the controlled chaos slowly dissolved into the incoming night crew. You slung your backpack over one shoulder just as you spotted Robby gathering his things at the attending workstation. He looked…tired. The kind of tired that settled into someone’s bones. Without thinking, you walked over.
“You heading home?”
He looked up.
“Eventually.”
“You survive?”
“Barely.”
You smiled. “The kid with the appendix is already in surgery.”
“I know.”
“You were right.”
“So were you.”
You shrugged. “I learned from somebody.”
He chuckled softly under his breath.
“I hope so.”
You stood there for another second, neither of you moving toward the exit despite the shift being over. Then, before your courage had the opportunity to disappear, you cleared your throat.
“I was thinking about grabbing dinner.”
He looked at you.
“The little Mediterranean place across the street.”
You tried to sound casual.
“If you’re hungry.”
For just a fraction of a second, something unreadable crossed his face. Surprise, maybe. Hesitation. He looked at you with an expression that almost seemed disappointed before he exhaled slowly.
“I…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I really appreciate the invite.”
Your stomach tightened.
“But…” His eyes met yours, warm and apologetic. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
You felt your smile freeze where it was.
“Oh.”
“You’ve got another year of residency left.”
“Right?.” You tilted your head.
“And I’m still your attending.”
You nodded once.
“Right.”
“I don’t want there to ever be a question about why you’re succeeding here.”
His voice was kind. Careful.
“I think too highly of you to put you in that position.”
The words were meant to protect you. You knew that. It somehow hurt anyway. You forced yourself to smile, hoping it looked convincing.
“Yeah. Of course. That makes sense.”
His shoulders relaxed just a little.
“But…” he added gently, “…go get something to eat. You earned it today. That appendicitis workup was excellent.”
You laughed quietly, though it sounded much weaker than you intended.
“Thanks.”
“Get home safe.”
“You too.”
He gave you one last tired smile before turning toward the parking garage. You watched him disappear through the automatic doors, standing alone beneath the fluorescent lights of the emergency department entrance for several long seconds before finally letting out the breath you’d been holding. You weren’t embarrassed that he’d said no. He hadn’t been cruel. He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t made you feel foolish. In fact, he’d been exactly who Robby always was, professional, thoughtful, considerate. Somehow that made it worse. Because if he’d been rude, you could’ve hated him for it. Instead, he’d let you down with enough kindness to leave no room for anger, only the quiet ache of realizing that maybe all the little conversations, the coffees, the smiles, the extra moments walking between patient rooms…had only ever meant something to one of you.
******
By the time your next shift with Robby rolled around three days later, you had already made the decision. It hadn’t come in some dramatic moment of heartbreak or while crying into a bottle of wine after work. It had happened quietly, sometime around one o’clock in the morning when you were lying awake staring at your apartment ceiling, replaying his words over and over until they finally stopped sounding like rejection and started sounding like exactly what they were: boundaries. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He had been kind. Respectful. Responsible. You couldn’t punish him for that. More importantly, you couldn’t keep putting both of you in a position where your feelings bled into your training. He was your attending. Your mentor. A physician you admired deeply. If he didn’t or couldn’t want more than that, then you owed it to yourself to stop hoping that every conversation might somehow become something else. It wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to you. So when you walked into PTMC that morning, coffee in one hand and your stethoscope looped around your neck, you promised yourself something that felt far harder than asking him to dinner had ever been. You were going to let him go.
It was astonishing how much of your day had unconsciously revolved around him. Normally, before report even started, you’d find him somewhere near the attending workstation, hand him a fresh cup of coffee if he hadn’t managed to get one himself, tease him about looking like he’d slept in a supply closet, and earn one of those tired little half-smiles that always made the beginning of shift feel lighter.
This morning…you simply walked past him.
“Morning, Dr. Robinavitch.”
He looked up from the chart he was reading.
“Morning.”
That was it. No joke. No lingering. You headed toward Dana to get overnight sign-out. He watched you disappear into the crowd of residents before looking back down at his computer. It shouldn’t have felt strange. It did.
The shift began the way they all did, too many patients, not enough rooms, not enough hands, and within the first hour you were juggling a chest pain workup, an elderly woman in septic shock, and a sixteen-year-old soccer player who’d dislocated his shoulder. You worked efficiently, presenting concise plans, answering questions before they were asked, moving through the department with the confidence that years of residency had built into your bones. If Robby noticed you weren’t hovering around his workstation anymore, he gave absolutely no indication of it. Which, you reminded yourself, was exactly what you wanted.
Around midmorning, Javadi caught up with you outside Room Twenty-Two looking mildly panicked.
“Hey,” she said, slightly out of breath. “Do you have a second?”
“Always.”
“I have a patient with new onset atrial fibrillation and I know the basics, but I’m struggling with whether we should cardiovert immediately or rate control first.”
You smiled.
“Walk me through the patient.”
As she talked, you listened carefully, asking questions instead of answering them outright.
“You just needed someone to organize your thinking.”
She laughed.
“I overcomplicate everything.”
“Everyone does.”
You leaned against the counter beside her.
“The trick isn’t memorizing medicine.”
“What is it?”
“Learning how to think.”
Victoria nodded slowly.
“I think Robby says that.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“He does.”
“Like… every shift.”
“He also repeats himself every shift.”
“He does.”
“And eventually it sticks.”
She laughed again.
“So basically he’s annoying on purpose?”
“Completely.”
“Good to know.”
“Hey.”
Both of you looked up. Robby stood several feet away holding a chart against his hip.
“I need Javadi after you’re done.”
“Almost finished,” you answered.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t insert himself. He simply stood there quietly, listening as Victoria walked herself through the remainder of the case while you asked the occasional question. When she finally finished, you nodded approvingly.
“That’s your plan.”
Victoria grinned.
“Thanks.”
She hurried over to Robby. He looked at her.
“Figure it out?”
She pointed back toward you.
“Thanks to her.”
He looked at you for a long moment before nodding once.
“Good.”
The rest of the day passed without much interaction between the two of you. You consulted him when necessary, presented patients cleanly, answered his questions with your usual confidence, then moved on. There were no extra conversations in hallways. No stopping by his workstation just because you happened to be walking past. No finding reasons to linger after discussions had naturally ended. You were exactly what you had set out to become. Professional.
Near the end of the shift, after the waiting room had finally begun to thin and the department settled into something almost resembling manageable, Robby found you finishing documentation near the resident computers.
“You got a minute?”
You looked up.
“Sure.”
He leaned one elbow against the counter.
“I was watching you with Javadi earlier.”
Your stomach tightened despite yourself.
“Yeah?”
“You’re becoming a really good teacher.”
For just a second, the old version of yourself wanted to light up, to beam beneath the compliment the way you always did. Instead, you offered a small smile.
“That’s because you taught me.”
His expression softened.
“I just gave you some starting tools.”
“You gave me a lot more than that.”
He looked almost uncomfortable with the praise.
“You did the work.”
“So did you.”
Silence settled between you. He expected you to say something else. Normally you would have. You would’ve teased him. Made some joke about his relentless pimp questions. Complained about his impossible expectations. Instead…you closed your laptop.
“Well…” You slid it into your bag. “I should get going.”
He blinked.
“Already?”
“It’s been thirteen hours.”
“Right.”
You adjusted your backpack on your shoulder.
“Have a good night, Rob—” You caught yourself. “Dr. Robinavitch.”
Something flickered across his face.
“You too.”
You smiled politely.
“See you Thursday.”
Then you turned and walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t notice that he’d remained exactly where he was, watching you weave through the department toward the exit until the automatic doors closed behind you. It wasn’t until nearly a full minute later that Langdon wandered over carrying two charts and noticed Robby staring absently toward the now-empty hallway.
“You planning on clocking out sometime today?”
Robby didn’t answer immediately.
“Hm?”
Langdon nudged him.
“You alright?”
Robby blinked as though waking from somewhere else.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look convinced.”
He frowned slightly.
“I’m just…”
He stopped. Langdon waited. Robby shook his head once.
“Nothing.”
Langdon followed his line of sight toward the exit.
“…Was that Y/L/N leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“The one who practically used to shadow you even when she didn’t have to?”
Robby looked over.
“I never asked her to.”
“I know.” Langdon smirked. “But she usually had a coffee in your hand before you realized yours was empty…while also holding a scalpel and gauze in the other.”
Robby said nothing.
“And now?” Langdon shrugged. “She barely looked at you all day.”
Robby’s brow furrowed. Had she? He replayed the shift without meaning to. No coffee. No sarcastic comments. No stopping by between patients. No asking how his trauma patient had turned out. No laughing at one of his terrible dry jokes. Just concise presentations. Good medicine. Professional distance.
It shouldn’t have bothered him. He had wanted professionalism. He had insisted on it. So why, for the first time in months, had the emergency department somehow felt…quieter? Langdon studied him for another second before grinning knowingly.
“You know, Robby…”
“What?”
“I think somebody’s finally stopped chasing you.”
Robby looked back toward the empty hallway. For reasons he couldn’t begin to explain…the thought sat unexpectedly heavy in his chest.
******
Robby had never considered himself particularly observant outside of medicine. He noticed a potassium of 2.8 before the lab called. He noticed the subtle hitch in a patient’s breathing that everyone else missed. He noticed septic shock thirty minutes before it became obvious. People, however, especially himself, had always been another matter entirely. Which was why it irritated him that nearly a week after Langdon’s offhand comment, he still found himself looking toward the emergency department entrance every morning expecting to see you walking in with two coffees balanced in one hand and a sarcastic remark already waiting for him. The first morning he’d dismissed it as habit. By the third, it had become impossible to ignore. He caught himself searching for you during trauma activations, unconsciously scanning the department until he spotted you confidently leading a workup or talking through a case with another resident. Every time he found you, relief settled into his chest before confusion quickly followed. Relief? Since when did he feel relieved simply because one of his residents was in the room? He didn’t have an answer, and he found that increasingly annoying.
The next shift began before sunrise, the department still carrying the sluggishness of the overnight crew handing patients over one by one. Robby walked into the physician lounge to pour himself coffee only to discover the pot had been emptied sometime during the night.
“Of course,” he muttered.
He glanced toward the clock. There wasn’t time to make another one. He sighed and headed toward the attending workstation. Halfway there, he passed the small café tucked just inside the hospital lobby. His feet stopped before his brain had fully caught up.
Five minutes later he walked into the department carrying two coffees. Dana looked up immediately.
“…Who died?”
Robby frowned.
“What?”
“You bought two coffees.”
“So?”
“So you barely remember to feed yourself.”
“I eat.”
Dana snorted.
“No. You consume caffeine and spite.”
“I eat.”
“When?”
He ignored her. She looked at the second cup.
“…Who’s the other one for?”
“No one.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It just happened.”
Dana watched him continue walking before calling after him.
“Robinavitch.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“I swear to God, if you’re becoming emotionally available, I’m putting in for a transfer.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
He kept walking. The second coffee suddenly felt strangely heavy in his hand.
You had just finished reviewing overnight labs when someone set a warm paper cup beside your keyboard. You looked up. Robby stood there looking almost…uncomfortable.
“Morning.”
Your eyes dropped to the coffee. Then back to him.
“…Morning.”
He shoved one hand into his scrub pocket.
“I figured…” He shrugged awkwardly. “…Coffee.”
You blinked once.
“You got me coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He looked genuinely caught off guard by the question.
“I…” Another shrug. “You used to always bring me one.”
Silence.
“…So I thought I’d return the favor…for once.”
You studied him for a long second. Long enough that he shifted his weight slightly.
“That’s…thank you.”
“You don’t have to drink it.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t. You just confused me.”
“I noticed.”
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. You picked up the cup.
“…You remembered my order.”
“I did?”
“You got the hazelnut.”
“Huh.” He looked down at it. “I guess I did.”
Your heart betrayed you with one painful little squeeze. You took a sip.
“It’s good.”
“Goood”
Another beat of silence. Then someone called his name from Trauma Four. He nodded toward you.
“See you around.”
“See you, Dr. Robinavitch.”
He walked away. You watched him disappear around the corner before quietly looking back down at the coffee. It would’ve been so much easier if he had simply let things stay distant.
Instead he’d done something thoughtful. And now your resolve felt considerably more complicated.
The morning rolled forward with its usual relentless pace. A construction worker with heat exhaustion became a cardiac rule-out after collapsing on site. An elderly woman with vague fatigue turned out to have a silent myocardial infarction. Victoria chased you through two hallways asking questions about anticoagulation while Langdon loudly insisted that everyone under forty believed potassium solved every medical problem ever invented. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, you realized Robby had appeared beside you three separate times without you noticing.
Once to quietly review an EKG over your shoulder. Once to ask what antibiotics you wanted for a septic patient before nodding approvingly and saying, “That’s exactly where my head was.” Once simply because he’d ended up walking beside you toward radiology and neither of you had rushed ahead. It wasn’t dramatic. It was…constant. Subtle. Like gravity.
By early afternoon, you finally escaped outside with the remains of a protein bar and a bottle of water, grateful for the dry Pittsburgh air despite the lingering summer heat. The employee patio was mostly empty except for a respiratory therapist scrolling through his phone at the opposite end. You leaned against the brick wall, closed your eyes for just a second, and let yourself breathe. The door opened behind you. You didn’t bother turning.
“I’ll be back inside in a minute.”
“Maybe I want to hide too?”
Your eyes opened. Robby walked over carrying half of what looked like a turkey sandwich wrapped in wax paper. He stopped beside you. Then, without asking, held out one half.
“You skipped lunch.”
You stared at him.
“…Are you bribing me with deli meat?”
“I wasn’t aware turkey qualified as bribery.”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“Whether there’s cheese.”
“There is.”
You accepted it despite yourself.
“…Thanks.”
He leaned against the wall beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. Neither of you spoke for nearly a minute. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Just…different. Finally he looked ahead instead of at you.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
You sighed quietly.
“I’m not doing this.”
“You are avoiding me.”
“No, not that.” You shook your head.
“You barely talk to me anymore.”
“I talk to you.”
“You present patients.”
“I answer your questions.”
“You don’t…” He searched for the words. “…you don’t talk to me.”
You looked over.
“What exactly would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
The two of you were quiet for a moment.
“I can’t just…” you sighed trying to find the words. “You did this.”
“I told you to avoid me?” Robby narrowed his eyes.
“You told me dinner wasn’t a good idea.”
His jaw tightened.
“I did.”
“You reminded me you’re my attending.”
“I am.”
You huffed.
“So I adjusted.”
“No, you disappeared.”
“I became your resident.”
“I never wanted you to become just my resident.”
The words left his mouth before he’d fully thought them through. Both of you froze. Your eyebrows lifted.
“…What?”
He ran a hand over the back of his neck.
“I mean…” He exhaled. “Damn it.”
You waited. He looked genuinely frustrated with himself.
“I liked talking to you.”
“We still talk”
“It’s different.”
You shrug. “It has to be.”
He looked down at the sandwich in his hands.
“I didn’t realize how much of my day involved you until it didn’t.”
You swallowed.
“Robby…”
“I keep looking for you.” Your heart stumbled. “I keep expecting you to walk over with coffee or argue with me about antibiotics or make fun of me for forgetting to eat.”
A humorless laugh escaped him.
“I actually bought you coffee.”
“You did.”
“I’ve never bought anyone coffee.” He rubbed tiredly at his forehead.n“I don’t like this.”
“What?”
“This distance.”
You stared at him for a long moment before finally shaking your head.
“That’s not fair.”
His eyes met yours.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t create it. You pulled away.”
“I had to.” He argued. “But you couldn’t have said something.”
“And said what?” Your voice finally cracked with the emotion you’d spent days forcing down. “‘Hey, Robby, every time you smile at me I forget how to breathe, and when you told me no, I realized I was making an idiot out of myself?’”
His face fell.
“I never thought—”
“I know.” You nodded. “That’s the point.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to protect you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
The words landed between you with startling force. He looked genuinely wounded.
“I know you didn’t.”
You folded the wrapper around the unfinished half of your sandwich.
“I spent months convincing myself that maybe you looked for me the way I looked for you.” You could feel tears coming as your shoulders dropped. “Then you reminded me exactly who we are.”
Robby looked upset now.
“You and I are attending and resident. So I accepted that.” You stepped away from the wall. “I can’t keep living somewhere in between.”
His voice was quiet.
“What if I don’t want that anymore?”
You stared at him. The question hung impossibly still in the afternoon air. After several seconds, you spoke just as softly.
“Then you need to figure out what you do want.”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. You smiled sadly.
“I’ve spent almost three years doing all the chasing, Robby.” Your eyes held his. “I’m done doing it.”
Then you turned, pushed open the employee entrance, and disappeared back into the noise of the emergency department, leaving him standing alone on the patio with half a sandwich in one hand and the overwhelming realization that somewhere between all those shared coffees, hallway conversations, sarcastic comments, and impossible shifts…he had somehow fallen in love with the very thing he’d convinced himself he was protecting you from.
******
Robby spent the next four days accomplishing something he had always been exceptionally good at, avoiding a problem by burying himself in work until he couldn’t hear himself think anymore. He picked up an extra shift. Stayed late to help Jack with an unusually complicated septic shock case. Read three new journal articles on pediatric abdominal pain that he absolutely did not need to read. Every time his thoughts drifted back to the patio, to you telling him you’d spent years doing all the chasing, he found another chart to sign, another patient to see, another resident to teach. It didn’t work. Your words followed him through every hallway in PTMC.
Then you need to figure out what you do want.
He hated that you were right. He hated even more that it hadn’t taken him long to figure it out. The problem was never not knowing what he wanted. The problem was that he knew exactly what he wanted, and every ethical instinct he’d built over twenty years in emergency medicine had immediately told him he couldn’t have it. Except…you weren’t an intern anymore. You weren’t a first-year resident hanging on every word he said. You were one of the strongest senior residents in the department, a physician in your own right, and the more he honestly examined his own feelings, the more he realized they’d stopped being about mentorship weeks, okay maybe a year, ago. That realization terrified him.
The next shift together was brutal from the moment report ended. A bus accident on the interstate sent seven patients into the emergency department within fifteen minutes, trauma bays filled almost immediately, Dana was directing nurses with military precision, McKay disappeared into one resuscitation while Langdon took another, and every available resident was suddenly balancing two or three critical patients at once. You and Robby worked side by side for nearly six hours, slipping into the familiar rhythm you’d always shared.
Neither of you mentioned the conversation outside. Neither of you needed to. The understanding between you had quietly changed. He trusted your decisions without hesitation, you anticipated what he needed before he asked, and more than once your hands brushed while reaching for the same ultrasound probe or medication list. Each accidental touch lasted less than a second, but somehow managed to linger far longer in both of your minds.
Late that afternoon, after the last trauma patient had finally been stabilized and transferred upstairs, the emergency department collectively exhaled. Someone suggested drinks.
“I’m voting yes,” Dana announced, dropping into a chair at the physician workstation with enough force to make the wheels squeak. “If I don’t have a beer after today, I’m going to start throwing scalpels.”
“You’d miss,” Langdon replied.
“I wouldn’t.”
“You absolutely would.”
Victoria looked hopefully around the room. “Everybody’s coming, right?”
McKay shrugged. “I’ve earned mozzarella sticks.”
“You always think you’ve earned mozzarella sticks,” Dana said.
“I usually have.”
Langdon looked toward Robby. “Robby?”
Robby rubbed both hands down his tired face.
“I’ll come by for one.”
Dana pointed triumphantly.
“See? Even our resident workaholic is joining civilization.”
“I’m not a resident.”
“You emotionally are.nt even an intern.”
An hour later, after everyone had changed into civilian clothes and escaped the fluorescent lights of PTMC, the group crowded into a neighborhood bar that had become something of an unofficial tradition after particularly ugly shifts. The booths were worn, the music sat comfortably in the background instead of trying to dominate the room, and the bartender already knew that emergency department staff tipped well and occasionally needed fries before they needed drinks. You arrived a few minutes after everyone else.
“There she is!” Victoria called, sliding over to make room.
Before you could sit, Robby’s voice came quietly from beside her.
“Here.”
You looked over. He had already shifted farther into the booth. Leaving the seat beside him open. You hesitated. For half a heartbeat. Then sat down. Your shoulders almost brushed. Neither of you commented on it.
The first hour passed easier than either of you expected. Stories from the shift became increasingly dramatic with each retelling, Langdon somehow managed to convince everyone that he had once stitched a fisherman back together while actively being vomited on by a pelican, which earned him enough horrified laughter that even Robby laughed hard enough to lower his head into one hand.
“That’s absolutely not true,” you said through a grin.
“It is.”
“You’re lying.” You laughed.
“You weren’t there.”
“I don’t need to have been.”
Robby glanced between the two of you.
“…Honestly…”
You looked at him.
“I think Langdon believes it’s true.”
The entire table erupted again.
“There it is!” Dana pointed across the table. “Robinavitch made a joke.”
“I make jokes.”
“No. You accidentally say funny things.”
He sighed dramatically.
“That’s different.”
You laughed. Not the polite little smile you’d been giving him at work. Not the careful professionalism you’d hidden behind for the past week. A genuine laugh. Head tipped back slightly. Eyes bright.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Robby found himself watching you instead of listening to whatever ridiculous story Langdon had launched into next. You were animated outside the hospital. You talked with your hands. You teased everyone equally.
Victoria leaned against you at one point laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Dana challenged you to darts. McKay rolled her eyes every time you and Langdon teamed up to make fun of Robby’s inability to understand popular music.
It struck him all at once, almost painfully. He knew what kind of physician you were. He knew what kind of teacher you’d become. He knew how you handled pressure, grief, terrified parents, impossible diagnoses. He didn’t know…You.
Not really. And somehow that realization made him feel as though he’d missed something important that had been standing directly in front of him all along.
By the time everyone finally stood to leave, the evening air had cooled considerably. Dana hugged Victoria goodbye before climbing into an Uber with McKay and Langdon, loudly arguing about whether mozzarella sticks counted as a vegetable if they were served with marinara. You watched them disappear down the street before adjusting your light jacket.
“I parked this way.”
Robby nodded toward the opposite sidewalk.
“So did I.”
You glanced at him.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“You always park on the west side.”
He looked faintly surprised.
“…You noticed.”
“I notice a lot.”
A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The walk began comfortably enough. Streetlights cast warm pools of light across the sidewalks, the city quieter now that the dinner rush had faded, and for several blocks neither of you felt any pressure to fill the silence. It wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt remarkably natural.
“You were different tonight,” Robby finally said.
“So were you.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“I’ve never heard you laugh like that.”
“You’ve never asked me out for drinks before.”
“No.”
“You’ve never really gotten to know me outside the hospital.”
“I know.” His voice carried a weight that made you look over. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
You slowed your pace slightly.
“That sounds…” You brain was slightly fuzzy from the beer. “Dangerous.”
“It usually is.”
“What’d you come up with?”
He stopped walking. You took another step before realizing he’d stayed behind. Turning around, you found him standing beneath one of the streetlights, looking more uncertain than you’d ever seen him.
“I was wrong.”
You stared at him.
“…About what?”
“About you.”
A long silence settled between you.
“I thought…” He exhaled slowly. “I thought keeping things strictly professional was protecting you.”
“It was.”
“No.” His head shook once. “It protected me.”
Your heart began to beat harder.
“I’ve spent years making sure I never crossed lines with residents.” He sighed. “I did that once and it didn’t end well.”
“I know.”
“I’ve always been proud of that.”
“You should be?”
“I still am.” Another step toward you. “But somewhere along the way…”
He laughed quietly at himself.
“…I stopped looking at you as just my resident.”
Your breath caught.
“I just refused to admit it.”
The city around you seemed to disappear. Only his voice remained.
“When you pulled away…” He swallowed. “The department didn’t feel the same.”
“Robby…”
“I missed my friend before I ever admitted I wanted anything more.”
You looked down for a moment, fighting against the hope threatening to bloom all over again.
“I don’t know what happens next,” he admitted. “I know this is complicated. I know there are policies and reporting requirements and probably a dozen reasons I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
You looked back up.
“So why didn’t you?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“Because watching you walk away on that patio hurt more than any of those reasons scared me.”
Emotion filled your throat so quickly it almost hurt.
“You told me to figure out what I wanted.”
“I did.”
“I have.”
He closed the remaining distance between you, stopping close enough that you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the vulnerability he so rarely let anyone witness.
“I want you.” The words were almost whispered. “I don’t know what that looks like.”
Neither did you.
“I don’t either.”
“I know we can’t pretend this conversation didn’t happen.”
“We can’t.”
“I know we have to do this the right way.”
“Okay.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“You always were stubborn.”
“You’re my teacher.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. Your eyes searched his face.
“So…”
“So?”
“What happens now?”
For a moment he simply looked at you, as though committing every detail to memory.
Then, quietly enough that only you could hear it, he asked, “Can I kiss you?”
Every doubt you’d carried for weeks softened at the edges.
“You’ve been making me wait long enough.”
His smile was small, almost disbelieving.
“So that’s a yes?”
Instead of answering, you reached up and gently curled your fingers around the front of his jacket, closing the last inch between you. When his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was careful at first, almost reverent, like two people who had spent far too long convincing themselves this could never happen. His hand came to rest lightly against your jaw, giving you every opportunity to pull away, and when you didn’t, when you leaned into him instead, your free hand settling against his chest, you felt the last of the tension he’d been carrying melt beneath your fingertips. The kiss deepened naturally, slow and warm, carrying weeks of restrained glances, interrupted conversations, shared victories over impossible shifts, and every cup of coffee that had ever been set quietly beside the other without expectation. By the time you finally parted, both of you were smiling in that slightly stunned way people do when reality somehow manages to exceed hope. He rested his forehead against yours and let out a quiet, incredulous laugh.
“I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to go back to pretending I don’t want to do that again.”
You smiled, your cheeks aching from it.
“Good.”
He looked into your eyes.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I don’t think I’d believe you anymore.
******
Morning arrived slowly, filtered through thin curtains that softened the Pittsburgh sunlight into warm streaks across unfamiliar hardwood floors. For a few blissfully confusing seconds, you couldn’t remember where you were. The room was quiet, the blankets heavier than your own, and there was a faint scent of coffee drifting down the hallway that tugged at your memory before anything else did. Then the previous night came rushing back in flashes so vivid they almost stole your breath all over again. The walk. Standing beneath the streetlight. Robby asking if he could kiss you with a vulnerability you’d never imagined he’d possess. His forehead resting against yours afterward while he admitted he had no idea how he was supposed to pretend he didn’t want to do it again. Then his place. More kissing. More touching. His bed. You closed your eyes and smiled despite yourself before burying your face in the pillow for one wonderfully embarrassing second.
Then reality arrived. You were in Robby’s apartment. You sat up so quickly you almost laughed at yourself. His side of the bed was empty, the blankets folded back neatly as though he’d been awake for a while. Your clothes from the night before had been carefully folded across the chair in the corner, your shoes sitting beneath them, and draped over the foot of the bed was one of his soft gray T-shirts. You picked it up. It still smelled faintly like him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered to yourself with a smile.
You slipped it over your head anyway. The shirt hung halfway down your thighs, sleeves falling past your elbows, and as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror you couldn’t help but laugh quietly.
“You absolute cliché.”
Taking one steadying breath, you padded barefoot toward the kitchen. The smell of coffee grew stronger. So did eggs. You rounded the corner.
Robby stood at the stove wearing gray sweatpants and an old black T-shirt that had clearly survived far too many washes. His hair was still damp from a shower, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he absently flipped eggs in a skillet while reading something on his phone. Two mugs already waited on the island.
He looked up. For a second…He simply stared. His eyes traveled from your face to the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder to your bare legs before returning to your eyes again. His brain appeared to stop functioning entirely.
“…Morning,” he finally managed.
You leaned against the doorway.
“Morning.”
Neither of you moved. Then, almost simultaneously—
“You look—”
“I’ve been—”
Both of you stopped. You laughed first.
“You go.”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, smiling in that slightly bashful way you were beginning to realize almost no one ever got to see.
“I was going to say…” His eyes flicked toward the shirt again. “…You look really good in that.”
Heat rushed into your cheeks.
“You’ve got surprisingly good taste.”
“I’ve been told.”
“You’ve never been told.”
“No.” A beat. “…But I was hoping.”
You shook your head, smiling helplessly, before walking over and climbing onto one of the barstools. The coffee mug waiting there was already fixed exactly the way you liked it. You looked down at it.
“You remembered.”
“I remembered.”
“Hazelnut.”
“I paid attention.”
You wrapped both hands around the mug. Silence settled comfortably between you for a few moments, broken only by the quiet hiss of the skillet. Then Robby reached over, turned the burner off, and faced you fully. The smile slowly disappeared from both of your faces. Reality had arrived.
“So…” he said quietly.
“So.”
“I barely slept.”
“I figured.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I could hear you pacing.”
His eyes widened.
“…You were awake?”
“For most of it.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“So should you.”
That earned the smallest, most defeated chuckle.
“Fair.”
He leaned one hip against the counter.
“We need to talk.”
“We do.”
“I don’t want to screw this up.”
“I don’t either.”
He nodded once.
“I meant everything I said last night. I wasn’t drunk. I had one beer.”
“I know.”
That made him smile again.
“I figured you would.” Then the seriousness returned. “I’ve already started thinking through the hospital policy.”
Of course he had. You folded one leg beneath you on the stool.
“I figured that too.”
“I supervise you.”
“You do.”
“That’s a problem.”
“It’s a manageable problem.”
“It’s still a problem.” He sighed. “I don’t ever want anyone wondering if you’re getting opportunities because of me.”
You met his eyes without hesitation.
“Then don’t give me opportunities because of you.”
His brow furrowed.
“I’ve earned everything I’ve gotten here.”
“You have.”
“I’ll keep earning it.”
“I know you will.”
“You don’t have to protect my career from me.”
“I’m trying to protect it from everyone else.”
“And who’s protecting us?”
That stopped him cold. He looked at you for several long seconds.
“I’ve spent a week listening to you tell me how important my career is.” Your voice remained calm. “Not once have you told me how important I am.”
His expression softened instantly.
“Theres a reason…”
“No.” You shook your head gently. “You don’t get to hide behind HR for this conversation.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You are.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“So am I.” You set your mug down. “If all you wanted was one night, tell me now.”
His head snapped upward.
“What?”
“If this scared you the second the sun came up…”
“It didn’t.”
“…then tell me.”
“It didn’t.” Robby said firmly.
“You don’t owe me—”
He crossed the kitchen before you could finish.
“Stop.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It was firm. He stood directly in front of you now.
“I have spent six days trying to convince myself I could live without this.” He gestured gently between the two of you. “I can’t.”
You searched his face.
“I don’t want one night.” His voice dropped lower. “I want breakfast with you.”
Your heart skipped.
“I want bad movies on my couch.” Another step closer. “I want you texting me when you’ve had a terrible day.”
His hand rested lightly against your waist.
“I want to argue with you about medicine.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“You already do.”
“I know. I’d like to keep doing it.”
A quiet laugh escaped both of you. Then he grew serious again.
“I want to know who you are outside the hospital.” His thumb brushed almost absentmindedly against your side. “I want to know what makes you laugh like you did the last night.”
“I already laughed around you.”
“Not like that. I missed years of getting to know you because I kept telling myself not to look.”
Your eyes stung.
“I don’t intend to make that mistake again.”
You reached for his hand. He immediately intertwined his fingers with yours.
“I needed to hear that. You kept talking about protecting me.”
“I was.”
“I don’t need you to protect me from loving you.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“…God.”
“What?”
“You keep saying things that make me wonder how I ever thought staying away from you was the easier option.”
You smiled.
“It wasn’t.”
He laughed quietly.
“It really wasn’t.”
You looked up at him.
“So what happens now?”
He answered immediately.
“Tomorrow morning I call HR.”
You blinked.
“…Tomorrow?”
“I’m not waiting.”
“You’ve already decided?”
“I decided sometime around three this morning while pacing a groove into my living room floor.”
“What if they say I have to transfer services?”
“Then we figure it out.”
“What if people gossip?”
“They probably will.”
“What if they think—”
“I don’t care.”
His answer surprised even him.
“I care about your reputation.”
“I do too.”
“But I care a hell of a lot more about being honest.”
He lifted your joined hands.
“I’m fifty years old.”
You smiled.
“I know how old you are.”
“I’ve spent most of my adult life putting work first.”
“I noticed.”
“I don’t regret that. But I think I’ve been using work to avoid letting people get close.”
He smiled ruefully.
“And somehow…” His eyes met yours. “You got close anyway.”
You stood from the stool until there was barely any space between you.
“I did chase you for a while.”
“You did.”
“I was beginning to think you were hopeless.”
“I probably was.”
“You were.”
He laughed.
“You don’t have to be so honest.”
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
“You really don’t.”
“I do because if we’re doing this, I’m not going to spend this relationship pretending you’re always right just because you’re the attending.”
“The attending?” He raised an eyebrow. “We’re in my apartment.”
“Fine.”
You poked him lightly in the chest.
“Just because you’re older.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The confidence.”
“I’ve always had confidence.”
“You’ve had confidence at work.”
“And now?”
He smiled so warmly it almost made your knees weak.
“Now I’m getting the woman who called me out on my own bullshit.”
You leaned in just enough that your forehead brushed his.
Request - Love everything of yours I read! After seeing reader interact with her mother in one of your recent fics was thinking about one where she is a bit anxious to introduce Robby to her family, she's conscious of the age gap and the workaholic tendencies ect only for them to absolutely love him...and is she a little bit jealous of how easy he charms them all?
making me work to not have a story in the hospital, i see lol 🫶
The snow had started just outside Pittsburgh, soft flakes dusting the windshield in lazy spirals that the wipers pushed away every few seconds. It wasn’t enough to make the roads dangerous, but it was enough to turn the rolling hills north of the city into a watercolor of white fields and dark tree lines. The radio hummed quietly with an old classic rock station neither of you had bothered changing. Between the music and the rhythmic swish of the wipers, the truck was comfortably quiet. Well…comfortably quiet for one of you.
“You know,” you said, breaking the silence for what felt like the fifteenth time in the last twenty minutes, “my grandma asks incredibly invasive questions.”
Robby kept one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested loosely over the center console, fingers brushing your thigh without really thinking about it. His eyes stayed on the road, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
“So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I think I do.”
You sighed dramatically and leaned your head against the cold window. “She asked my cousin’s boyfriend how much money he made before she’d even offered him coffee.”
“Hm.”
“‘Hm?’ That’s your response?”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“I’ve been an attending physician for twenty years.”
“I know.”
“I’ve testified in court.”
“I know.”
“I’ve told parents their kid wasn’t going to survive.”
Your stomach twisted.
“I can survive one seventy-eight-year-old woman.”
You groaned loud enough that he actually chuckled.
“What?”
“Nice laugh.” Robby was smug.
“I didn’t laugh.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I exhaled.”
“You smiled.”
“I don’t smile.” You turned toward him with narrowed eyes.
“You smile.”
“I tolerate things.”
“You tolerate me?” He glanced over just long enough to meet your eyes before looking back at the road.
“I tolerate you considerably more than everyone else.” You laughed despite yourself.
“That’s…probably the closest thing to a compliment you’ve ever given me.”
“It’s top five.”
“You have a ranking?”
“I absolutely have a ranking.”
“Oh my God.”
The truck fell quiet again, though this silence didn’t last nearly as long.
“What if they think you’re too old?”
This time he looked over immediately.
“…What?”
You immediately regretted saying it aloud.
“I’m just saying—”
“Stop.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I do.”
He sighed, rubbing one hand over the stubble on his jaw while stopped briefly at a red light in a tiny town you’d already forgotten the name of.
“Kid.”
“I’m thirty-six.”
“I know.”
“You’re forty-nine.”
“I continue to know.”
“That’s thirteen years.”
“I can still do math.”
“I just…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t know.”
He watched you for a second before the light turned green again. The truck rolled forward.
“You’ve been doing this for an hour.”
“Doing what?”
“Working yourself into a panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You reorganized my glove compartment.”
“I was helping.”
“You folded the registration.”
“It looked messy.”
“You apologized to the cashier at the gas station because she said the coffee machine was broken.”
“I felt bad.”
“You’ve asked if your hair looks okay three times. And now you’re worried your grandmother is going to reject me because I had the audacity to be born in the seventies.”
You folded your arms across your chest.
“When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous.”
“You don’t know my family.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I know you.”
You looked over. His attention remained on the road.
“And I know you’ve been carrying this around for weeks.”
You swallowed.
“I just…” You picked nervously at the sleeve of your sweater. “My dad never got to meet…anyone.”
His expression shifted immediately. The teasing disappeared. He reached over, finding your hand without taking his eyes off the road. His fingers threaded between yours instinctively.
“I know.”
“I keep thinking about him.” Your voice had gone quieter now. “He would’ve loved giving every guy I dated a hard time.”
“You’ve told me.”
“He would’ve grilled you.”
“I would’ve survived.”
“He would’ve asked you what your intentions were.”
“I would’ve told him.”
“And what would’ve you said?”
He didn’t answer right away. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thoughtful. Finally, he spoke.
“That I make your coffee every morning because you’re incapable of remembering breakfast.” You smiled faintly at him. “That you fall asleep on my couch every time we try to watch a movie after shift.”
Another smile.
“That you steal my shirts.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They’re mine.”
“They become mine.”
“I don't know if that's how clothes work.”
He squeezed your hand once before continuing.
“I would’ve told him…” His voice became almost impossibly gentle. “…that I take care of you.”
Your eyes stung. Not because the words were grand. Because they weren’t. He hadn’t said he’d protect you from the world. He hadn’t promised forever. He hadn’t made some sweeping declaration. He’d simply stated a fact. He took care of you. You looked out the window before he could see your eyes watering.
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
“I wish he could’ve met you.”
“So do I.”
That answer caught you off guard. You turned back toward him.
“You do?”
He nodded once.
“I would’ve liked to thank him.”
“For what?”
He looked genuinely confused by the question.
“For you.”
The words settled heavily inside the truck. You stared at him. He didn’t seem to realize what he’d just said. Or maybe he did. With Robby, it was always impossible to tell.
“You make it sound like I was a gift.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Weren’t you?”
Your breath caught. He immediately looked annoyed with himself, almost like the sentence had escaped before he’d approved it.
“You know what I mean.”
“I…don’t actually.”
He sighed, giving the steering wheel a tiny shake.
“I mean…” He searched for the words. “…you’re a good person.”
Your smile grew.
“You help women give birth to babies.”
“I do.”
“You make impossible decisions every day.”
“I also yell at residents.”
“They deserve it.”
“They usually do.”
“You call your mom every Sunday.”
“I try.”
“You still send your grandparents birthday cards.”
“They’re eighty-six and ninety-one, Robby.”
“So?”
“So everyone sends birthday cards.”
“No.” He shook his head. “They don’t.”
You blinked.
“They don’t?”
He glanced over again. Your chest tightened. There he was. That man. The one almost nobody got to see because he buried himself beneath exhaustion, sarcasm, and impossible workdays. You reached over and rested your hand against the side of his neck. His shoulders visibly relaxed beneath the touch.
“You know…” you said quietly.
“What?”
“I think they’re going to love you.”
He snorted.
“I’m not worried about them.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
“You should be at least a little worried.”
“I’m not.”
“Why?”
He smiled, a real one this time, tired and warm and just for you.
“Because if they’re anything like you…” His thumb rubbed across the back of your hand. “…I’m already looking forward to meeting them.”
Before you could answer, the GPS chimed softly.
“In two miles, turn left.”
Your stomach immediately flipped. You recognized the road. Home. You took one slow breath before looking out at the familiar church steeple in the distance, your childhood grocery store, and the snow-covered streets you’d ridden your bike down a lifetime ago. Beside you, Robby gave your hand one reassuring squeeze.
“You ready?”
You looked at the house just coming into view at the end of the street, every light glowing warmly against the winter afternoon.
“…Ask me again in ten minutes.”
A quiet chuckle filled the cab.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s about what I expected.”
******
The moment Robby turned into your mother’s driveway, you knew two things. First, someone had absolutely ignored your repeated instructions to stay inside until we knock. Second, you were about to lose complete control of the situation. The front door flew open before the truck had even rolled to a stop.
“Oh, for the love of—”
You watched your mother hurry down the porch steps, your Aunt Maggie only a few feet behind her, bundled in a bright red winter coat that could probably be seen from space. Behind them came your grandparents at a far more sensible pace, your grandfather insisting he didn’t need anyone’s arm despite the icy walkway, while your grandmother ignored him and linked hers through his anyway.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, the front door opened again. Two teenage boys burst out of the house like missiles.
“She’s here!”
“I called shotgun to hug her first!”
“No you didn’t!”
“I literally did!”
“You literally didn’t!”
The cousins. Wonderful.
“Oh my God…” you muttered, covering your face with one hand. “I told them not to do this.”
Beside you, Robby shut off the engine.
“I thought you said they were excited.”
“This is excited.”
He looked through the windshield as your family continued making their way toward the truck.
“…Looks more like an invasion.”
You laughed despite your nerves.
“It gets worse.”
“It does?”
“My grandma kisses everybody.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“My aunt asks inappropriate questions.”
“I’ve met those women at the hospital before.”
“My cousins have no filter.”
“I supervise residents.”
“My mother cries.”
He finally looked over at you.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“I might.”
He smiled softly.
“I’ll tackle you.”
“You absolutely will not.”
“I’ve still got decent knees.”
“Barely.”
“Barely is still enough.”
Before you could answer, there was a knock on your window. Your cousin Tyler had his face practically pressed against the glass.
“Hey!”
You sighed.
“Here we go.”
You opened the truck door and barely had time to stand before Tyler collided with you in a hug.
“There she is!”
“Oof—Tyler!”
“You never come home!”
“I literally came home for Thanksgiving.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why?”
“You worked half of it.”
“…Fair.”
A second later, his younger brother, Ben, wrapped both arms around you too, nearly knocking all three of you sideways.
“We missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“You look tired.”
You pointed toward Robby without missing a beat.
“I learned from him.”
“I heard that.”
You looked over your shoulder to find Robby climbing out of the driver’s seat, tugging his wool coat closed against the cold. He looked exactly like himself. Dark jeans. Heavy boots. A charcoal sweater beneath his coat. Messy dark hair from the drive. His beard a little longer for the winter.
No attempt whatsoever to impress anyone. Which somehow made him more handsome. He shut the truck door and looked around as six pairs of eyes immediately landed on him.
There it was. The moment. Your stomach lurched.
“Mom…” you began. “This is—”
“Oh, honey.”
Your mother walked right past you. You blinked.
“…Mom?”
She stopped in front of Robby with the warmest smile you’d ever seen.
“You must be Robby.”
He nodded once.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Oh, absolutely not.” She immediately reached forward and hugged him. “None of that.”
You stared. Robby froze for approximately three seconds before awkwardly returning the hug with the hesitant uncertainty of a man who probably hadn’t been hugged by someone else’s mother in decades.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“You too.”
“You drove all the way up here today?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pointed a finger at him.
“I said no ‘ma’am.’ Makes me feel ancient.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“…Sorry.”
“Much better.”
Your aunt Maggie stepped forward next.
“So you’re the emergency room doctor.”
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed immediately.
“Oh, I like him.”
“Aunt Maggie.”
“What?”
“You’ve known him for eleven seconds.”
“Twelve now.”
She stuck her hand out.
“Maggie.”
He shook it.
“Robby.”
“So…do you really see people with things stuck where they shouldn’t be?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. Robby looked at your aunt for a long second. Then, completely deadpan, “More often than I’d like.”
“What was the weirdest?”
“Maggie!”
“What?”
“No.”
Robby’s expression never changed.
“A bowling trophy.”
There was a beat of silence.
“…Seriously?” Maggie asked.
“No.”
She burst into laughter so loud your grandfather shook his head.
“I walked right into that.”
“Yep.”
You looked at Robby.
“You lied to my aunt.”
“I protected your innocence.”
“My innocence?”
“You seemed invested.”
“I absolutely was.”
Your grandmother finally reached the two of you. She was small now, age having stolen several inches from the woman you remembered towering over everyone as a child, but she still possessed the same sharp blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing. She looked at Robby for several long moments. Long enough that your heart started pounding. Then she reached up and patted his cheek.
“My.”
Robby blinked.
“…Hello.”
“Well.” She smiled. “He’s handsome.”
“Oh my God.”
“Shush.” She eyed you.
“What?”
“I have eyes.”
You wanted the icy driveway to open beneath your feet. Your grandmother ignored you entirely. She looked back at Robby.
“You’ve got kind eyes.”
His ears turned pink.
“…Thank you.”
“And you look tired.”
You snorted. Grandma pointed triumphantly.
“See? I was right.”
“You are,” you admitted. “He always looks tired.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“I know.”
Your grandfather finally extended his hand.
“Frank.”
“Robby.”
They shook firmly.
“My granddaughter says you’re in emergency medicine.”
“I am.”
“She’s an OBGYN.”
“I know.”
Grandpa nodded once.
“Means you both have terrible schedules.”
Robby let out a quiet breath that almost sounded relieved.
“We do.”
“You actually understand each other then.”
“Most days.”
Grandpa smiled.
“Good.”
That was it. No interrogation. No skepticism. Just…good. The conversation was interrupted by Tyler stepping directly in front of Robby.
“So.”
Robby looked down.
“So.”
“How tall are you?”
You closed your eyes.
“Tyler…”
“What? It’s a valid question.”
Robby answered anyway.
“Six-three.”
“I knew it!”
Ben looked impressed.
“You play football?”
“No.”
“Basketball?”
“In the park as a kid.”
“What’d you do?”
“I studied.”
Both boys looked horrified.
“Voluntarily?”
A smile tugged at Robby’s mouth.
“…Eventually.”
You couldn’t help laughing.
“So you’re basically a giant nerd.”
“I’ve never been called that before.”
“I can think of worse.”
Ben squinted suspiciously.
“You seem…less scary than she said.”
Your head whipped around.
“I never said he was scary!”
Tyler looked confused.
“You said he was grumpy.”
“I said he could be grumpy.”
“You also said he growls.”
“He does growl.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“When?”
“When people interrupt your coffee.”
“Reasonable.”
“When residents ask stupid questions.”
“Also reasonable.”
“When someone steals your favorite pen.”
He looked genuinely offended.
“That happened once.”
“It happened yesterday.”
“They knew it was my pen.”
Your entire family laughed. Not because he was trying to be funny. Because he wasn’t. He was simply…Robby. Standing there in your mother’s snowy driveway, looking mildly inconvenienced by the cold and completely unaware that he’d already charmed nearly every member of your family without trying.
You caught your mother watching the two of you from a few feet away. She smiled knowingly when your eyes met. Then she clapped her hands together.
“All right, enough freezing. Lunch is getting cold.”
Your grandmother immediately slipped her arm through Robby’s.
“Come inside, dear.”
He looked down at the elderly woman attached to him, then over at you with an expression that clearly said, Am I allowed to move? You bit back a grin.
“You’re family now.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Already?”
Grandma answered for you.
“If she brought you here…” She squeezed his arm gently. “…you’ve already passed the hard part.”
You watched the words land. Just for a moment. His tired eyes found yours across the snowy yard. And without saying a word, he gave you the smallest smile.
It was barely there. But it was enough to make your anxious heart settle, if only for a little while.
******
Lunch had somehow turned into three hours. You weren’t entirely sure how. One minute everyone had been squeezing around your mother’s dining room table, passing bowls of mashed potatoes and homemade rolls while your grandmother insisted everyone take seconds before they’d even finished firsts.
The next, dishes had been cleared away, coffee had appeared as if by magic, dessert had been cut, and nobody seemed interested in leaving the table. Least of all your family. And, much to your surprise…Least of all Robby. He looked comfortable.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him like that outside the apartment. No pager clipped to his waistband. No trauma bay waiting downstairs. No resident hovering nearby. No administration emails. Just…Robby.
Relaxed. Well, as relaxed as a forty-nine-year-old emergency physician who’d worked three twelve-hour shifts this week was capable of being.
“So,” Grandpa Frank said, setting down his coffee mug. “My granddaughter tells me you fish.”
You looked up.
“I told you that?”
“You mention things.”
“I don’t remember mentioning fishing.”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“…You remember conversations from three months ago?”
“I remember everything.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Show-off.”
Grandpa grinned.
“What do you fish for?”
“Mostly trout.”
“You fly fish?”
“When I have time.”
Grandpa nodded approvingly.
“Haven’t done that in years.”
“I’ve got two rods in the garage,” Robby replied. “One doesn’t get used much.”
“You don’t have anybody to go with?”
Robby shrugged.
“Schedules.”
“You two never go?”
He looked over at you.
“She hates getting up before sunrise.”
“I do not hate it.”
“You complain.”
“I complain because it’s four in the morning.”
“It’s five.”
“It feels like four.”
He smirked into his coffee. Your grandfather chuckled.
“She’s been like that since she was twelve.”
“I have always valued sleep.”
“No,” your mom called from the kitchen. “You’ve always valued complaining about sleep.”
You pointed toward the kitchen.
“Betrayal.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I don’t know if I will.”
Robby leaned closer just enough for only you to hear.
“You’ve survived residency.”
“Barely.”
“You’ll make it.”
The quiet confidence in his voice made your lips twitch despite yourself. Then Grandma looked up from her pie.
“So.”
Oh no.
“So?”
She pointed her fork toward Robby.
“She says you’re chief.”
You immediately corrected her.
“Chief attending.”
“That’s what I said.”
“It isn’t.”
“It’s close enough.”
Robby took another sip of coffee.
“It’s fine.”
Grandma ignored both of you.
“Do you like being in charge?”
He actually thought about it.
“I like teaching.”
“Really?”
“The administrative part can disappear tomorrow.”
Your aunt laughed.
“See? That’s exactly what she says.”
He looked over.
“You complain about administration too?”
You stared.
“…You think OB is immune to hospital politics?”
“Fair.”
“I spend half my life in meetings.”
“I thought you just delivered babies.”
You gasped dramatically.
“You did not just reduce my entire specialty to that.”
“I absolutely did.”
“I perform surgeries.”
“I know.”
“I manage high-risk pregnancies.”
“I know.”
“I save lives.”
“I know.”
“You ass.”
He smiled into his coffee.
“I like when you get worked up.”
“I know you do.”
Grandma watched the exchange with unmistakable amusement. Then she leaned toward your mother.
“Look.”
“I know.”
“They bicker.”
“I know.”
“They’re adorable.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Mom.”
Your mother wasn’t even pretending not to smile anymore.
“They’re not wrong.”
“Aunt Maggie…”
“They’re not wrong either.”
You looked at Robby for help. The traitor had the audacity to look entertained.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I might be.”
“I need you on my side.”
“I am.”
“Doesn’t feel like you are.”
“You’ll recover.”
“You are literally laughing at me.”
“I exhaled.”
“You smiled.”
“I tolerated.”
You pointed accusingly.
“See? He does that!”
Your cousins were nearly doubled over.
“I like him,” Tyler announced.
“I gathered.”
“No,” he continued. “Like…he gets your sarcasm.”
Ben nodded.
“Nobody usually gets your sarcasm.”
“I am sitting right here.”
“We know.”
“You guys are awful.”
“We learned from you.”
Before you could defend yourself, Grandpa stood.
“I’m going to check on that old snowblower.”
“I’ll give you a hand.”
Every head turned toward Robby.
“You don’t have to do that,” Grandpa said.
“I know.”
“You just got here.”
“I’ve been sitting for three hours.”
“So?”
“I’ll feel guilty.”
Grandpa laughed.
“I understand that.”
The two men disappeared toward the mudroom. Your grandmother watched them leave before quietly saying, “I like that.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“He didn’t ask because he wanted to impress anybody. He asked because he saw something that needed doing.”
Your mother nodded.
“Your father was like that.”
The room became quiet for a moment. Not painfully. Respectfully. Your chest tightened. Then Aunt Maggie ruined it.
“So.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I do.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She grinned wickedly.
“When are you two getting married?”
“Maggie!”
“What?”
“We’re not—” you huffed. “We’re just—”
You stopped. Because…what were you? You and Robby had never put labels on anything beyond the obvious. You were together. Exclusively. Most nights were spent at his apartment. You knew where he kept the extra coffee. He knew exactly how you liked your tea.
You’d met Frank Langdon. Dana adored you. Mel teased both of you mercilessly. You slept curled against his chest more often than you slept in your own bed. But neither of you had ever…said it. Not out loud.
“We’re happy,” you answered finally.
Your mother smiled softly.
“That’s enough.”
Thankfully. Very thankfully. The back door opened before anyone could continue. Grandpa walked back in, stomping snow from his boots. Robby followed with a light dusting of snow across the shoulders of his coat.
“Snowblower still runs,” Grandpa announced.
“Barely,” Robby replied.
“It’s older than both of us.”
“Combined.”
Grandpa barked out a laugh.
“I told him the carburetor sticks.”
“It does.”
“He fixed it.”
You blinked.
“…You fixed it?”
Robby shrugged while pulling off his gloves.
“It wasn’t much.”
“You’ve known him for…” Tyler looked at his watch dramatically. “…four hours.”
“Little over.”
“And you fixed Grandpa’s snowblower?”
“It was sticking.”
“So you fixed it?”
“…Yeah.”
Grandma looked entirely too pleased.
“I told you.”
“Told us what?” you asked.
She looked at your mother.
“He’s a keeper.”
Heat rushed into your face.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“Grandma.”
She looked genuinely confused.
“I didn’t say marry him.”
“Yet,” Aunt Maggie muttered.
“Maggie.”
“I’m just saying.”
Your mother laughed into her coffee.
“You all are impossible.”
“No,” Tyler said.
He looked between you and Robby.
“We’re just confused.”
“About what?”
“You’ve been dating for almost a year.”
“Tyler.”
“What?”
“How have you not figured out you’re in love yet?”
Silence. Complete. Utter. Silence. Your eyes grew wide. Your mother looked horrified.
“Tyler.”
“What?”
“You cannot ask people that.”
“It was just a question.”
Ben nodded.
“It kinda was.”
Your face burned so hot you thought you might spontaneously combust. You looked at Robby. He was already looking at you. Not embarrassed. Not panicked. Watching you. Calmly. Like he was waiting to see if you were okay. Your grandmother broke the silence first.
“Leave them alone.”
“I was just asking.”
“They’ll figure it out.”
Grandpa took another sip of coffee.
“They already have.”
Nobody said anything else. Conversation slowly drifted back to football, weather, and whether the roads would freeze overnight. But you barely heard any of it. Because from across the living room, while everyone else was distracted, you caught Robby looking at you again.
He gave you the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. One that said Breathe. One that somehow made the room feel quieter despite all the laughter around you. And then, a few minutes later, you wandered into the kitchen to refill your coffee. When you came back, you stopped in the doorway.
Robby was sitting on the living room floor. On the floor. Your six-foot-three, perpetually exhausted, bad-kneed emergency physician. Cross-legged on your mother’s rug. Tyler and Ben had talked him into helping them assemble a model airplane they’d gotten for Christmas and never finished.
Grandpa was offering completely unsolicited advice. Grandma was knitting in her recliner while sneaking glances over the top of her glasses. Your mother stood in the kitchen doorway, drying a dish she hadn’t touched in nearly five minutes because she was too busy watching.
And Robby…was laughing. Not the dry little huff you usually coaxed out of him. Not the sarcastic chuckle he gave Frank. A real laugh. Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkled. Shoulders relaxed.
It hit you so suddenly it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. He looked…like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there. And instead of bringing relief, something unexpected twisted painfully in your chest. Because everyone loved him. Effortlessly.
They’d folded him into your family in a single afternoon. You should have been thrilled. Instead, a tiny, irrational voice whispered in the back of your mind.
They’re all looking at him now.
They’re all laughing with him.
They don’t need you to keep the conversation going anymore.
You hated yourself for thinking it. You hated how childish it sounded. But the feeling lingered all the same. Robby glanced up from the airplane as though he’d sensed your eyes on him. The moment he saw you standing quietly in the doorway, his smile softened.
“You okay?”
The room continued buzzing around him. But he was only looking at you. And somehow that made the ache in your chest hurt even more.
******
You lasted another fifteen minutes. That, you decided later, was actually pretty impressive. You smiled through another story about your residency years. You laughed when Tyler and Ben insisted Robby settle the great debate over whether cereal counted as soup. You even survived your grandmother asking him if he’d always had “those little gray hairs at his temples,” to which he’d replied, completely straight-faced, “No. Your granddaughter gave me those.”
The room had erupted into laughter. You had laughed too. But somewhere underneath it all, your chest still felt…tight. Not because anyone had done anything wrong. Because they hadn’t. Everything had gone exactly the way you’d hoped. Better, actually. So why did it suddenly feel like you couldn’t breathe?
“I’ll be right back,” you murmured, setting your coffee mug on the kitchen counter.
Your mother barely looked up.
“Okay, sweetheart.”
You slipped your boots back on in the mudroom and quietly stepped out the back door. The cold hit you immediately. Pennsylvania winter didn’t ease you into anything. It grabbed your lungs, stole your breath, and painted your cheeks pink within seconds.
Snow covered the backyard in a thick blanket, untouched except for a few rabbit tracks cutting across toward the old maple tree. The porch creaked beneath your boots as you walked to the railing. The air was so still that you could hear the faint crunch of cars driving somewhere on the main road a mile away.
You inhaled deeply. Then again. Your eyes burned.
“Oh, honey.”
You smiled weakly before you even turned around.
“I knew you’d follow me eventually.”
Your mother stepped outside carrying two knit blankets over one arm.
“You’ve been disappearing outside since you were twelve.”
She wrapped one around your shoulders before settling beside you against the porch railing. Neither of you spoke for a minute. You watched your breath disappear into the gray afternoon. Finally she asked quietly,
“So…”
You sighed.
“So.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
She gave you the exact look every mother somehow perfected before their children were even born.
“The nice thing about raising you by myself?”
You groaned softly.
“Mom…”
“I know every version of your ‘nothing.’”
You stared out across the snowy yard.
“I’m just…” Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“I…” You laughed once, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “I sound ridiculous.”
“I’ll decide that.”
You looked down at your boots.
“I thought…” You rubbed your gloved thumb across the porch railing. “I thought I’d spend today worried you’d all hate him.”
She blinked.
“Hate him?”
“I know.”
“Honey.”
“I know.”
She waited.
“And instead…” You swallowed. “You all love him.”
Your mother smiled.
“We do.”
“I know.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not.”
“But…”
Your eyes filled despite yourself.
“I feel…” You searched for the right word. “…scared of if this doesn’t work.”
The confession hung in the cold air between you. Your mother didn’t laugh. Didn’t tell you it was silly. She simply looked at you with all the gentleness in the world.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I know how awful that sounds.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“It sounds like someone who’s realizing just how important another person has become.”
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.
“I walked into the living room…” Your voice cracked. “…and everybody was laughing with him.”
“I saw.”
“And he looked…” You smiled through the tears. “…happy.”
“He did.”
“I’ve never seen him like that.”
“I haven’t either.”
“You’ve known him for six hours.”
“I know.”
“But…” Your shoulders slumped. “He fit.”
The words came out barely above a whisper.
“He fits here.”
Your mother reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, just like she’d done when you were six years old.
“You know what I noticed?”
“What?”
“He watches you.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“He watches you.” She smiled softly. “You walk into a room…and within ten seconds he’s looking to see where you are.”
You blinked.
“When your grandmother hugged him, the first person he looked at was you.”
You hadn’t noticed.
“When your cousins started dragging him into the living room…he looked at you. When your grandfather asked him to help with the snowblower…he looked at you. When everyone laughed after Tyler’s question…he looked at you.”
Your mother chuckled quietly.
“I finally stopped watching him.”
“You did?”
“I started watching what he was watching.”
Your heart began beating a little faster.
“And?”
The statements nearly undid you. She leaned against the railing.
“You know what else I noticed?”
You shook your head.
“He never once let you carry your own plate into the kitchen.”
You frowned.
“…He didn’t?”
“No.”
“He opened every door for you.”
“I didn’t even notice.”
“Exactly.”
“He filled your coffee before you realized it was empty.”
You thought back. He had.
“I watched him reach over and straighten the collar of your sweater while everyone was talking.”
Your eyes widened.
“He did?”
“He didn’t even think about it.”
Your mother’s smile grew impossibly warm.
“It was instinct.”
A fresh tear rolled down your cheek.
“I don’t think he realizes he does those things.”
“I don’t think he does either.”
Silence settled again. Then your mother spoke so quietly you almost missed it.
“Your father would’ve loved him.”
Your breath caught. Not because she’d said it. Because she’d said it with complete certainty.
“He would’ve?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She laughed softly. “Your dad would’ve pretended to interrogate him for an hour.”
You smiled through your tears.
“He would’ve.”
“And then…” She looked toward the warm glow spilling from the kitchen windows. “…he would’ve pulled me aside and said, ‘That one’s in deep.’”
Your lips trembled.
“What do you mean?”
“He would’ve seen exactly what I see.”
“And what’s that?”
Your mother turned fully toward you. Her voice was gentle.
“That man loves you.”
Your eyes closed. You hadn’t even said the words. Neither of you had. You shook your head.
“We’ve never—”
“I know.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can.”
“Mom…”
“I’ve been married.” She smiled sadly. “I’ve been in love.”
She reached for your hand.
“And I’ve watched your father look at me exactly the way Robby looks at you.”
Your composure shattered. The tears came all at once. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent. Relentless. Your mother wrapped both arms around you without saying another word. You buried your face against her shoulder like you hadn’t done since medical school, when you’d called after your first patient died.
“I miss Dad.”
“I know.”
“I wish…” You couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“I know.”
“I just wanted…” Another shaky breath. “…one day. One day where Dad got to meet the man I…”
You stopped yourself. Your mother gently rubbed your back.
“The man you what?”
A soft creak interrupted the moment. The back door opened. Both of you turned. Robby stepped onto the porch, pausing the instant he saw you crying.
He didn’t rush over. He didn’t ask questions. He simply looked from your mother…to you. Your mother smiled knowingly.
“I think that’s my cue.”
She squeezed your hand once. Then, as she walked past him, she lightly touched his arm.
“Be good to my girl.”
Robby’s expression softened.
“I always am.”
“I know.”
She disappeared back inside, quietly closing the door behind her. For a moment, neither of you moved. Snow drifted lazily between you. Finally, Robby walked across the porch. He stopped beside you without saying a word. He looked out over the yard, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.
“You came out without yours,” he observed after a moment.
“I know.”
“It’s twenty-three degrees.”
“I know.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“So am I.”
A tiny smile tugged at your lips. He slipped out of his coat without another word. Before you could protest, he draped it over your shoulders. It was still warm from him. It smelled like cedar, clean laundry…and that unmistakable scent that was simply Robby.
“You’ll freeze.”
“I run warmer than you.”
“You always say that.”
“I’m always right.”
You wrapped the coat tighter around yourself.
“You usually are.”
Silence settled again. He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just stood beside you. Shoulder brushing yours.
“You ready to tell me what’s going on, kid?”
You stared out at the snow.
“I thought…” You laughed weakly. “…I thought today would prove we didn’t work.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“The age difference.”
He sighed quietly.
“Your job.”
Another sigh.
“My family.”
“I’ve met them.”
“I kept waiting for someone to look at us and think…” You swallowed. “…what is a forty-nine-year-old man doing with my daughter?”
Robby was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked over at you.
“I wasn’t interviewing.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I didn’t come here to convince anybody.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I came because you asked me to.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than any grand speech ever could.
“I know.”
“No.” His voice was calm. “I came because you wanted me here.”
Another beat.
“And because they’re your family.” His eyes softened. “That makes them important to me.”
His eyes held yours. Long enough that the sounds from inside the house faded away.
“When it comes to you…” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “…I’ve always been honest.”
Your heart stumbled. Neither of you said another word. Neither of you needed to. For the first time all day the anxiety finally began to melt away with the falling snow.
******
The drive back to Pittsburgh was quiet. Not because anything was wrong. Quite the opposite. There was a comfortable fullness to the silence, like the day had finally settled into both of you. The roads were darker now, the snow reflecting the headlights in soft waves as Robby guided the truck back toward the city. His right hand rested on the steering wheel while his left remained loosely intertwined with yours across the center console.
Neither of you seemed eager to let go. Every now and then he’d rub his thumb over the back of your hand absentmindedly. Every time he did, your heart squeezed.
“You’ve been smiling at the dashboard for twenty miles.”
You looked over.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
You smiled.
“I think your reputation is ruined.”
“My reputation?”
“My family thinks you’re adorable.”
He made a face.
“I’ve spent two decades cultivating a healthy amount of fear.”
“I know.”
“And your grandmother undid it in one afternoon.”
“She did.”
“Called me handsome.”
“She wasn’t wrong.”
His ears pinked just enough for you to notice.
“You enjoying this?”
“Immensely.”
“I knew sleeping with you was a mistake.”
You laughed, resting your head against the window.
“It really wasn’t.”
He glanced over for only a second.
“No. It wasn’t.”
The warmth in his voice lingered long after the conversation faded again.
******
It was almost ten-thirty by the time the elevator doors opened onto his floor. The apartment greeted you the same way it always did. Quiet. Warm. The faint scent of cedar from the bookshelf in the living room mixed with coffee that had long since gone cold in the pot he’d forgotten to empty before leaving that morning.
Home.
Without saying much, the two of you slipped into the easy rhythm you’d built over the last year. He locked the door while you kicked off your boots. You wandered into the bedroom and disappeared into the bathroom to wash your face. When you came back a few minutes later, your hair was damp around your temples, and you were wearing one of his faded PTMC T-shirts that reached the middle of your thighs.
You’d stolen it months ago. Neither of you pretended it was temporary anymore. Robby had already changed into an old pair of gray sleep pants and a black T-shirt. He looked impossibly tired. The kind of tired that settled into his bones.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
He looked up from turning off the bedside lamp.
“Hm?”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I wanted to go.”
“I know.”
“And I’d do it again tomorrow.”
Your chest warmed.
“You don’t have to keep proving yourself.”
He frowned.
“I wasn’t.”
“You weren’t?”
“No.” He crossed the room until he was standing in front of you. “I wasn’t there to prove anything.”
His hand found your waist naturally.
“I was there because you wanted me there.”
You looked up at him.
“I know.”
“I wanted to meet the people who made you…” His lips twitched. “…you.”
You smiled.
“They liked you.”
“I noticed.”
“They really liked you.”
“They’re easy people to like.”
You laughed quietly.
“I spent weeks worrying.”
“I know.”
“For nothing.”
He brushed a thumb along your cheek.
“I wish you’d told me.”
“I didn’t want to sound ridiculous.”
“You wouldn’t have.”
“I got scared.”
That made him blink.
“…scared?”
You nodded once.
“Watching everyone gather around you…” You laughed softly at yourself. “…it was stupid.”
“I bet it wasn’t.”
“I felt…” You searched for the words. “…like I’d finally brought two parts of my life together.”
His expression softened.
“And?”
“And then I realized…” Your eyes drifted down to where your fingers had begun absentmindedly playing with the hem of his shirt. “…how much I’d lose if you ever weren’t there.”
The room became impossibly still. Robby didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached up and gently tipped your chin until you were looking at him again.
“You know what I spent today thinking about?”
You shook your head.
“I kept looking at your family…” A faint smile appeared. “…and wondering if this is what holidays are supposed to feel like.”
Your heart caught.
“You’ve never really had that.”
“No.”
“They argued.”
“They absolutely argued.”
“They laughed over each other.”
“They did.”
“Nobody cared who was talking.”
You smiled.
“They never have.”
His voice became quieter.
“I liked watching you become somebody’s granddaughter again.”
Your eyes immediately stung. You smiled through the tears threatening again. He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“They were taking care of you.”
You stepped closer until there wasn’t any space left between you. He wrapped both arms around you without hesitation. The hug was slow. Unhurried. The kind that came after a long day, when neither person needed anything except to know the other was there.
You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Steady. Comforting. Real.
“I missed that,” you whispered.
“What?”
“Feeling like somebody’s kid.”
His chin rested lightly against the top of your head.
“I know.”
You stood there for another minute before he finally murmured, “C’mon.”
“You falling asleep standing up?”
“…Maybe.”
You laughed.
“Thought so.”
The bedroom was dark except for the amber glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. You slid beneath the comforter first. A moment later, the mattress dipped as Robby climbed in beside you. Almost instinctively, you rolled toward him. He opened one arm before you even reached him. Like he’d been expecting you to.
You tucked yourself against his chest, your cheek resting just below his collarbone. The oversized shirt you’d stolen bunched slightly beneath the blankets as his hand slipped beneath the soft cotton to rest against the small of your back. His palm was warm. His touch familiar. Slowly, lazily, he began tracing absent circles against your skin. Not with any destination in mind. Just because he knew it relaxed you.
Outside, snow tapped gently against the bedroom window. Inside, there was only the quiet rhythm of your breathing beginning to match his.
“You smell good,” you mumbled.
A sleepy chuckle vibrated beneath your cheek.
“I smell like soap.”
“And you.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It is.”
His fingers continued their slow path across your back. You closed your eyes. For a while, neither of you spoke. There wasn’t a need. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It felt…full.
Like something had quietly shifted over the course of the day. You thought about your mother. About your grandmother slipping her arm through his. About your cousins laughing with him on the living room floor. About your father’s absence. About the place Robby had somehow occupied without trying to replace anyone.
You realized something. You weren’t imagining a future anymore. You were living the beginning of one. Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
“Robby?”
“Hm?”
His voice was already heavy with sleep. You lifted your head just enough to look at him. In the dim light, you could barely make out his face. The lines of exhaustion. The silver beginning to thread through his dark hair. The man who carried so much for everyone else. The man who had quietly, steadily become your safest place. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.
“…I love you.”
For one terrifying heartbeat…Nothing. His hand stopped moving against your back. You felt your stomach drop. Then he exhaled slowly. Not in surprise. Almost in relief.
He opened his eyes and looked at you with a softness you’d never seen before. His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. Then the bridge of your nose. Then one quiet, lingering kiss against your lips that said more than either of you ever could. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I was wondering,” he whispered with the smallest smile, “which one of us was going to be brave enough to say it first.”
A tear escaped before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb.
“I love you, too.”
There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. No dramatic declaration. Just complete, unwavering certainty.
“I think…” he murmured, “…I’ve loved you for a while.”
You laughed softly through your tears.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know.”
He sighed with mock defeat.
“…The morning you fell asleep on my couch after that twenty-nine shift.”
You smiled.
“That long?”
“You stole my blanket.”
“I was cold.”
“You drooled on my pillow.”
“I did not.”
“The stain is still there.”
You laughed, hiding your face against his neck.
“I can’t believe that’s the moment.”
“It wasn’t because of the blanket.”
“No?”
“It was because…” He paused, searching for words the way he always did when something mattered. “…I looked at you, and for the first time in a very long time…”
His arms tightened around you.
“…home looked like a person.”
Your breath caught. You didn’t answer. You simply kissed him once more, slow and tender, before settling back against his chest. His hand returned beneath your shirt, gently rubbing soothing circles along your back as the apartment fell quiet again.
Outside, snow continued to blanket the city. Inside, wrapped safely in each other’s arms, the line between the person you were dating and the person you were building a life with disappeared so naturally that neither of you noticed the exact moment it happened. Only that, somehow, when morning came…it would feel like it had always been this way.
Request - Hello hello Miss Paige! I'm not quite sure if your requests are open but if they are I was wondering if I could request a dr Robby x wife reader they've been trying to get pregnant but she's infertile then one day he actually adopts baby Jane doe as their own! I just loved they way he was with that baby girl and I couldn't help but think of your fics🩷
The alarm would go off at six. You would groan dramatically, tugging the comforter over your head while Robby muttered something unintelligible into his pillow beside you. It happened every weekday without fail. He worked twelve-hour shifts saving lives in one of Pittsburgh’s busiest emergency departments, and yet somehow the trauma attending who could bark orders through a mass casualty incident became an absolute menace whenever his alarm clock dared interrupt his sleep.
“Michael,” you’d mumble.
“No.”
“You have to go to work.”
“I’ve thought about it. I don’t.”
You’d laugh into the pillow before reaching over him to silence the alarm yourself.
“You have patients.”
“They’ll understand.”
“I don’t think they will.”
He’d sigh theatrically before finally rolling onto his back, rubbing both hands over his face. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side. My side just also likes having electricity.”
That would earn you one sleepy glare before he reached over, caught your wrist, and tugged you back against him for one more minute.
“Five,” he’d negotiate.
“One.”
“Four.”
“Two.”
He kissed you.
“Deal.”
Those two extra minutes always turned into ten. By six-thirty the house smelled like coffee instead of sleep. You stood barefoot in the kitchen wearing one of Robby’s old Pitt Medical Center hoodies while scrambling eggs, your hair twisted into a messy clip that never survived the morning. Robby wandered in freshly showered, smoothing his black scrub top over a blue undershirt.
“You stealing my clothes again?” he asked.
“I married you. They’re community property.”
“I don’t think that’s how marriage works.”
“It is in Pennsylvania.”
He snorted, pouring himself coffee before leaning against the counter to watch you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you’re about to ask me to do something.”
You smiled innocently. “The museum’s getting a Roman exhibit delivered today.”
“Mhm.”
“And the shipping company insists everything has to be unloaded before eight.”
“Mhm.”
“And I might’ve volunteered to help move a two-thousand-year-old marble bust.”
“…Absolutely not.”
“It only weighs—”
“I don’t care if it weighs two pounds.”
“It weighs…” You hesitated.
His eyebrow rose.
“…One hundred and forty.”
He stared at you.
“Sweetheart.”
“I wasn’t going to carry it by myself.”
“You weren’t going to touch it.”
“I am literally the curator.”
“You’re literally five-foot-seven.”
“I am capable.”
He stepped forward until he was standing directly in front of you, one hand wrapping around your waist while the other brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“I know you are.” His voice softened. “But I also know you throw your back out reaching for cereal on the top shelf.”
“I did that once.”
“It was last month.”
“It was embarrassing enough the first time.”
“I carried you downstairs.”
“You laughed.”
“I absolutely did.”
You smacked his chest. He kissed you anyway. It was easy. That was your favorite thing about loving Michael Robinavich. Nothing between the two of you ever felt forced. Not after five years together. Not after nearly three years of marriage.
Life wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t some grand romance full of extravagant gestures. It was grocery lists on the refrigerator. It was him bringing home the good sourdough because he’d remembered you’d mentioned it three weeks earlier. It was you texting him reminders to eat something besides coffee and vending machine pretzels. It was ordinary. Beautifully ordinary. Except…
For the calendar hidden inside the junk drawer. After Robby left for work, you stood in the kitchen for a long moment before quietly opening it. A small planner. Nothing fancy. Just dates. Tiny circles. Little hearts. Doctor’s notes. Ovulation windows. Expected periods. Pregnancy tests.
Six months. Six months of timing dinners around fertile windows. Six months of joking about how unromantic phone reminders could be. Six months of buying tests in bulk because somehow that hurt less than buying one. You’d promised each other you weren’t going to obsess. You were failing spectacularly.
******
The museum was quieter than usual that afternoon. Children wandered through the dinosaur exhibit while a retired couple asked thoughtful questions about an upcoming Impressionist collection. Normally, the work grounded you. You loved watching people discover something they’d never noticed before. History had a way of reminding everyone that time kept moving. Today, though your phone buzzed.
Michael ❤️
How’s Caesar?
You smiled despite yourself.
Roman exhibit survived. Curator still alive.
His reply came almost immediately.
Good. I would’ve hated explaining to your parents that you lost a fight with Julius Caesar.
It was Augustus.
History nerd.
Trauma nerd.
Three bouncing dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came one final message.
Don’t make plans tonight.
Your stomach fluttered.
Why?
Because I’m taking my wife to dinner.
Special occasion?
There was a pause before his answer came through.
No. Just miss you.
Your eyes stung unexpectedly. Not because anything was wrong. Because everything was still so right. Even with the quiet disappointment that arrived every month, he had never let this become about obligation. He still flirted. He still stole kisses in the kitchen. He still reached for your hand whenever the two of you crossed a street.
He never made you feel like your marriage was becoming a checklist. And somehow that almost made the ache worse.
******
Dinner ended with the two of you sharing cheesecake because Robby insisted ordering two desserts was “financially irresponsible.”
“You make more than enough money to buy two slices.”
“That’s exactly how rich people become poor.”
You laughed.
“You have absolutely no evidence to support that.”
“I have vibes.”
“You have anxiety.”
“I have both.”
When you got home, the evening settled into its familiar rhythm. You changed into pajamas. He stretched out beside you on the couch. Some terrible reality competition played in the background that neither of you was actually watching. Eventually your head found his shoulder. His fingers absentmindedly traced circles across the back of your hand.
“Hey?” he said quietly.
“Mhm?”
“When does your period start?”
You looked down at your intertwined fingers.
“Tomorrow.”
Silence. Not awkward. Just…heavy. He squeezed your hand once.
“Maybe this month it won’t?”
You smiled. Not because you believed it anymore. But because he still did.
“…Maybe this month.”
Neither of you noticed that neither answer sounded quite as hopeful as it had six months before.
******
The pregnancy test sat face down on the bathroom counter. Neither of you had touched it in nearly twenty minutes. There wasn’t any reason to. You already knew what it said. You had known before you’d even taken it.
Negative. Again.
You leaned against the vanity with your arms folded tightly across your stomach, staring at the white subway tile on the opposite wall as though if you looked long enough, it would somehow rearrange itself into different news. Behind you, the bedroom remained quiet. Robby hadn’t come in. He never did. Not unless you asked. It wasn’t avoidance. It was respect.
The bathroom had become your space every month. Your place to breathe, to process, to cry if you needed to without feeling like someone was trying to make the disappointment disappear before you were ready. A soft knock came against the door.
“You okay?”
His voice was gentle. You closed your eyes.
“…No.”
The door opened just enough for him to peek inside. He didn’t ask about the test. He didn’t have to. His eyes found yours before they drifted briefly toward the counter. One glance. That was enough.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
He crossed the room slowly, giving you every opportunity to tell him to stop. Instead, you stepped into him. His arms wrapped around you automatically, one hand settling against the back of your head while the other rested low against your back.
Neither of you spoke. There wasn’t anything left to say that hadn’t already been said during the last six months.
“I’m tired,” you whispered into his T-shirt.
“I know.”
“I’m so tired of hoping.”
“I know.”
“It feels stupid now.”
“It isn’t.”
“It does.”
He kissed the top of your head.
“No,” he murmured. “It feels human.”
Your breathing hitched.
“I keep thinking…” You swallowed hard. “Maybe I did something wrong years ago. Maybe I waited too long. Maybe—”
“No.”
His answer came immediately. Firm. Certain. You pulled back enough to look at him.
“No,” he repeated. “We’re not doing that.”
“But—”
“We’re not.” His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes. “You don’t get to blame yourself for biology.”
“I just don’t understand.”
“I know.”
“I’ve done everything.”
“I know.”
“I track everything.”
“I know.”
“I stopped drinking wine.”
“I noticed.”
“I even switched shampoo because some woman online said—”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
“You switched shampoo?”
“It had three million views.”
“You let TikTok make medical decisions?”
“It was a vulnerable moment.”
That earned the smallest laugh from both of you. Tiny. Fragile. But real. Robby rested his forehead against yours.
“We’re making an appointment.”
You nodded.
“I think…” you whispered. “I think it’s time.”
******
The fertility clinic didn’t smell like a hospital. It smelled like lavender. Someone had clearly decided soft lighting and watercolor paintings would somehow make difficult conversations easier. You weren’t convinced.
Robby sat beside you in the waiting room, one knee bouncing almost imperceptibly. Most people assumed he was unshakable. You knew better. His tells were microscopic. The bouncing knee. The way he rolled his wedding band around his finger. The fact that he’d read the same magazine page three times without turning it. He looked over.
“You want to leave?”
You almost laughed.
“You think we’d make it to the parking garage?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
He reached across the armrest, quietly intertwining your fingers. When the nurse finally called your names, he didn’t let go.
The appointment lasted just under an hour. There were questions. Medical history. Blood work. Imaging. Follow-up testing over the next several weeks. Life carried on around those appointments.
You curated exhibits. Robby worked shifts. You still laughed. Still made dinner together. Still argued over whose turn it was to fold laundry. But beneath everything…There was waiting. Until one rainy Thursday afternoon. The doctor’s office overlooked downtown Pittsburgh. Gray clouds pressed against the windows while traffic crawled several stories below. The physician sat across from both of you with a folder resting on her lap. She wasn’t rushed. You appreciated that.
“We have your results.”
Your stomach dropped. She explained everything carefully. The findings. The diagnosis. The statistics. The possibilities. She talked about specialists. IVF. Egg donation. Embryo adoption. Surrogacy. Future conversations. Words continued filling the room.nYou heard them. You just couldn’t seem to hold onto them. Because one sentence kept echoing louder than the rest.
“The likelihood of conceiving naturally is extremely low.”
The office became impossibly quiet. You looked down at your hands.
“…Okay.”
It came out barely above a whisper. The doctor nodded sympathetically.
“I’m very sorry.”
You smiled automatically. The same polite smile you’d perfected through years of museum galas and donor dinners.
“Thank you.”
Beside you, Robby asked thoughtful questions. The kind he always asked. Clarifying. Respectful. Professional. You barely registered the conversation.
The drive home was silent. Not uncomfortable. Rain tapped softly against the windshield while Pittsburgh blurred past in streaks of gray. Robby kept one hand on the steering wheel. The other rested quietly between the seats. Palm up.
Waiting.
You slipped your hand into his halfway across one of the bridges. He squeezed once. Neither of you spoke.
You didn’t make dinner. Neither of you was hungry. The takeout containers sat unopened on the kitchen counter while evening slowly settled over the house. You changed into one of Robby’s old sweatshirts before wandering into the living room.
He found you sitting on the floor. Your back leaned against the couch.nYour knees hugged tightly against your chest.nHe didn’t ask permission. He simply sat beside you. Close enough that your shoulders touched. For several minutes…
Nothing. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked steadily. Cars passed outside. Rain continued falling.
“I feel broken.”
His eyes closed.
“…Don’t say that.”
“I do.”
“You aren’t broken.”
“I can’t do the one thing my body’s supposed to—”
“Baby, stop.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It was pleading. You looked over. His eyes were already wet.
“I need you to listen to me for a minute.”
You nodded silently. He turned toward you completely.
“I married you because you make me laugh when I’ve had the worst day of my life.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“I married you because you can spend forty-five minutes explaining why one painting belongs in a different room, and somehow I end up caring.”
Another tear followed.
“I married you because you dance in this kitchen while you’re making grilled cheese.”
You laughed through your tears.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I sway.”
“You choreograph.” His own voice cracked. “I didn’t marry you because I thought you’d give me children.”
He reached up, brushing away another tear with the pad of his thumb.
“I married you because you’re my favorite person.”
Your lip trembled.
“If our family ends up being just us…” He shrugged gently. “Then I won.”
You broke. Not quietly. Not gracefully. The sob tore out of your chest before you could stop it. You buried your face against his shoulder while he wrapped both arms around you, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
“I’m sorry,” you cried.
“So am I.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head immediately
“For everything.”
He gently cupped your face until you had no choice but to look at him.
“There is nothing—” his voice caught before he steadied it, “—nothing for you to apologize to me for. We lost something today. We did. You’re not alone in this.”
Your tears kept falling.
“I don’t know what happens next.”
He smiled sadly.
“…Neither do I.”
The honesty of it settled between you. No promises. No false hope. Just truth. After a long silence, he rested his forehead against yours.
“We don’t have to decide anything tonight.”
You nodded.
“Not IVF.”
Another nod.
“Not adoption.”
You closed your eyes.
“Not fostering.”
His thumb stroked your cheek.
“We’re allowed to just…be sad for a while.”
You reached for his hand, weaving your fingers through his.
“…Okay.”
He kissed your forehead. Then your temple. Then your cheek. Finally, he whispered the only promise he knew he could keep.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Outside, the rain continued to fall against the windows. Inside, two people sat on the living room floor grieving the future they had imagined, completely unaware that, months from now, a tiny little baby with no name, no family, and nowhere else to go would quietly change both of their lives forever.
******
The museum had closed nearly two hours ago. You’d spent the evening cataloging a recent donation—a collection of handwritten Civil War letters that had somehow survived more than a century tucked inside an attic trunk. Usually, work like that settled your mind. It required patience. Precision. Quiet.
Tonight, though, you couldn’t focus. Your eyes kept drifting toward the clock hanging above your office door.
9:17 p.m.
Robby should’ve been home an hour ago. You knew better than to worry immediately. The emergency department didn’t run on schedules, and Michael Robinavich certainly didn’t leave simply because the clock told him he could.
Still…You sent a text.
You: Alive?
No response. You sighed, slipping your phone back into your purse before locking your office and making your way through the empty museum. Outside, the July air was warm, the city humming softly around you. By the time you reached home, the sun had disappeared completely.
The house was dark. You kicked off your shoes, changed into leggings and one of Robby’s old T-shirts, and started making grilled cheese sandwiches. One for you. One for him. You’d learned long ago that after difficult shifts, he almost never admitted he was hungry.
He’d simply wander into the kitchen and steal yours. You smiled to yourself. Some habits never changed.
******
It was nearly midnight when headlights finally swept across the living room wall. You looked up from the couch.
“…Jesus.”
You hurried to the front door before he’d even reached it. When it opened, the first thing you noticed wasn’t the infant carrier sitting beside his feet. It was him.
His shoulders sagged beneath his jacket. His hair was flattened in odd directions from repeatedly dragging his hands through it. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked…
Empty. Not physically. Emotionally. Like someone had quietly taken pieces of him throughout the day and forgotten to give them back.
“Michael…”
His eyes found yours. For a second…you saw them soften with relief.
“Hey.”
His voice was hoarse.
“You okay?”
He gave a tired shrug.
“I don’t know.”
Your heart cracked. Then your eyes drifted downward.
“…Honey?”
He followed your gaze.
“Oh.”
As though he’d forgotten.
“There…there’s a baby.” You blinked. “…Michael.”
“I know.”
“…Michael.”
“I know.”
You stared at the infant carrier. Then back at your husband.
“…Whose baby is that?”
He scrubbed both hands over his exhausted face.
“I honestly don’t know.”
“…What?”
He stepped inside, carefully lifting the carrier before nudging the front door closed with his foot. The little girl inside couldn’t have been more than a few months old. She was asleep. One tiny fist tucked beneath her cheek. Dark eyelashes resting against impossibly round little cheeks. Your entire body instinctively softened.
“Oh…”
Robby carefully set the carrier on the living room rug before crouching beside it. He didn’t look at the baby. He looked at the floor.
“It was a hell of a shift.”
You quietly sat beside him. He took a long breath.
“They found her.” You waited. “Wrapped in a blanket.”
Another silence.
“No identification. No diaper bag. No note.” His jaw tightened. “Nothing.”
You reached for his hand. He accepted it immediately.
“CPS has been trying to locate family all day.” He swallowed. “Nobody’s come.”
Your eyes drifted back toward the sleeping infant.
“So…”
“So hospital policy allows temporary emergency placement with qualified caregivers when…” He rubbed a hand over his eyes again. “When there isn’t an immediate placement available.”
He laughed once. It wasn’t amused.
“They asked if I’d take her overnight.”
“You said yes.”
“I didn’t even think.”
His voice sounded almost apologetic.
“I just…” He looked at the baby. “…I couldn’t leave her there.”
You smiled sadly. His shoulders slumped even further.
“I know that’s insane. I have absolutely no business bringing an infant home after today.”
“You brought her somewhere safe.”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“You keep premature babies alive for a living.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“They leave. They go home.”
The words escaped before he could stop them. Silence settled between you. He immediately regretted saying it.
“I’m sorry.”
You shook your head.
“No.”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” You scooted closer until your shoulder rested against his. “I know what you meant.”
He nodded once. Barely. After another long silence, he finally whispered…
“I lost three people today.”
Your breath caught.
“I had to tell an old friend he’s got cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And then…” His eyes landed on the baby’s again. “…There she was.”
The tiny baby stretched in her sleep, making the smallest little sigh.
“I kept walking past her room all day.” His voice cracked. “Every time I walked by…”
He laughed bitterly.
“She’d just…look at me.”
You listened.
“I don’t know why.” He shook his head. “I’d stop for thirty seconds. Talk to her. Make a bottle. Rock her. Then I’d get called away again.”
His fingers curled tightly together.
“I don’t even like pediatrics.”
That earned the tiniest smile from you.
“I know.”
“I barely tolerate healthy adults.”
“I definitely know.”
“But…” He stared at the sleeping infant. “…She didn’t have anyone.”
His voice broke completely on that sentence. You’d seen Michael cry exactly three times in your marriage. This wasn’t quite crying.nIt was something quieter. The exhaustion of a man whose heart had simply reached capacity.
Without saying a word, you wrapped both arms around him. He leaned into you immediately. His forehead rested against your shoulder. For several minutes neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was the baby’s tiny, steady breathing. Eventually, Robby exhaled shakily.
“I don’t think I can keep doing this forever.”
You knew he wasn’t talking about the baby. He was talking about the emergency department. About the endless losses.nThe impossible expectations. The depression he’d been carrying for months. You kissed the top of his head.
“You don’t have to figure that out tonight.”
“No?”
“Tonight…” You glanced toward the little girl sleeping peacefully between you. “…Tonight we just keep her safe.”
He looked over. Really looked. At the baby. A faint smile touched his lips for the first time all day.
“Yeah.”
He reached into the carrier, carefully sliding one finger into the baby’s tiny hand. She wrapped all five little fingers around it instinctively. Robby froze.
“…Well,” he whispered, sounding almost awestruck.
“I think she likes you.”
He let out the softest laugh.
“I’ve had tougher patients.”
You grinned.
“That’s a bold statement. She hasn’t even had dinner yet.”
Almost as if on cue, the baby’s face scrunched. One tiny whimper escaped. Then another. Robby looked at you. You looked at him. Neither of you moved.
“…Do you know how to make a bottle?” you asked.
He blinked.
“…Do you know how to make a bottle?”
“…No.”
“…Huh.”
The baby’s whimpers quickly escalated into full-fledged cries. You both sprang into motion at exactly the same time, bumping shoulders before staring at each other. Despite everything…Despite the grief. The infertility. The horrific shift. The depression weighing on his shoulders. You both started laughing.
It wasn’t because anything was funny. It was because for the first time in months…The two of you weren’t thinking about what your future might never be. You were simply trying to comfort a tiny little girl who, for one night at least, had somehow found her way home.
******
Three days.
It was only supposed to be one. You’d both known that from the beginning. One night. Then Child Protective Services would find an emergency foster placement, and Baby Jane Doe would continue whatever uncertain journey had begun before either of you ever met her. Except…the emergency placement had fallen through. Then another. Then another. Paperwork. Background checks. A family illness. A home that suddenly couldn’t accommodate an infant. Every morning someone called. Every afternoon they apologized. Every evening the baby was still there.
******
By the fourth morning, she had quietly become…
Jane.
Neither of you remembered when you’d stopped calling her Baby Jane Doe. It had simply happened. Like calling a stranger by their first name after enough conversations.
“You spoil her.”
You looked over from the kitchen. Robby stood in the living room with Jane tucked against his shoulder, slowly pacing barefoot across the hardwood floor while she chewed determinedly on the collar of his T-shirt.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I’m preventing emotional distress.”
“She’s asleep.”
“I’m preventing future emotional distress.”
You laughed.
“I don’t think she understands your preventative medicine.”
“I don’t think you understand babies.”
“I have books.”
“I have a baby.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically.
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet…” He smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks. “…you married me anyway.”
The smile looked different now. Lighter. Not because everything in his life had suddenly become okay. The emergency department was still exhausting him. Some mornings he still sat in his car for several minutes before walking inside. Some nights he came home quieter than usual. The depression hadn’t disappeared. But…Jane seemed to interrupt it.
She gave him something that didn’t ask him to save the impossible. She only asked for a bottle. Or a diaper. Or someone to hold her. For the first time in months, you watched your husband care for someone without the weight of wondering whether they’d survive until morning.
Later that evening, Jane finally fell asleep after what felt like an hour of determinedly refusing to admit she was tired. You laughed quietly as Robby tiptoed out of the nursery you’d hastily assembled in the guest room.
“You know she weighs maybe twelve pounds.”
He nodded solemnly.
“And?”
“You walk like she’s made of glass.”
“I think she’s offended by your tone.”
“I think you’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve accepted that.”
He followed you into the living room. The television played softly in the background. Neither of you paid attention. The baby monitor rested on the coffee table between two mugs of tea. Robby stared at it. Longer than necessary. You noticed.
“What?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead…He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The silence stretched.
“I got a call today.”
Your stomach tightened.
“About Jane?”
He nodded.
“CPS.”
You instinctively looked toward the hallway. As though someone might already be there to take her.
“They’re still looking.”
You swallowed.
“Oh.”
“No family has come forward.”
You nodded once.
“They’re expanding the search.”
“Okay.”
“They’re beginning discussions about long-term placement if that doesn’t change.”
Your heart started pounding. You knew where this conversation was going. Or maybe…You hoped you didn’t. Robby rubbed both hands together.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“So have I.”
“I know.”
Silence settled again. He looked at you. Really looked at you.
“…Can I ask you something?”
“You never have to ask.”
He smiled faintly.
“I think I do.”
You reached across the couch, taking his hand.
“Ask.”
He took a slow breath.
“…What if we tried?”
Your eyes immediately filled.
“You mean…”
“I mean…” His voice softened. “…What if we asked if we could become her permanent placement?”
The room became impossibly quiet. You looked toward the hallway again. Toward the tiny little girl asleep in the next room.
“I’ve been trying not to think about it.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been telling myself she’s only here temporarily.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been telling myself not to get attached.”
“I know.”
Another tear slid down your cheek.
“I think I failed.”
His thumb brushed the back of your hand.
“I failed too.”
You laughed through your tears.
“I love her.”
“So do I.”
“I shouldn’t already.”
“I know.”
You wiped quickly at your face.
“But…” Your voice trembled. “I’m scared.”
His expression softened immediately.
“I know.”
“No…” You shook your head. “don’t mean scared of being a parent.”
“I know what you mean, baby.”
“I’m scared they’ll take her.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“I’m scared her mother will come back.”
Another tear escaped.
“And if she’s healthy and safe and ready…” You swallowed hard. “…then they should.”
He nodded immediately.
“They should.”
“I’m scared we’ll fall completely in love with her…” Your voice cracked. “…and then we’ll have to hand her to someone else.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I can survive losing another child.”
The words hung between you. Raw. Honest. He shifted closer until your knees touched.
“I’ve thought about that every single day.”
“You have?”
He nodded.
“Every day.” He looked toward the hallway. “I also think about the possibility that she doesn’t have anyone.”
You followed his gaze.
“What if…” His voice barely rose above a whisper. “…what if we’re supposed to be her someone?”
You covered your mouth. Immediately, tears spilled over.
“I can’t promise you this works.” He reached up, gently pulling your hand away so he could hold it. “I can’t promise CPS says yes.”
You nodded.
“I can’t promise her biological family won’t be found.”
Another nod.
“I can’t promise we won’t get hurt.”
You squeezed his hand so tightly your knuckles turned white.
“But…” He smiled sadly. “…I’d rather have my heart broken trying to love her than spend the rest of my life wondering if we should’ve.”
You stared at him. The man who had spent months reminding you that your worth had never depended on having children. The man who had quietly carried a little abandoned girl through your front door because he couldn’t bear the thought of her spending another night alone. The man who still came home haunted by the emergency department and somehow still found enough gentleness left inside himself to rock a baby to sleep. You leaned forward until your forehead rested against his.
“…I want to try.”
His breath caught.
“I know it might not happen.”
“Right.”
“I know we could lose her.”
“Right.”
“I know this could absolutely destroy us.”
He smiled through eyes that had begun to glisten.
“It could.”
You laughed softly.
“You’re supposed to talk me out of this.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“No?”
He shook his head.
“I’ve been picturing teaching her how to ride a bike.”
Your heart shattered all over again.
“I’ve been picturing taking her to the museum.”
He chuckled quietly.
“She’ll probably hate museums.”
“She’ll pretend to like them because I love them.”
“And then she’ll beg me for ice cream afterward.”
“Which you’ll absolutely buy.”
“Obviously.”
You smiled through tears.
“So…”
He squeezed your hand.
“So…”
“We ask?”
He looked toward the hallway one last time before looking back at you.
“We ask.”
Neither of you realized it then, but that simple decision made on a quiet evening over cooling cups of tea while a baby monitor hummed softly between you, would become the moment your family truly began. Not because the paperwork had been signed. Not because the law had changed.
But because, for the first time, the future you were imagining had a little girl in it. And neither of you could imagine it any other way.
******
The courthouse was smaller than you’d imagined. After months of paperwork, home studies, interviews, fingerprinting, reference letters, background checks, meetings with social workers, sleepless nights, impossible waiting, and more than one phone call that had left both you and Robby convinced everything was about to fall apart, it somehow came down to an ordinary brick building tucked between a law office and a coffee shop in downtown Pittsburgh. It felt underwhelming.
The biggest day of your life had fluorescent lighting. You adjusted Jane’s little cream-colored cardigan for what had to be the tenth time that morning. She immediately tugged it crooked again.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
You laughed quietly, trying to smooth it back into place.
“You know I’m going to keep fixing that until we go inside.”
Jane looked up at you with the enormous brown eyes that had somehow become capable of melting every ounce of stress from your body. Then she grinned. Not a polite smile. Not a baby smile. One of those giant, uninhibited grins that showed every tiny tooth she’d managed to grow over the past year.
“Mama!”
Your chest tightened. Every single time. She’d started calling you Mama nearly four months ago. Not because anyone had taught her. Not because you’d encouraged it. One morning while you were making blueberry pancakes she’d simply crawled into the kitchen, wrapped both arms around your leg and announced—
“Mama.”
You’d cried so hard that Robby had nearly burned breakfast. Even now It still didn’t feel real. You scooped her into your arms, pressing a kiss against her soft curls.
“Hi, baby.”
Tiny fingers immediately found the necklace around your neck. Her favorite game. You let her play. Across the room, Robby emerged from the courthouse hallway with two cups of coffee balanced carefully in one hand.
He’d traded his scrubs for a navy suit that looked as though he’d forgotten how to wear anything besides scrubs. His tie sat ever so slightly crooked. You smiled.
“You know…”
He handed you one of the coffees.
“…you’re the only trauma attending in Pittsburgh who somehow still can’t tie a Windsor knot.”
“I can.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
“I choose not to.”
“You called Langdon this morning.”
“…I did.”
“To tie your tie.”
“He has surprisingly useful life skills.”
You laughed.
“He also showed up thirty minutes early just to make fun of you.”
“I regret asking.”
As though summoned by the conversation, Langdon appeared from farther down the hallway carrying a gift bag with cartoon dinosaurs printed across the side.
“I heard my name.”
“You usually do,” Robby muttered.
Langdon ignored him entirely, crouching down in front of Jane.
“And who is this beautiful little troublemaker?”
Jane immediately reached for him.
“Nope.” Langdon stood back up. “I changed my mind.”
Robby smirked.
“Smartest thing you’ve said all year.”
“You’ve been changing diapers for six months.”
“I have.”
“And you’re judging me?”
“I absolutely am.”
“You’ve become unbearable.”
“I’ve become a father.”
The words slipped out so naturally that none of you reacted at first. Not Langdon. Not you. Not even Robby. It wasn’t until several seconds later that his own expression changed. His eyes blinked once. Then twice.
“…Huh.”
You looked at him. He looked back.
“I guess I have.”
The smile that spread across his face wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t accompanied by tears. It was simply…Peace. A kind of quiet peace you hadn’t seen in him for a very long time. The emergency department still exhausted him. Some shifts still left him sitting in the driveway with both hands on the steering wheel before he found the energy to come inside. There were still difficult days. Still nights where the weight of everything he’d seen settled heavily across his shoulders. But there was something different now.
He came home. And Jane came babbling down the hallway mumbling, “Dada!”
Every. Single. Time. No matter what kind of shift he’d had. No matter how broken he felt. There was always one tiny human being who believed he had just hung the moon.
It hadn’t cured his depression. It hadn’t erased the hospital. But it had reminded him that life existed outside those walls.
******
The courtroom itself was intimate. No jury. No spectators. Just a judge, your attorney, the county representative, your social worker, and a handful of people who loved the three of you enough to take time away from their own lives.
Dana sat in the second row with tissues already in her lap. Jack was openly crying before anyone had even spoken. Langdon leaned over.
“I’ve got twenty bucks that Robinavich cries first.”
“You don’t have twenty dollars.”
“I could.”
“Your broke ass would never.”
The judge looked over her glasses.
“Gentlemen.”
Langdon immediately straightened.
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
Robby didn’t even pretend he’d been participating. The hearing wasn’t long. Questions. Confirmations. Paperwork. The social worker smiled as she spoke about your home. About Jane. About the stability she’d found. About the way she’d blossomed over the previous time with you and Robby.
The judge asked you both why you wanted to adopt. You answered first. Your voice trembled.
“I spent a long time grieving the family I thought we’d have.”
You looked toward Jane, happily stacking blocks on the courtroom floor while Dana helped her.
“And then she walked into our lives.” A tear slipped free. “I don’t believe she’s replacing anything.”
You smiled.
“I think she’s simply become something completely her own.”
The judge nodded before looking toward Robby.
“And you, Doctor Robinavich?”
He sat quietly for a moment. Anyone who knew Michael knew that silence. It meant he was searching for exactly the right words.
“I’ve spent most of my career meeting people on the worst day of their lives.”
The room grew still.
“I fix what I can.” His fingers found yours beneath the table. “And I carry what I can’t.”
His thumb brushed across your wedding ring.
“The day Jane came into the emergency department…” He glanced toward the little girl laughing with Dana. “…she needed someone.”
His voice grew quieter.
“I thought I was saying yes for one night.” He smiled. “Turns out…”
He looked at you.
“…I was saying yes to the rest of my life.”
There wasn’t a dry eye left in the courtroom. Not even the judge’s.
The final signature looked…ordinary. Ink on paper. Nothing more. The judge smiled warmly before sliding the documents across the desk.
“Congratulations.”
She looked toward Jane.
“As of this moment…” She tapped the paperwork once. “…she is officially your daughter.”
Silence. For one suspended heartbeat…No one moved. Then you heard tiny slaps pattering across the hardwood floor. Jane had abandoned her blocks. She crawled straight toward the two of you with complete confidence.
“Dada!”
Robby bent instinctively, scooping her into his arms before she could even come to a stop herself. She laughed. One of those loud baby laughs that filled every corner of the courtroom. Then she looked over at you. Tiny hands reached.
“Mama.”
You stepped beside them, wrapping one arm around Robby’s waist while the other settled gently against Jane’s little back. She fit there so perfectly. As though she’d always belonged between you. Robby looked down at her. His jaw tightened. You recognized it immediately. The tears.bHe was fighting them. Hard. You smiled softly.
“You don’t have to hold it together.”
“I know.”
“You’ve earned this.”
“I know.” His voice cracked anyway. “I just…”
He swallowed.
“I kept thinking someone was going to tell us no.”
Your own tears spilled freely now.
“So did I.”
He rested his forehead against yours, Jane giggling happily because she was suddenly trapped in the middle of a hug. Neither of you cared.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too.”
He looked down at Jane.
“And I love you.”
Jane’s response was immediate.
“Dada!”
Robby laughed. A real laugh. Not the tired chuckle he’d forced through difficult shifts. Not the dry sarcasm everyone at the hospital knew. A full, genuine laugh that reached his eyes. Langdon clapped dramatically from behind you.
“Well…” He sniffed loudly. “This is disgusting.”
Dana elbowed him.
“You’ve cried through the entire hearing.”
“I have allergies.”
“In February?”
“Very aggressive allergies.”
Everyone laughed. Even the judge.
******
Outside, Pittsburgh greeted you with one of those perfect spring afternoons that made the city glow. Someone suggested lunch. Someone else suggested pictures. Jane decided she’d rather scream at pigeons across the courthouse steps. You watched as Robby carry her, hands half-outstretched. Not because he thought he’d drop her, but because that was simply what fathers did.
She squealed with delight as birds scattered into the air. He laughed again. You stood there for a long moment, committing the image to memory.bA year ago, you’d sat on your living room floor believing your family might never grow. A year ago, Robby had walked through your front door carrying an exhausted little girl in an infant carrier after the hardest shift of his life. Neither of you had understood that hope sometimes arrived quietly.nNot with grand announcements. Not with certainty. Sometimes it arrived wrapped in a faded hospital blanket, sleeping peacefully through the chaos around her.
Robby turned back toward you, Jane balanced securely on his hip. She stretched one tiny arm toward you.
“Mama!”
He smiled.
“Think she’s looking for you.”
You walked over, slipping your hand into his. Jane immediately wrapped one tiny hand around your finger. The other closed around Robby’s. Satisfied, she sighed dramatically.
“Yesh.”
Robby chuckled.
“Yes?”
She nodded with absolute conviction.
“Yesh.”
You looked at your husband. At your daughter. At the little hand linking the two of you together. And for the first time in a very long time, the future didn’t feel like something to mourn. It felt like something waiting patiently to be lived. The three of you started down the courthouse steps together.
Not because every question had been answered. Not because life would suddenly become easy. But because, after everything you’d lost, everything you’d feared, and everything you’d survived…you were finally going home.
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As the requester of ‘Clingy Husband’… that was everything I could have hoped for and more 😍 Robby turning into a human blanket?? Quite literally perfection. Thank you lovely 💛🫶🏻💛
so glad you enjoyed it 🫶 thank you again for the request!
Request - Hilli! If possible, do you think you could do a cute one where maybe they're married and working together, and you keep getting pulled away and kept busy and he's busy too so he barely sees you? I just have this visual in my head of Robby stood there all grumpy like 'where is my wife?' and then becomes a clingy husband till the end of shift? 🫶🫶
The emergency department was already loud by seven in the morning. Monitors chirped from every direction, phones rang relentlessly at the nurses’ station, and the automatic doors at the ambulance bay seemed determined to open every thirty seconds. The Pitt thrived in chaos, and on most days, Dr. Michael Robinavich wore it like a second skin.
Today, however, he was annoyed. Robby stood at the central desk, coffee in one hand and a patient chart in the other, his dark eyes lifting every few seconds toward the doors.
“You know if you keep glaring at the entrance like that, it’s not going to make her appear any faster.”
Dana didn’t even look up from her tablet.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You are absolutely glaring.”
Robby frowned at her.
“I’m waiting.”
Dana finally looked up, entirely unimpressed.
“For your wife.”
“I’m waiting for one of my attendings.”
“Who also happens to be your wife.”
Robby took a sip of his coffee.
“You’re insufferable this early in the morning.”
“And you’re grumpy because she isn’t here.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
Dana snorted.
“Sure.”
Before he could answer, Princess approached.
“Dr. Robby? EMS is bringing in a seventy-two-year-old male. Possible stroke. Five minutes out.”
Robby nodded immediately.
“CT’s ready?”
“Already called.”
“Good.”
Princess hurried off. Dana watched him for another moment before smiling.
“What time did she leave this morning?”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Robby sighed.
“Six-thirty.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And you’ve been here since six-fifty and she isn’t.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“She said she’d be down here early.”
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The pouting.”
“I do not pout.”
Dana’s smile widened. “You’ve looked at those doors every thirty seconds since I got here.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
Before he could argue further, the doors to the Pitt slid open. Both of them looked up. A respiratory therapist walked in. Dana burst out laughing. Robby glared at her.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He didn’t. Mostly because she was right. You had texted him nearly an hour ago.
Leaving now. Save me coffee.
That was it. No follow-up text. No appearance in the Pitt. Nothing. Which was odd. You usually found him first thing in the morning, even if only for five minutes. You’d steal his coffee, lean against his shoulder while you looked over the board, kiss his cheek if nobody was paying attention, and then disappear to start your own shift.
It was stupid. Five minutes. That was all it usually was. But it was your five minutes. And apparently, he missed it.
“You should call her.”
He looked at Dana.
“I am not calling my wife because she’s late to work.”
“You’re worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You’re wondering where she is.”
He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Dana’s smile became unbearably smug.
“You are so in love with that woman.”
He rolled his eyes. Before he could say another word, a voice echoed from behind him.
“Dr. Robinavich?”
He turned. Mel King looked apologetic staring up at him.
“Radiology needs an attending for a contrast reaction.”
“Where’s Dr. R?”
Mel blinked.
“She got pulled up there twenty minutes ago.”
Robby’s entire expression changed. Dana looked delighted.
“Oh, mystery solved.”
He ignored her.
“She’s still in radiology?”
“Apparently.” Mel nodded. “They’ve had a rough morning.”
Robby looked toward the elevators. Then back at the Mel. Then toward the elevators again. Dana folded her arms.
“Go on.”
“I’m not going to radiology.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I absolutely was.”
“I have a stroke patient coming in.”
“And your wife is upstairs.”
He looked at her. She grinned.
“You miss her.”
“I saw her last night.”
“You’ve been awake for an hour without seeing her and you’re acting like someone stole your favorite toy.”
Robby looked offended.
“My wife is not a toy.”
“You know what I mean.”
The ambulance doors burst open then, and the incoming stroke patient rolled through. The entire department moved. Robby was instantly all business.
“What’s his last known well?”
“Forty minutes.”
“Deficits?”
“Left-sided weakness and slurred speech.”
“Get him to CT.”
He moved with the stretcher, barking orders and scanning the patient. The morning swallowed him whole. For nearly an hour, he didn’t stop. By the time the patient was stabilized and admitted, he finally exhaled.
He turned toward the desk. And immediately looked toward the elevators. Dana, who noticed everything, nearly laughed.
“You are unbelievable.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“You just did it again.”
“Did what?”
“Looked for your wife.”
“I wasn’t—“
“You were.”
He sighed.
“I was just wondering if she was back.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You make everything sound ridiculous.”
“Because it is ridiculous. She’s been gone for an hour.”
“I know.”
“She’s in the same building.”
“I know.”
“And you’ll probably see her in ten minutes.”
“I know.”
Dana smiled softly this time.
“But you miss her anyway.”
Robby didn’t answer. Because unfortunately…Yes. He did. As if the universe had decided to reward him, the elevator doors opened. His head lifted immediately.
You stepped out, hair already slipping from your bun, a stack of charts in your arms and your ID badge twisted backward. He smiled before he could stop himself. Then you looked up and spotted him. Your entire face softened.
You started walking toward him. He actually took a step forward.
“Dr. R!”
Both of you looked. Jesse was jogging toward you.
“The ICU attending needs you upstairs right now.”
You stopped. Looked at Jesse. Looked at Robby. And then sighed.
“Make Langdon go.”
Jesse looked confused.
“They specifically asked for you.”
You closed your eyes. Robby laughed softly. You pointed at him.
“I haven’t even said hello to my husband.”
Jesse looked genuinely apologetic.
“I’m sorry.”
You groaned. Robby’s smile widened. You walked the remaining few feet toward him anyway, stopping directly in front of him.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
You looked exhausted. He looked unfairly handsome, as always. You smiled.
“I missed our coffee.”
“I noticed.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
“You noticed?”
Dana snorted from behind the desk. Robby ignored her. You looked between them.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Robby barked.
Dana looked horrified.
“Nothing? You spent the last hour asking where your wife was.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
You blinked. Then looked at your husband. And smiled.
“Oh.”
Robby immediately knew that smile.
“No.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Don’t.”
“You missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I really didn’t.”
You grinned.
“I’ve been in the hospital for an hour.”
“I know.”
“And you’ve seen me for approximately thirty seconds.”
“I know.”
“And you’re grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
You laughed. The sound hit him right in the chest. Jesse cleared his throat. You sighed dramatically.
“I have to go.”
“You do.”
You looked at him for another moment. Then reached up and smoothed his scrub collar. A habit. One you’d done for years.
“There.”
He smiled a little.
“Thanks.”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek quickly.
“Try not to miss me too much.”
Behind him, Dana choked on a laugh. Robby glared at her. You smiled brightly. Then you were gone again. Disappearing toward the elevators. The doors closed. Silence.
Dana looked at him. He looked at the elevators. Then back at Dana. She folded her arms.
“Don’t.”
“You are absolutely grumpy.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve seen your wife for one minute and she’s gone again.”
He sighed.
“I hate this shift.”
Dana laughed. And despite himself, so did he.
******
By eleven o’clock, the emergency department had officially descended into madness. There was a three-car pileup on the interstate, the waiting room was overflowing, two nurses had called in sick, and one of the residents had accidentally ordered the wrong imaging study and was now avoiding Robby’s line of sight entirely.
He hadn’t sat down once. He also hadn’t seen his wife. Again. Not that he was counting.
He was absolutely counting.
“Pressure’s dropping.”
Robby looked up from the ultrasound screen.
“Start another liter and page surgery.”
Whitaker nodded quickly. Perlah approached from the opposite side.
“Room twelve is asking for pain medication again.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
“Psych consult is here.”
“Tell them I’ll sign the paperwork in ten.”
Emma appeared.
“Can you take a look at this ECG?”
He took the paper from her. And the. He heard it. A laugh. Your laugh. Somewhere down the hall.
His head snapped up. The nurses all noticed. The residents noticed. The patient on the stretcher probably noticed.
Robby was already looking toward the corridor. He caught the briefest glimpse of you through the crowd. Your hair was a complete mess now, your red jacket was hanging off one shoulder, and you were smiling at something one of the nurses had said. Then you disappeared around the corner. Again. Robby frowned.
“You should probably read the ECG.”
He blinked and looked back at the Emma.
“What?”
She held the paper up.
“The ECG.”
“Right.”
He took it. Emma grinned.
“You know, she’s not going anywhere.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“Dr. R.”
He stared at her.
“You’re looking at her like she’s about to move to another country.”
“I was not.”
“You were.”
He sighed.
“Can everyone please stop commenting on my marriage today?”
Emma laughed and walked away. Twenty minutes later, he was finally making his way toward the staff lounge for his first cup of fresh coffee when he saw you. At the end of the hallway. Walking toward him.
For once. No pagers. No nurses chasing you. No phone in your hand. Just you. You looked tired, but you smiled the second you saw him.
“There you are.” His entire mood improved.
“Here I am.”
You walked closer.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”
“You haven’t.” You smiled. “You look grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You definitely are.”
“I’ve had six consults.”
“I’ve had eight.”
“I hate everyone.”
You laughed softly.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“My husband.”
“I was never gone.”
“You get all growly when you’re tired.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
You stopped in front of him. Close enough that he could smell your shampoo beneath the antiseptic and coffee and hospital smell that clung to both of you. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were standing there.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
You made a face.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So have I.”
You smiled.
“I know.”
There was something soft in your expression. Something fond. As though you knew exactly what he was doing.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“That look means something.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does.”
You smiled wider.
“You missed me.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Uh-huh.”
You reached up and straightened his badge. Apparently, today was a day for fixing his clothes. He let you.
“You’ve looked for me at least six times today, haven’t you?”
He looked offended.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
“I really haven’t.”
You just smiled.
“Dr. R!”
Both of you closed your eyes. Jesse hurried toward you.
“Trauma two needs you.”
You looked at him. Then at Robby. Then back at Jesse.
“Right now?”
“They’re asking specifically for you.”
You sighed. Robby actually laughed. You pointed at him.
“Stop enjoying my suffering.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You smiled.”
“I absolutely smiled.”
You looked horrified.
“My husband is turning against me.”
“I’ve been abandoned all day. This feels like justice.”
You gasped softly.
“Justice?”
He grinned. Jesse looked between the two of you like he was watching a tennis match. You narrowed your eyes.
“You know what? Fine.”
You started backing away.
“I’ll remember this.”
“Will you?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“You’ll forget in ten minutes.”
“I’ll never forget.”
“You absolutely will.”
You kept walking backward.
“I can’t believe I married you.”
“You love me.”
Unfortunately, you looked entirely too pleased by that.
“I really do.”
You disappeared into Trauma Two. And he was smiling. Again.
“You are ridiculous.”
He looked over. Langdon was standing a few feet away, carrying a chart.
“What?”
“You’ve seen her for approximately two minutes and you’re smiling like a teenager.”
Robby rolled his eyes.
“I’m not smiling.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I hate this place.”
“No, you don’t.”
Langdon moved beside him.
“How long have you been married now?”
“Twelve years.”
“And you still act like this?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means if I don’t see my wife for a few hours, I assume she’s busy.”
Robby looked at him.
“I assumed she was busy.”
“You’ve been asking where she is all day.”
“I have not.”
Langdon blinked.
“Mel has a tally going.”
Robby stared at him.
“A what?”
“A tally.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because every time someone mentions your wife, you ask where she is.”
Robby looked appalled.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
A voice suddenly called from behind them.
“Twenty-three times.”
Both men turned. Mel King was standing at the nurses’ station. Robby frowned.
“What?”
Mel smiled.
“You’ve asked where your wife is twenty-three times.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I really haven’t.”
“You really have.”
Langdon burst out laughing. Robby looked horrified.
“You’re counting?”
“Oh, all of us are counting.”
“What do you mean all of us?”
Dana looked up from her tablet.
“We started around nine.”
He stared at her.
“You started a pool?”
She looked entirely unashamed.
“I had thirty by lunch.”
“You people are insane.”
“No,” Langdon said, grinning. “You’re clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
The entire nurses’ station erupted into laughter.
“What’s the joke?.”
Your voice. He turned immediately. Of course he did. You were standing a few feet away, looking entirely too amused. You had clearly heard enough.
“Oh, this is wonderful.” You grinned.
“It isn’t.” Robby frowned.
“You’ve asked where I am twenty-three times?”
“I haven’t.”
“Apparently you have.”
“I really haven’t.”
You smiled.
“Oh, honey.”
He hated that smile. You walked closer.
“Do you miss me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“You seem very worried about where I am.”
“I’m not.”
“You seem very interested in my location.”
“I’m really not.”
You looked delighted. Then you reached up and cupped his cheek. The entire nurses’ station immediately went quiet.
“You are so cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“You are.”
“I am fifty years old.”
“And adorable.”
“Stop.”
You laughed. Then kissed his cheek. A chorus of noises erupted behind you. Someone actually whistled. Robby closed his eyes.
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Dana said.
You smiled again.
“Unfortunately for you, I have another consult.”
He looked at you.
“No.”
You laughed.
“Oh my God.,” you smiled. “You just said no.”
“Because you’ve been here for thirty seconds.”
You looked positively radiant.
“He’s back.”
“What?”
“My clingy husband.”
“I am not clingy.”
You looked behind you.
“Guys, is he clingy?”
A dozen voices answered at once.
“YES.”
You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over. Robby looked personally betrayed. Then your pager went off. You sighed. He sighed. You looked at each other. And then both of you started laughing.
“This day hates us,” you said.
“It really does.”
You stepped closer and squeezed his hand.
“I’ll find you later.”
“You promise?”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. You blinked. Then your entire expression softened.
“I promise.”
You squeezed his hand again. Then you were gone. Again. Robby watched you disappear down the hallway. A beat of silence passed.
“Twenty-four.”
He looked at Mel.
“What?”
“You just looked after her.”
“I hate every single one of you.”
The laughter that followed him all the way back to the trauma bay suggested nobody believed him for a second.
******
By four in the afternoon, the entire emergency department was running on caffeine, stubbornness, and sheer spite. Robby had removed his green jacket hours ago, rolled his sleeves to his forearms, and was currently dictating notes while simultaneously listening to a resident present a case.
He was tired. The kind of tired that settled deep in his bones and made the bright lights of the Pitt feel a little too harsh. But more than that, he was annoyed. Because somehow, impossibly, he had still barely seen his wife.
He’d caught glimpses. You walking into an elevator. You disappearing down a hallway. You laughing with a nurse. You stealing a granola bar from the physician lounge.
Every single time he’d managed to get within ten feet of you, someone had dragged one of you away. It was becoming personal.
“You know, if you keep sighing like that, people are going to think something’s wrong.”
Robby looked up from his chart. Dana was standing beside him with her arms crossed.
“I wasn’t sighing.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I exhaled.”
“You sighed.”
He ignored her. She smiled.
“You still haven’t seen your wife.”
“I saw her.”
“You spoke to her for approximately four minutes.”
“It was at least five.”
Dana’s smile widened.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You counted.”
“I did not count.”
“You absolutely counted.”
He set his chart down.
“I have actual work to do.”
“And I have actual work to avoid.”
He glared at her.
“You’re irritating.”
“And you’re pathetic.”
Before he could answer, Mel approached.
“You know she’s in Trauma Three, right?”
Robby looked up so quickly that both of them burst into laughter.
“You two are children.”
“We’re helping,” Mel said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wasn’t looking for her.”
“You looked up before I even finished the sentence.”
Robby pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I regret hiring all of you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t. A trauma alert sounded overhead. Everyone moved. A construction worker with a crush injury. Another hour vanished. Then another. And by the time the patient was stabilized and admitted, the sun had begun to dip lower outside the ambulance bay windows.
Robby scrubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted. The Pitt had finally begun to settle into the strange lull that existed between the day shift chaos and the night shift storm.
A few nurses sat at the station charting. Someone had ordered food. Santos looked half asleep while typing notes. And for the first time all day…
There was nothing actively on fire. He leaned against the desk and took a sip of now-cold coffee. Then the elevator doors opened. You stepped out.
He looked up immediately. Of course he did. You looked absolutely exhausted. Your hair was completely out of its bun now, hanging around your shoulders. Your red jacket was draped over one arm, and there was a small smear of something on your cheek.
You looked around. Found him. And smiled. His entire chest loosened.
“There you are.”
You walked toward him slowly.
“Here I am.” He smiled. “You look awful.”
You laughed softly.
“Thank you so much.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
You stopped in front of him.
“You don’t look much better.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
“So have I.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. You were just there. Finally. In front of him. Not walking away. Not being called to another floor. Not disappearing around a corner. Just…there. You looked up at him.
“Hi.”
His expression softened.
“Hi, baby.”
You smiled.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”
You laughed. “I’ve seen you.”
“No, you’ve been sightings.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I caught glimpses of you.”
You laughed again. He loved that sound.
“You’ve had a hard day without me.”
“No.”
“Robby.”
“No.”
You stepped closer.
“You missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was busy.”
“You were grumpy.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
He sighed. You smiled triumphantly.
“I don’t know why I tell you anything.”
“You don’t have to. Your face does it for you.”
You reached up and brushed the smear from his cheek. He frowned.
“What?”
“You had blood on your face.”
“Oh.”
You smiled softly.
“You need a shower.”
“So do you.”
You looked down at yourself.
“Fair.”
Then your pager suddenly beeped. Both of you froze. Silence. You slowly pulled it from your pocket. Looked at the screen. And then looked back up at him.
“No.”
He laughed.
“No?”
“No.”
“That’s very professional of you.”
“I don’t care.”
You shoved the pager back into your pocket.
“If they need me, they’ll call again.”
He looked genuinely surprised. You took another step toward him.
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“I miss my husband.”
Something warm spread through his chest.
“I miss my wife.”
You smiled. And then, because apparently twelve years of marriage had changed neither of you, you simply leaned forward and rested your forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you immediately. A soft sigh escaped you.
The entire nurses’ station went quiet. Dana looked up from her tablet. Mel looked up from her notes. Langdon froze with a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. Nobody moved.
Because there was something so quietly intimate about it. You, exhausted beyond words, simply standing in your husband’s arms. And him holding you like he’d been waiting all day to do exactly this. Your voice came out muffled.
“I think my feet hurt.”
He smiled.
“I know they do.”
“I haven’t sat down since breakfast.”
“I haven’t either.”
“I hate everyone.”
He laughed softly.
“There she is.”
You smiled against his chest. Then another voice broke the moment.
“There they are.”
You both looked up. Cassie McKay was grinning.
“Oh, this is disgusting.”
You laughed. Robby rolled his eyes.
“We’re standing.”
“You’re cuddling.”
“We’re not cuddling.”
“You absolutely are.”
The entire nurses’ station suddenly found something very interesting to listen to. You looked up at your husband.
“We’re cuddling.”
“We’re not.”
You smiled.
“We definitely are.”
He sighed. You looked entirely too pleased with yourself. Then Cassie folded her arms.
“You know, this explains your mood all day.
Robby frowned.
“What mood?”
“The one where you’ve been asking where your wife is every ten minutes.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I really haven’t.”
“You really have.”
You looked at him.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He groaned.
“No.”
“You’ve been looking for me all day?”
“I wasn’t looking for you.”
“You asked where I was twenty-four times.”
“It was not twenty-four.”
Mel looked up.
“Twenty-seven.”
Robby looked horrified.
“What?”
“We kept counting.”
“You people need hobbies.”
“We have hobbies.”
“Apparently, one of them is harassing me.”
You started laughing. The sound was warm and bright and completely unrestrained. He couldn’t help smiling.
“There it is!” Dana pointed at him. “The smile!”
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” several voices answered.
You laughed harder. Then you looked back at him.
“You really missed me.”
He looked down at you. You were smiling at him like he’d hung the moon. Twelve years later, and somehow you still looked at him like that. He sighed. A long, defeated sigh.
And finally said, “Maybe a little.”
Your eyes widened. The entire nurses’ station erupted.
“I KNEW IT!”
“Oh my God!”
“Pay up!”
“You owe me twenty bucks!”
Robby blinked.
“What?”
Dana grinned.
“We had a pool.”
“You bet on me missing my wife?”
“You made it very easy.”
He looked genuinely offended. You were laughing so hard you had tears in your eyes. Then you reached up and cupped his face.
“You are so cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“You are.”
“I am fifty.”
“And clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
You grinned.
“Sure, honey.”
Then your pager went off again. Both of you looked at it. Silence. You looked at him. He looked at you. Then you turned the pager over and shoved it back into your pocket. He blinked.
“You ignored it.”
“I did.”
“What if it’s important?”
You shrugged.
“I’m off in fifteen minutes.”
You smiled softly.
“And I’d rather spend those fifteen minutes with my husband.”
His expression changed entirely. All the teasing and irritation from the day simply melted away.
You saw it happen. Your own smile softened.
Then, very quietly, you asked, “Can we go home soon?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against his side. You went willingly. As though there was nowhere else in the world you’d rather be. He kissed your temple.
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
You sighed happily.
“Good.”
Then you looked up at him.
“I think I need a shower.”
He smiled.
“I think I do too.”
You yawned.
“And food.”
“We can do food.”
“And bed.”
“We can definitely do bed.”
You nodded.
“Perfect.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You simply stood there together while the department buzzed softly around you. Finally. After an entire day of missing each other. Together. And when Dana looked over and saw the two of you still standing there, she smiled to herself.
Because for all of Dr. Michael Robinavich’s reputation—the sharp tongue, the intimidating stare, the chief attending everyone feared—there was one undeniable truth. The man was completely and utterly gone for his wife. And judging by the way you were practically asleep against his shoulder…
You were just as gone for him.
******
By the time you pulled into the driveway, you could barely remember the drive home. The kind of exhaustion that settled over you after a long shift wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Heavy. It sat in your muscles and behind your eyes and made even simple things feel monumental.
Taking off your shoes felt monumental. Unlocking the front door felt monumental. You dropped your bag by the entryway and stood there for a moment in the dim, quiet house. Silence.
No monitors. No pagers. No overhead announcements. Just…home.
You sighed softly. You knew Robby would be another twenty or thirty minutes. He had stayed behind to finish notes and make sure one of the residents wasn’t drowning in admissions. You loved him for that. You also knew he would come home exhausted. Probably with another headache. Probably with blood somewhere on his scrubs that he hadn’t noticed.
You smiled to yourself. Then you made your way upstairs. By the time you stepped into the bathroom, every inch of you ached. You turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm, slowly pulling your hair free from its tangled ponytail.
Your wedding and engagement rings came off and settled beside the sink in the tiny plate. Then your scrubs. Your socks. The day. You stepped under the spray and immediately let out a soft sigh.
Hot water. Heaven. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back, letting the water run over your face. For a few moments, you didn’t move. You simply stood there and breathed. The day slowly began to wash away.
You thought about the little old woman you’d admitted who reminded you of your grandmother. The little boy with the broken arm who had proudly shown you his dinosaur socks. The endless consults. The running. The exhaustion. And, somehow, in between all of it…
Your husband looking for you all day. You laughed softly to yourself. You could still hear Dana’s voice.
You asked where your wife was twenty-seven times.
A few moments later, you heard the front door downstairs. Then footsteps. Then the familiar sound of a bag being dropped. A small smile spread across your face. A minute later, the bathroom door opened. You didn’t turn around.
You didn’t have to. You knew every sound he made. The rustle of fabric. The heavy exhale. The soft thud of shoes hitting the floor. The shower door opened. Warm air shifted.
A second later, strong arms slid around your waist from behind. You melted immediately.
“There you are,” he murmured.
You smiled.
“Here I am.”
He pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.
“I missed you.”
You laughed softly.
“You saw me fifteen minutes ago.”
“I know.”
“And an hour before that.”
“I know.”
You turned in his arms. He looked exhausted. Hair damp from the humidity in the bathroom, dark eyes tired, stubble a little more pronounced than it had been that morning. And still the most handsome man you’d ever seen.
“You look tired.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“I am tired.”
You reached up and touched his cheek.
“So am I.”
For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The water ran over both of you. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. You sighed softly.
“Long day?”
He smiled a little.
“You know the answer to that.”
You did. You lifted your hand and smoothed your fingers through the gray at his temple. His eyes fluttered briefly. He always liked when you touched his hair.
“You have a line right here.”
You touched between his brows.
“You’ve been frowning all day.”
“You disappeared all day.”
You laughed softly.
“There you are.”
“What?”
“My grumpy husband.”
He slid his hands around your back.
“I wasn’t grumpy.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was concerned.”
You grinned.
“Concerned.”
“Yes.”
“I was in the same building.”
“I know.”
“You could have texted.”
He looked offended.
“I shouldn’t have to text my wife to know where she is.”
You laughed.
“There he is.”
He smiled despite himself. Then his hand came up and gently brushed damp hair away from your face.
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
“You’ve got circles under your eyes.”
“So do you.”
“I know.”
You smiled softly.
“You know what I wanted all day?”
“What?”
You stepped a little closer.
“This.”
He looked at you.
“This?”
You nodded.
“Just…this.”
His expression softened completely. You reached for the soap and squeezed some into your hand.
“Come here.”
He smiled.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking care of my husband.”
He laughed softly but stepped closer anyway. You began rubbing the soap over his chest and shoulders, your hands slow and gentle. You weren’t rushing. There was nowhere to be. Nowhere else to go. You smoothed your hands over his arms, washing away the day. The smell of hospital. The dried blood he hadn’t noticed. The exhaustion. He watched you the entire time.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” You rinsed his shoulder. “I want to.”
Something warm crossed his face. Then he took the soap from your hand.
“Turn around.”
You smiled.
“Bossy.”
“Turn around.”
Laughing softly, you obeyed. His hands were large and warm as they settled on your shoulders. Then he began washing your hair. Slowly. Carefully. His fingers worked through the strands with practiced ease. You nearly melted.
“Oh.”
He smiled.
“What?”
“That feels really nice.”
“I know.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Once or twice.”
You closed your eyes. His fingers moved against your scalp, gentle and thorough. Every bit of tension in your body seemed to slowly unwind. You sighed.
“I like that.”
“What?”
“That happy little sigh.”
You smiled.
“I think I might live here now.”
He laughed softly. The sound vibrated through his chest. He tipped your head back gently to rinse your hair, his hand supporting your neck. The care in the gesture made something in your chest ache. You turned back around. He looked just as tired as you felt. You reached up and touched his face again.
“You took care of everybody today.”
“So did you.”
“But who took care of you?”
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he smiled softly.
“You are.”
Your eyes immediately softened.
“Oh.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple. Then one to your cheek. Not rushed. Not passionate. Just…loving. You smiled.
“You really did miss me.”
“I really did.”
The admission came easily now. You wrapped your arms around his waist.
“I missed you too.”
He exhaled softly. Then his arms came around you and pulled you close. You simply stood there. Water cascading around you. His chin resting on the top of your head. Your cheek against his chest. His hand slowly rubbing up and down your back.
After a while, you murmured, “I don’t think I’ve sat down all day.”
He laughed quietly.
“I know I haven’t.”
“My feet hurt.”
“I know they do.”
“My back hurts.”
“I know.”
You smiled.
“You always know.”
“I’ve been married to you for twelve years.”
“That’s fair.”
He kissed the top of your head. Then your forehead. Then your damp hair. As though he simply couldn’t stop touching you now that he finally had you to himself. You looked up at him.
“I love you.”
His expression softened immediately.
“I love you too.”
You smiled. Then reached up and touched his cheek again.
“And for the record…”
“Hm?”
“I think it’s cute that you missed me.”
He groaned.
“Oh, don’t start.”
You laughed.
“I do.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
He shook his head. Then he smiled. Because of course he did. You leaned up and kissed him softly. Just once. A slow, tired kiss. Then you rested your forehead against his again.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you needed to. The day had been loud. Demanding. Chaotic. But here?
Here there was only warm water and soft touches and your husband holding you like he’d finally gotten something back he’d been missing all day. And for a long while, you simply stayed there. Cleaning each other. Holding each other. Loving each other. Until the water began to cool and your fingers had wrinkled and the day, at long last, finally felt over.
******
The house was dark by the time you finished getting ready for bed. Not completely dark. The small lamp on Robby’s nightstand cast a warm glow across the room, and the television downstairs was still faintly audible, though neither of you had really watched it while eating leftovers in the kitchen.
You had simply sat across from each other. Bare feet. Damp hair. Quiet smiles. The kind of silence that only came after years together. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.
Now, however, you were officially done. Done with the day. Done with people. Done with making decisions. You climbed into bed with a relieved sigh and practically melted into the mattress.
“Oh, thank God.”
Robby looked up from where he was putting his watch on the dresser.
“Tired?”
You turned your head slowly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more tired in my entire life.”
“You said that last week.”
“And I meant it then too.”
He laughed softly. You pulled the blankets up to your chin and sighed. Your hair was still slightly damp, your skin warm from the shower, and every muscle in your body felt pleasantly heavy. You watched him move around the room. Tall. Broad shoulders. T-shirt and sleep pants. A little more gray in his beard than there had been a few years ago. A little more tired around the eyes.
Still the most handsome man you’d ever seen. You smiled to yourself.
“What?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You’re looking at me.”
“So?”
“You’ve got that look.”
You smiled wider.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I think my husband is handsome.”
He huffed a laugh.
“You’ve been married to me for twelve years.”
“And?”
“You know exactly what I look like.”
You grinned.
“I still like looking.”
The faint pink that touched his ears made you smile even more. The man who could stare down a trauma room without blinking and somehow still get shy when you complimented him.
“Cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“You are.”
“I am fifty years old.”
“And adorable.”
He shook his head and turned off the lamp on his side of the bed. The room dimmed. Then he walked around the mattress. You expected him to slide under his blankets.
Instead the mattress dipped heavily beside you. Then shifted. And suddenly there was an alarming amount of husband climbing into your personal space. You laughed.
“Michael.”
No answer. He simply kept going. One large arm wrapped around your waist. A leg tangled with yours. His chest pressed against your side. Then his face disappeared into your neck. You blinked. Then laughed again.
“Sir.”
Still nothing.
“Are you comfortable?”
A muffled sound came from your neck. You smiled.
“I can’t understand you.”
Another muffled noise. You laughed harder. Finally, he lifted his head just enough to look at you.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
You smiled.
“Then why are you laying on top of me?”
He looked entirely serious.
“I’ve got my wife back.”
Your entire expression softened.
“Oh.”
He rested his head back against your shoulder. You brought your hand up and ran your fingers through his damp hair. He sighed. A long, contented sigh.
“You’re right…that is nice.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“That happy little sigh.”
He smiled. Then buried his face in your neck again. You couldn’t stop smiling.
“You really had a hard day without me.”
“I did not.”
“Michael.”
“You kept disappearing.”
You laughed softly.
“I was working.”
“I know.”
“I was in the same building.”
“I know.”
“You saw me several times.”
“I know.”
You smiled into the darkness.
“And you still missed me.”
Silence.
“Maybe.”
You laughed.
“Maybe?”
“I don’t like it.”
“What?”
“Not seeing you.”
Your hand slowed in his hair. You looked down at him. Even in the dim light, you could see the exhaustion on his face. The vulnerability too. You softened completely.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He sighed.
“I know it’s ridiculous.”
“It isn’t.”
“I know we’re both busy.”
“We are”
“I know we work in the same hospital and that I can technically walk upstairs whenever I want.”
You smiled.
“But?”
“But I like seeing you.”
Your chest squeezed. He looked up at you then. Dark eyes. Soft expression. Entirely too honest.
“I like our mornings.”
You smiled.
“Our coffee?”
“Our coffee.”
“I like our lunches.”
“We never actually get lunch.”
“Still.”
You laughed.
“I like hearing your laugh in the hallway.”
Your smile grew.
“I like knowing where you are.”
“Twenty-seven times worth?”
He groaned.
“Oh my God.”
You laughed.
“I am never letting that go.”
“I know.”
You brushed your fingers through the gray at his temple.
“I think it’s sweet.”
“It was embarrassing.”
“It was adorable.”
“It was not.”
“It really was.”
He shook his head. Then he shifted closer somehow, which you honestly didn’t think was possible. You laughed softly.
“This side of you is great.”
“What?”
“My clingy husband.”
“I am not clingy.”
“You are currently wearing me like a blanket.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“You literally said you weren’t.”
He looked up at you.
“I’m emotionally comfortable.”
You stared at him. Then burst out laughing. The sound filled the room. And to his great offense, you laughed so hard tears gathered in your eyes.
“Emotionally comfortable?”
“Stop laughing.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re very mean.”
You laughed harder. He tried not to smile. Failed completely. You cupped his cheek.
“Oh, honey.”
“I regret saying anything.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately…No, he didn’t. You smiled softly and leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then another. Then one to his temple. He closed his eyes.
“That feels nice.”
You smiled.
“You’ve had a long day.”
“So have you.”
“I know.”
You kept stroking your fingers through his hair. After a few moments, he spoke again.
“Do you know my favorite part of the day?”
You looked down at him.
“What?”
“This.”
You blinked. He lifted one hand and gently touched your cheek.
“Coming home.”
Your expression softened.
“Getting to be with you.”
You smiled.
“Not being chief attending?”
“No.”
“Not trauma medicine?”
“No.”
“Not the emergency department?”
“Absolutely not.”
You laughed softly. He smiled.
“This.”
You leaned down and kissed him. The kind of kiss that came after twelve years of marriage and still somehow felt like coming home. When you pulled back, he was smiling.
“You know,” you said softly, “I missed you too.”
He looked up at you.
“I know.”
“No, I really did.”
You touched his cheek.
“I kept thinking all day that I wanted this.”
You ran your hand through his hair again.
“Just us.”
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and covered your hand with his.
“Got us now.”
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
Silence settled around you. Comfortable. Warm. Outside, the world kept moving. Cars drove by. Somewhere in the distance, a siren sounded. The hospital would still be there tomorrow. Patients. Consults. Traumas. Chaos.
But none of it mattered right now. Because your husband was draped over you like a very affectionate weighted blanket. And honestly? You wouldn’t have had it any other way. A few minutes passed.
“You know what?”
“Hm?”
“I’m glad I married you.”
He smiled without opening his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
You laughed softly.
“That’s all I get?”
He finally looked up. Then he smiled. That soft smile. The one that belonged only to you.
“I’d marry you again tomorrow.”
Your breath caught.
“Oh.”
“And the next day.”
You swallowed.
“And the day after that.”
Your eyes stung unexpectedly. You smiled.
“That’s very unfair of you.”
“What?”
“Making me emotional when I’m tired.”
He laughed softly. Then he lifted himself just enough to kiss your forehead.
“I love you.”
You wrapped your arms around him.
“I love you too.”
He settled back down, head against your chest. You kept your hand in his hair. Eventually his breathing slowed. Then slowed some more. You smiled into the darkness.
“Michael?”
A sleepy sound.
“Hm?”
“You know I’m coming home with you tomorrow too, right?”
A long pause. Then his arm tightened around your waist.
“I know.”
You smiled.
“But I still don’t like sharing you with the rest of the hospital.”
You laughed softly. Then you kissed the top of his head.
“Go to sleep, clingy husband.”
Another sleepy noise.
“Only with you.”
Your heart melted. And sometime later, with nearly two hundred pounds of chief attending draped warmly across you, his hand resting over your heart and your fingers still tangled in his hair…the two of you finally fell asleep. Together. Exactly where you’d both wanted to be all day.
