*.✧ miyamart ✧.*

You knew Clark had a secret. One that was very big and very precious to him. In fact, you had known it long before you officially started dating him, long before he even dared to ask you out for coffee without his hands trembling as if he were holding a bomb ready to explode.

You worked at the Planet as a photographer. And you were far too observant. It wasn't something you could help. You had a separate website, a small corner of the internet where you uploaded your favorite photographs, the ones that told a story beyond what could be seen at first glance. You had won awards through the Planet and as an independent photographer as well. It was a gift, something that came naturally from deep within you, and you loved it. You didn't just take pictures—you looked at them, studied them, searched for their meaning, for the impact they could have on whoever saw them. To you, every photograph was a frozen piece of history.

That was how it happened, in such a simple way that it almost felt like a joke from fate. You had been taking pictures around work in silence, as you always did. One day, you captured Lois tilting her head while reading an interesting article. The light from the window hit her hair perfectly, making her look like she belonged on the cover of an old magazine worthy of being framed. You uploaded the picture to your website with her permission, and it gained a few new followers. It was beautiful, yes, but it also said something: "Look, this woman is thinking, and she cares about what she's reading."

Later, you took a photo of Jimmy. He was studying what shot to take next, his camera pressed against his face as though it were a part of him. You had captured a photographer in the middle of doing what he loved, and the image conveyed the passion shining in his eyes. He looked at the scene with the excitement of someone who truly loved his work, just moments away from lifting the camera to take the shot. You uploaded that photo too. And just like those, there were many others you kept to yourself like private treasures, while some you shared with the world.

Clark wasn't really into photography. Or rather, he wasn't fond of posing for it. But you loved taking pictures of him when he wasn't paying attention. You photographed him smiling at Cat's little dog, the one she sometimes brought to the office wrapped in a pink blanket. Clark would instantly turn into a child, crouching down and speaking to it in a cartoonish voice. You also captured him once staring at his sandwich as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and he looked as though he'd never seen ham and cheese between two slices of bread before. It was ridiculous, but adorable.

Among all those pictures, there was one where the main focus was Perry speaking in front of the interns. It was the kind of formal photo that would later be displayed as part of the Planet's history. You took several shots to make sure at least one turned out perfectly. But in one of them, Clark was looking around as if he were searching for something. In another, he was taking off his glasses. Your eyes widened when you looked at the next one: in that photo, he was staring straight ahead with a completely different expression. He didn't seem aware of the camera at all. He was focused, but not on Perry. He was listening to something far away, something no one else could hear.

And that was when you discovered it.

The rest is history, as they say. But what nobody told you before you started dating Clark was that beyond being a hero, he was a man hopelessly in love. Ridiculously in love. The kind of man who would trip over his own feet just because you looked at him. Robert from meteorology thought Clark was obsessed with you. One day, he even said it in the break room.

"That guy looks at her like she's about to disappear."

And maybe humans weren't ready to see how a Kryptonian loved. Humans were used to loving for a little while. Some—only a handful—might love their partners until death did them part. But there was always someone looking elsewhere, always an "I'll call you later" that never came. Clark heard it over and over again with his super hearing. Every night, he listened to hearts breaking all across the city. But he never feared that with you. Maybe because you loved with the same intensity he did. And for a man who could fly, that was stronger than gravity.

And Clark's love extended all the way to Superman.

Literally.

Superman—the serious, kind, funny superhero who always maintained the image of a dependable hero—completely fell apart around you. He became a mess. You knew it because it was absolutely delightful to watch whenever you had the chance. It made you laugh inside to see the Man of Steel turn into jelly simply because you were nearby.

One day, Superman had just rescued a little girl who had climbed onto a building under construction. People crowded around him immediately.

"I'm glad you're all safe," Superman said in his strong, steady voice while holding the little girl with a level of care that seemed impossible for a man so large.

The crowd surrounded him gratefully. Some older men patted him on the back. A woman cried from relief and excitement. Superman nodded seriously, as though it were just another ordinary day. He radiated confidence simply by standing there.

Then his eyes met yours.

You were standing toward the back, your camera hanging around your neck, simply watching. You hadn't taken a single picture of the scene. You preferred seeing it with your own eyes.

Superman's cheeks turned red.

You smiled at him, and he swallowed hard.

It was the kind of dry swallow that could probably be heard three blocks away.

He almost took a step toward you, but people were still surrounding him, waiting for more heroic words.

"Uh... well..." he said, letting out a nervous laugh.

Everyone looked at him strangely.

It was normal for Superman to speak.

It was not normal for Superman to smile like a little boy who had just been handed a cake.

His nervousness did not go unnoticed.

He huffed softly and nearly shifted his hips in embarrassment, like a flirtatious duck who didn't realize he was being flirtatious.

Your lovestruck man became nervous simply because your eyes were on him.

"I... I'll make sure everything stays under control," he finally said, carefully setting the little girl down.

You stepped a little closer, just to make him suffer a tiny bit more.

Superman turned even redder than an apple.

"Hello, Superman," you said with a smile.

"H-hello," he replied, and his voice cracked as though he were going through puberty all over again.

He cleared his throat and looked toward the sky as if searching for an excuse to fly away.

"Nice rescue," you said, crossing your arms. "The little girl was really scared."

"Y-yeah... yeah, honestly..." He rubbed the back of his neck, something Clark did all the time. "She... well, she was in a dangerous place. And I... I saw her. And I thought... I have to help her."

And that wasn't all.

He had always tried not to let people see just how in love he was.

Superman, Clark, or both of them with you.

Because if you were Clark's girlfriend and someone saw Superman looking at you with those abandoned-puppy eyes, people would get the wrong idea. It would look like cheating. People would think you were betraying your boyfriend with the most famous hero in the world.

And of course, that couldn't happen.

Clark knew that.

But Clark was weak when it came to his woman.

Weak.

Weak.

Weak.

Like a chocolate cake sitting in front of a child.

Like that time there was a fire in an apartment building on the north side of the city.

Superman arrived, as always, flying faster than lightning. He put out the flames with his super breath, rescued three people from the fifth floor.

Very heroic.

Very professional.

People applauded.

Reporters took pictures.

And then he saw you in the crowd.

You had only come to see if anyone needed help because that was just who you were—always looking out for others.

But the moment your eyes met his, Superman froze in midair.

Literally.

Floating there like a balloon someone forgot to let go of.

One of the firefighters shouted, "Everything okay?"

And Superman could only manage, "Y-yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm just... checking... the clouds."

There wasn't a single cloud in the sky.

It was a completely clear day.

He slowly floated down.

Far too slowly.

As if he wanted to stretch out every second he got to look at you.

His feet touched the ground, and he started walking toward you, but his legs looked like jelly.

He tripped.

Yes.

Superman tripped over a hose.

A hose.

The guy who could lift a building with one hand nearly fell flat on his back because of a garden hose.

A little boy looked up at him and asked, "Did you get hurt?"

And Superman replied, "No, no. I was... testing the ground. It's solid. Very solid. Good ground."

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

"Superman," you said with a smile, "good job with the fire."

"Thank you," he replied, and his voice sounded slightly higher than usual.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm glad that... that you're okay. I mean, that you're here. Not that there's a fire. That's bad. But you... you're okay. Are you okay?"

"I wasn't even in the fire, Superman, but I'm fine," you answered.

"Good," he said.

And then he just stared at you.

Without saying anything.

Just staring.

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

One of the firefighters had to tap him on the shoulder to tell him there was a column of smoke a block away.

Superman blinked as if he had just woken up from a dream, nodded very seriously, and flew away in a perfectly straight line.

That was how he gave himself away.

Because you didn't look at Superman.

To you, he was still Clark, no matter how hard he tried.

No matter how tight the suit was.

No matter how dramatically the red cape billowed in the wind.

No matter how much he tried to use that deep, confident voice that ended up quoted in every newspaper.

You looked at him and only saw the clumsy guy who got tangled in the cords of his own cape, the one whose glasses slipped off every time you laughed too hard.

He could fly faster than a speeding bullet.

But around you, he moved as if his feet were glued to the floor with school glue.

That night, he flew up to the window of your apartment.

It wasn't the first time, of course.

But that night, you were in the kitchen, wearing an apron and covered in flour because you were making dinner.

The window made that familiar little sound, that soft clack that happened whenever Clark misjudged his speed and bumped his shoulders against the frame.

You heard the scrape of his cape against the glass and smiled without turning around.

"Miss, are you busy?" Clark's voice asked.

But it wasn't Clark's voice.

It was his Superman voice—deeper, firmer.

Like he was auditioning for an action movie.

You turned around, pausing your cooking.

You had a wooden spoon in one hand and a bit of sauce on your cheek.

You smiled and frowned slightly when you saw him standing in the window frame with his arms crossed and his legs spread apart, trying to look imposing.

His red boots gleamed beneath the kitchen lights.

His cape fluttered dramatically behind him because he kept shifting one shoulder to make it look like there was wind.

It was quite a show.

"Why didn't you come through the door, Superman?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you set the spoon down on a plate.

Clark sighed as though he didn't want to break character.

He was trying.

He really was.

His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere behind your shoulder, as if he were watching an invisible threat.

But his eyes moved around too quickly, and his cheeks were already starting to turn pink.

You could see it perfectly.

He was trying with all his might, but the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him completely ruined all of his effort.

"I... the window... I can fly," he said.

And his voice cracked a little at the end.

You laughed.

You couldn't help it.

It was too funny seeing Superman explain why he'd entered through the window as though he were a lost pizza delivery guy.

"No... I'm trying, sweetheart," he said with an enormous pout, dropping his arms and letting his shoulders sag.

He looked like a child who had just been told there would be no dessert.

You smiled wider and nodded, walking over to him.

"You're doing great, honey," you said before wrapping your arms around him.

His suit was softer than it looked in pictures.

And he smelled like the sky, as always.

Like that clean air above the clouds.

You rested your cheek against his chest and felt his heart racing.

Fast.

Very fast.

As if he had just finished running a marathon.

"Is there a reason for all this?" you asked, pulling back slightly so you could look him in the eyes.

Clark immediately became nervous.

He ran a hand through his hair.

His hands went to his hips.

Then behind his back.

Then back to his hips.

He had no idea what to do with them.

Eventually he crossed them over his chest, but he looked so uncomfortable that it seemed physically painful.

He tried to put on one of those serious expressions that ended up in newspapers whenever he saved a building.

He pressed his lips together.

Furrowed his brow.

Hardened his gaze.

But his eyes couldn't stay still.

Every few seconds they drifted back to you and softened like a puppy begging for food.

"I read that women are attracted to men who show confidence," he began, swallowing hard.

He tried to keep a serious face, but his lower lip trembled slightly.

He bit it so you wouldn't notice, which only made it seem as though he was concentrating very hard on a complicated problem.

"And men who..." he continued.

Then he looked at you again, and his gaze immediately slipped away.

He was turning red as a tomato.

He clenched his jaw to look more intimidating, but his puffed cheeks made him resemble an angry hamster.

"Very strong men and..." his voice grew smaller, "...also... cold."

He practically whispered the last word.

The blush had spread all the way from his cheeks to his ears.

His ears.

His ears had turned red.

You didn't even know ears could get that red.

He tried to recover his composure.

He straightened his back.

Lifted his chin.

Put his hands on his hips again.

But his cape had gotten caught on the window frame.

When he stepped forward, the cape tugged backward and nearly knocked him flat onto his back.

He did an awkward little hop to regain his balance, his arms flailing in a strange motion as though he were swimming through the air.

Then he froze, eyes wide, pretending none of that had happened.

He coughed a couple of times and crossed his arms again.

Except this time they were crossed backward, like he was hugging himself.

When he noticed, he uncrossed them and tried again.

Then he didn't know what to do with his head, so he tilted it slightly to the side like he was posing for a statue.

He looked so stiff he resembled a cardboard cutout.

"Where did you read that?" you asked, taking another step closer.

You took the grocery bag from his hands—the same bag he'd been clutching the entire time as though it were a life raft.

You stood there with your arms crossed, waiting.

"In The Latest Things You Need to Know About Women," Clark said.

One foot slid backward.

The other moved forward.

It looked like he was secretly practicing a dance routine.

He tried to stand still to appear more confident, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own.

"Steve emailed it to me this morning. He said I needed it."

He attempted a serious smile.

Instead, it came out as a strange expression halfway between a smile and a grimace, as though he'd suddenly gotten a cramp in his cheek.

He remembered what had happened earlier that morning at the office.

Steve had walked up behind him while Clark stared at a photo of you taped beside his computer.

"Buddy, you need this," Steve had said with a rabbit-like grin.

Clark had opened the link and read things like "women want a man who doesn't show emotions" and "don't smile too much, it makes you look weak."

Since then, he'd been practicing in front of the mirror.

He had even put on the Superman suit because he thought it would make him seem more authoritative.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

"That website was written by a man, Clark," you said, brushing your fingertips against his suit.

The red-and-blue suit that had saved the world dozens of times.

And there he was, shifting from side to side as though he were standing on hot coals, his fists clenched behind his back and his gaze fixed on the floor.

He tried once more to look serious.

He furrowed his brow so hard wrinkles appeared on his forehead.

Pressed his lips together until they became a thin line.

But then you smiled.

Just a little.

And all that seriousness melted away like ice cream under the sun.

His entire face softened.

His eyes turned gentle again.

With a defeated sigh, he let his shoulders drop.

"I'm not saying men can't understand us, but most of them don't," you added.

And he nodded like a puppy being told why he wasn't allowed to eat chocolate.

"I like you the way you are, Clark. You don't need to change," you said softly.

You stepped a little closer.

He immediately stopped moving altogether, as if someone had pressed a pause button.

"It's cute seeing you get nervous even while wearing the suit," you said as you looked down into the grocery bag.

Bread.

Lettuce.

Cheese.

Everything was there.

Except for one thing.

"I don't get nervous," he said.

His voice came out high-pitched.

Almost squeaky.

He tried to look serious again, but one eyebrow had started twitching uncontrollably.

He touched it with a finger to stop it.

Then the other eyebrow started twitching.

It looked like a tiny storm was happening on his face.

You looked at him.

His cheeks were so red that it looked as though he'd spent an hour standing directly beneath the sun.

"You forgot the tomato sauce, Clark," you said, lifting the empty bag that should have contained the jar.

He smiled.

A huge, awkward smile.

The kind a child gives after accidentally breaking a vase and hoping to be rewarded for admitting it.

Every trace of seriousness vanished instantly.

His entire face lit up.

His eyes squinted from smiling so hard.

"Yeah... I... uh... forgot it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck with one giant hand.

You laughed and nodded.

Because you already knew exactly how this story ended.

"I have to go get it, don't I?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Okay," Clark said.

His eyes immediately lit up as though you'd just given him the best news in the world.

"Can I buy those Japanese mochi I showed you at the store the other day?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet like he was about to take off.

Literally.

"The soft ones with sugar inside. The pink ones," he added, unable to stop a small excited bounce.

"They're the sweetest ones, sweetheart. You're going to love them."

"Yes, but only one box, Clark," you said, raising a finger in warning.

"Do you remember what happened when you ate two entire boxes last time? I don't want to see you flying around the world five times in a row because of a sugar rush you couldn't control."

You said it completely seriously.

Very seriously.

Because he had literally done exactly that the week before.

He had flown from Metropolis to Japan in three seconds, bought the mochi—even though they were sold five blocks from your apartment—and eaten an entire box on the way home.

When he arrived, his pupils were so wide he looked like an excited owl.

Then he'd eaten the second box and taken off flying again because:

"Sweetheart, I feel like I can touch the stars with my fingers."

"Okay," Clark said.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

It was a soft kiss.

Quick.

Nervous.

He smiled against your lips and whispered,

"I promise I won't buy two boxes."

You smiled and nodded.

His promise was worth less than the paper it wasn't written on.

But you still liked hearing him say it.

When you pulled apart, he looked at you as he backed away toward the door.

He walked backward with a level of clumsiness that seemed impossible for a man who could catch an airplane out of the sky.

His hand waved from side to side in farewell, fluttering like a little flag in the wind.

And the smile never left his face.

He was so nervous.

So excited about going to buy the mochi.

His feet practically carried him toward the exit on their own.

"Sweetheart, you're not actually going in your suit, are you?" you asked, resting a hand on your hip.

Clark took three steps outside the apartment.

Then four.

Then he stopped dead in his tracks.

He looked down at himself.

Touched his chest.

Looked at his cape.

Looked at his boots.

As if he had only just realized he was dressed in bright blue and red with a giant emblem on his chest.

His eyes widened.

"Right... the suit," he muttered to himself, blushing all over again.

At that point, you weren't sure if his cheeks would ever return to their normal color.

He spun around so quickly that he nearly got tangled in his own cape and fell flat on his face.

Then he hurried back into the apartment, cheeks burning and eyes wide.

"I'd be a complete failure on that website," he said as he walked toward the bedroom, dragging his feet as though he were wearing oversized slippers.

"If I go to the store looking like this, Steve was right. I don't know anything about women," he muttered to himself, his voice full of concern.

You laughed.

A laugh that filled the entire kitchen.

"And don't fly out the window again!" you called after him from the kitchen.

"The door, sweetheart, I promise!" he shouted back from the bedroom.

A loud thud echoed through the apartment.

Something hit the floor.

Then came an "I'm okay!" that sounded far more annoyed than convincing.

A few seconds later, Clark emerged from the bedroom wearing his normal clothes.

His jeans were slightly crooked.

His shirt was buttoned wrong.

And his hair was a complete mess.

He smiled sheepishly and pointed toward the door.

"Okay, now I'm really going," he said.

He took one step.

Then turned around again.

"The pink mochi, right?" he asked.

"Yes, Clark. The pink ones," you replied, shaking your head with a smile.

"Just one box," he said, holding up a finger.

"That's what you said last time."

"This time I mean it," he replied.

And before you could answer, he walked out the door like a normal person.

Even though it was painfully obvious he wanted to fly instead.

You remained in the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand, laughing to yourself.

And you thought that you wouldn't trade that lovestruck fool for anything in the world.

Not even if he came with a cape and all.

Your hands flew across the keyboard without stopping, that familiar click click click sound that you didn’t even notice anymore because it had become so ingrained in your mind it was like breathing. Every now and then, you clicked your mouse once, then again, then again, as if that would somehow make the words come faster. But it didn’t. You were still stuck on the same sentence you’d been wrestling with for the last fifteen minutes.

You stretched your neck from side to side, feeling it crack slightly, and the small relief was enough to keep you going. You shifted in your chair because you could no longer feel your butt; honestly, you’d lost all sensation after sitting there for so many hours in a chair that was clearly begging to be replaced.

You adjusted the glasses you only wore for computer work. They were uncomfortable, always slipping down your nose or pressing painfully behind your ears, but without them the screen blurred and you’d end up with a headache.

You let out a deep sigh and looked over your monitor, directing your gaze toward the office elevator.

No one important.

Just familiar faces. Coworkers carrying coffee cups or folders.

But not the person you’d been waiting for since yesterday.

Since this morning.

Since the moment you arrived.

“Waiting for someone special?” Lois asked, watching you glance toward the elevator for what had to be the tenth time.

One eyebrow was raised, and she wore the mischievous smile you knew all too well.

You looked at her and shook your head, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.

“No... well... no,” you said shyly, smiling as you lowered your gaze to your keyboard as though the letters had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

You didn’t type a single word.

You simply stared while your fingers remained frozen above the keys.

“No?” Lois leaned toward you like a curious puppy. “Is someone coming to pick you up? A guy, maybe?” she asked, her voice quiet but excited, as though she already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear you say it.

You laughed.

A nervous laugh.

The kind that slipped out when someone caught you doing something you hoped they wouldn’t notice.

Eventually, Lois gave up and returned to her article, though that little smile remained firmly planted on her face.

The smile that clearly said, I know something you’re not telling me.

“A guy?”

Jimmy’s voice sounded directly behind Clark, causing the poor man to nearly drop his coffee.

It was strange because, well, Clark could normally sense anything approaching him from yards away. Hear footsteps. Feel vibrations. All those things that came with his abilities.

But something about being Clark Kent seemed to interfere with those hidden Kryptonian instincts.

When he was in the office, he wasn’t the man with the cape.

He wasn’t Superman.

He was just Clark.

And somehow that made things weird.

One moment he could hear a sigh from across the city.

The next, he failed to notice his best friend standing directly behind him.

He jumped, nearly spilling his coffee, surprising even himself with how startled he’d become.

You and Lois looked over briefly before returning to your work, as though Jimmy sneaking up on Clark had become a perfectly normal part of office life.

Of course, Jimmy didn’t know.

No one did.

Jimmy was interested in Clark, but not in the way Clark was interested in you.

Jimmy simply enjoyed teasing his friend.

It was entertaining watching Clark turn red whenever someone mentioned you.

Clark glanced in your direction while you continued typing, and the moment Lois whispered something to you, his attention abandoned his article entirely.

If anyone were being honest, Clark could probably be called nosy.

Or perhaps, to him, invading someone’s privacy wasn’t really a crime if the intentions were good.

And you were the girl he liked.

The girl who stole his attention every chance she got.

The girl who made him forget how to breathe whenever you smiled.

Listening a little wasn’t so terrible, right?

Right?

Clark looked at Jimmy, blushing.

How had his powerless friend gathered all that information so easily?

It seemed Jimmy possessed the superpower of overhearing other people’s conversations.

Or maybe Jimmy had only pretended to use Lois’s printer so he could come directly to Clark and extract information.

Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Clark said casually, though his voice came out tighter than usual.

“They’re stealing your girl, buddy,” Jimmy said, shaking his head as though he’d already accepted his friend’s inevitable suffering.

“She’s not... Jimmy, she’s not my girl,” Clark replied, raising a finger like a teacher delivering an important lesson. “She’s not an object that belongs to someone.”

Then he glanced at you.

Just for a second.

Long enough to see you laughing at something Lois had said.

“Besides...” he added quietly, “she’s allowed to date other people.”

His voice softened as though hope itself were slipping away.

As though the words weighed heavily on his tongue.

“Sure. Because you never actually ask her out,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.

There was equal parts affection and frustration in his expression, as though he’d already had this conversation a thousand times in his head.

“You heard Lois say she liked Andrew. Steve’s coworker,” Clark said, directing his gaze toward the man standing a few desks away.

Andrew.

The guy currently showing off his gym routine with his hands on his hips and his chin raised as though he owned the world.

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “But I heard it. Sorry. Couldn’t keep it in.”

Then he looked toward Andrew.

“But come on. The guy is basically ‘Look at my biceps’ or ‘Yesterday I worked out for three hours’ or ‘I drink disgusting spinach smoothies every morning.’”

Jimmy imitated him in a ridiculous voice while flexing his skinny arms.

Clark couldn’t help smiling.

The day continued that way.

People coming and going.

Lois disappearing to discuss an important article with Cat.

Jimmy working through his fourth cup of coffee while flirting with the woman from the Culture section—the one who always wore enormous earrings and laughed loudly.

Clark looked at you.

Then at Andrew.

Andrew picked up a folder and smiled at you.

You smiled back while continuing to type, nodding as he walked away at an annoyingly leisurely pace.

Clark lowered his eyes to his keyboard.

A heaviness settled in his chest.

Maybe it simply wasn’t his time.

Maybe he was destined to be the supporting character.

The one who never got the girl.

The one who stood by and watched the person he loved fall for someone else.

Maybe under different circumstances.

Maybe in another life.

Things would be different.

“You’re here!”

You jumped up from your chair so quickly that you nearly sent it crashing backward.

Clark’s head snapped up immediately, his spine straightening without him realizing it.

You hurried toward the elevator, excitement radiating from every step.

For one terrifying second, Clark thought you were already spoken for.

That the guy you’d been talking about had finally arrived to take you away.

Then he looked closer.

The person stepping out of the elevator was a woman.

Shorter than you, but undeniably similar.

The same smile.

The same eyes.

The same lightness in her walk.

Clark tilted his head, confused.

Then he smiled.

Your mother.

There was no doubt.

Not after the way you hugged her.

Not after she lovingly brushed your hair back.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t find the right floor. I got off on the fifth floor, and they told me you didn’t exist. I said, ‘What do you mean my daughter doesn’t exist?’ Then they finally realized who I was talking about,” your mother said as she walked beside you toward your desk, looking around with fascination as though the office were a museum filled with treasures.

You smiled.

That big smile that only ever appeared around her.

“I told you I could come get you, Mom,” you whispered, kissing her cheek.

Meanwhile, Clark kept his eyes glued to his computer screen while paying absolute attention to every word.

Every laugh.

Every touch of your mother’s arm.

“This is my desk,” you said, sitting down and gesturing toward the chair beside you so she could see where you worked. “I’m writing an article.”

You pointed toward the screen filled with words you’d written and deleted a hundred times.

Your mother nodded seriously.

“Mhm.”

She looked around.

Then leaned closer.

Without taking her eyes off the office.

“Which one is Clark?” she whispered, scanning the room like a spy in a movie.

You blushed instantly.

Heat rushed up your neck and into your ears.

“Mom,” you whispered, practically sinking beneath your desk.

Even though she’d spoken quietly.

Even though it was barely audible.

“What?” your mother replied with a knowing smile, leaning closer. “You spend hours talking about him on the phone. I deserve to meet the man my daughter is in love with.”

Those words echoed through your mind like they’d been shouted through a megaphone.

Across the room, Clark felt his heart somersault.

“It’s him,” you whispered, barely moving your head toward Clark.

Just a tiny gesture.

Your mother followed your gaze.

Clark wasn’t sure whether it was your heart beating that loudly or his own.

He could hear two racing heartbeats.

One closer than the other.

And he couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.

He licked his lips, trying to suppress the enormous smile threatening to spread across his face.

He lowered his gaze to the keyboard.

Tilted his head.

Tried to hide it.

Oh, sure.

This was definitely one of the advantages of super hearing.

Listening to the entire city wasn’t always enjoyable.

But moments like this?

Hearing your voice whisper that you were in love with him?

That made every second worthwhile.

“So you’re the beautiful mother of my best friend.”

Lois interrupted with her brightest reporter smile.

She approached with her hand extended and a sparkle in her eyes.

You stood so quickly you nearly knocked into your chair.

“Lois Lane, right? Of course. Black hair. Eyes capable of making any man fall in love. Gorgeous. That’s you,” your mother said, shaking her hand firmly while looking her up and down as though she’d just met a celebrity.

You laughed and shook your head.

Embarrassed.

Happy.

Both at once.

Lois looked at you with curiosity, one eyebrow raised.

You shrugged with a mischievous smile.

“She’s the one who gives me all the advice I give you.”

Lois laughed loudly before pulling your mother into a hug as though they’d known each other for years.

From his desk, Clark stared at his keyboard with an idiotic smile he couldn’t erase, listening to the laughter of the three of you blend into the sounds of the office.

Then Clark stood up.

Not gracefully.

Not remotely.

It was the kind of standing up that happened when someone’s legs suddenly forgot how to function.

His hands trembled around a sheet of paper.

His eyes shifted from you.

To the floor.

Back to you.

As though he couldn’t decide where it was safest to look.

Thankfully, Perry had asked Clark to print an article and deliver it to you so it could be passed along to the editors, just like always.

A real reason to approach you.

A legitimate excuse.

Not one he’d invented.

Yet even with that perfectly reasonable excuse, Clark felt as though his knees might give out at any moment.

He walked toward you in short steps, clutching the paper against his chest like a shield.

With every step, his heart climbed higher into his throat.

You looked up as he approached.

Your heart stopped.

Or maybe it stopped twice.

Or maybe it stopped altogether.

Your mother glanced at you from the corner of her eye, wearing that familiar smile.

You looked at her.

Or maybe you swallowed.

You honestly couldn’t remember which came first.

You only knew that the office suddenly felt warmer.

And your palms had started sweating for absolutely no reason.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Clark said quietly.

So quietly it sounded as though he were asking permission to exist within your space.

He smiled at you.

A trembling smile.

The kind that escaped before he could stop it.

His fingers continued squeezing the paper as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“No, no,” you replied immediately.

Far too quickly.

Then you looked at your mother with eyes that clearly pleaded, Please don’t say anything weird.

“I... this is my mother, Clark... no... what’s wrong?” you said, realizing halfway through the sentence that none of those words made sense.

You sounded as though you were apologizing.

Or answering a question he’d never asked.

He only wanted to hand you a paper.

Not meet your mother.

At least, that’s what you assumed.

But your mouth had sprinted ahead of your brain.

And it was far too late to catch up.

Clark smiled anyway, despite not fully understanding what you’d just said.

He extended a hand toward your mother.

Then immediately pulled it back.

Wiped it on his jacket.

Then offered it again more carefully.

As though presenting something fragile.

“Clark Kent, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”

His voice came out slightly higher than usual.

The unmistakable sound of someone who was desperately nervous.

You smiled at your mother.

The kind of smile that hurt because of how hard you were forcing yourself to appear calm.

“Clark Kent,” your mother repeated, savoring the name like candy. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

She dropped the words casually.

Like someone tossing a grenade and waiting to see the explosion.

“About everyone,” you corrected quickly.

Far too quickly.

Far too obviously.

Your voice sounded rushed.

Artificial.

You fooled absolutely no one.

It was as obvious as the sky being blue.

As obvious as coffee being hot.

Your mother gave you a look that clearly said, Oh, my sweet foolish daughter.

Clark turned as red as a tomato.

“Yes, well, I hope my daughter does a good job and is a good coworker to everyone,” your mother said, releasing Clark’s hand after holding it a second longer than necessary.

Then she turned toward Lois as though she hadn’t just left her daughter internally screaming.

“She is. She’s the best.”

Clark’s words came out instantly.

Purely.

Directly from his heart before his brain had a chance to intervene.

Even he looked surprised.

You stared at him.

Speechless.

Your mother stared at him.

One eyebrow raised.

A huge smile spreading across her face.

Lois stared at him too.

Barely managing not to laugh.

Her expression practically screamed, These two are hopeless.

You smiled without entirely understanding why.

Then looked at your mother with a mixture of embarrassment and happiness you couldn’t conceal.

“I’m glad to hear that. I won’t take up any more of your time. Your work is important,” your mother said, waving a hand as though dismissing an entire army. “I’ll wait for my daughter downstairs.”

She paused for a moment.

Thinking.

“I’ll look for a restaurant while I wait. I hear Metropolis has excellent restaurants.”

She looked around as though expecting someone to hand her a map.

“The Italian restaurant next to the park is amazing,” Clark recommended.

The moment he finished speaking, he blushed so intensely it looked like he’d suddenly developed a fever.

He adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger.

A habit he always had when he was nervous.

Though he had no idea he did it.

“I think,” he added quietly, suddenly uncertain of his own recommendation.

You smiled.

One of those smiles that appeared without permission.

The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

“Of course. When we went there with Jimmy,” you said, remembering.

Clark nodded, relieved that someone had confirmed he hadn’t imagined the place.

You turned to your mother, your eyes shining.

“It really is good.”

Your voice carried far more conviction than one would expect from a conversation about food.

“Oh, then you should come with us, Clark. You seem to know the city well,” your mother said casually, as though inviting an old family friend to dinner.

You shook your head so quickly your neck nearly hurt.

“He’s lived here exactly as long as I have,” you tried to point out, as though that were a perfectly reasonable argument against him joining.

Your mother didn’t even look at you.

Her eyes remained fixed on Clark with the determination only mothers possessed when arranging something their children never requested.

“It would be my pleasure to join you. I... yes... Perry said...” Clark began.

Then immediately tangled himself in his own words.

He pointed at the paper still clutched in his hands as though he’d only just remembered it existed.

“This is for you,” he said finally, extending it toward you with the care of someone presenting an important trophy.

His fingers brushed yours.

Just for a second.

Both of you pulled away at exactly the same time.

As though the contact had shocked you.

“I... I’ll leave on time so I can take you both,” Clark said.

Then he retreated so quickly it looked like he was escaping a fire.

He nearly tripped over a chair.

Caught himself at the last second.

Then walked straight into a doorway that had been there forever.

And kept going.

His cheeks were so red they looked like two apples hanging from either side of his face.

You looked at your mother with wide eyes, having absolutely no idea what expression you were supposed to make. Whether you should be offended, laugh, or simply crawl under your desk and never come out again.

Lois smiled at your mother, shaking her head from side to side with the expression of someone who had seen this story before and already knew how it ended.

“See, ma’am?” Lois teased, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk as though she were watching her favorite television show. “Those two are complete lovebirds. It’s only a matter of time before they end up together.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the silly smile that slipped onto your lips.

Your mother simply nodded.

Serious.

Thoughtful.

As though she were mentally documenting every single thing she had witnessed.

Saving every detail for later.

For one of those phone calls when the two of you were alone.

When she could finally interrogate you properly and you would end up confessing everything you felt for Clark Kent.

Robby swipes through the different pictures; wood walls with tall windows facing a dock surrounded by shimmering water. The place is huge, and having three bedrooms sounds great, but it’s a little overkill for a loner like him. 

He stares at the porch for a few seconds too long, picturing what it’d be like to sit there in the mornings with a cup of coffee, and maybe, just maybe, have someone who–

“Watcha doing?” 

A voice behind him makes him jolt. 

He straightens up, instinctively locking his phone and tilting it toward his chest in a way that’s definitely not suspicious. Before he can even turn around, you’ve already rounded the counter, scanning your badge on the computer beside him.

Robby lifts an eyebrow at you, almost impressed by how you manage to type with just one hand while updating a chart, as the other stays wrapped around a half empty cup with Dunkin Donuts’s logo. 

You’ve been spending way too much time around Shen during shift handover. 

“It’s uhh…private,” he says, clearing his throat. Seriously, Michael? 

“Why? Is it something inappropriate?” you tease, eyes still on the screen. “Seems a little early for it, Dr. Robby, but who am I to judge?” 

Robby just stares at you in silence as you sip from your straw, completely unbothered by the fact that you are alarmingly comfortable talking to him like he isn't the chief of the Emergency Department.

Which, depending on the day, it’s either refreshing or deeply concerning. Today…he’s okay with it. In the few months you’d worked there as a new resident, he’d gotten more used to, well, you.

You were young, bright and clearly still uncorrupted by the horrors of working in that department. He doesn’t understand his particular fondness of you, but he doesn’t question it either if he wishes to keep the little sanity he has left.

“How’s your patient in Central 15?” he asks, slipping his phone inside the pocket of his hoodie before crossing his arms over his chest in his typical Robby pose. 

“Oh, great! She needed five stitches on her lower leg,” you explain, setting your cup on the counter to type faster. “Honestly, she seemed more sad about the fact that her mesh flats got ruined than the laceration, but I’d like to think it taught her a lesson about proper riding attire.”

Robby is not sure if you mean that as a jab to him, but when you give him a not so subtle side eye, he has to keep the corners of his mouth from lifting. 

“Ah, well, what is it that you guys always say? A win is–”

“A win,” you finish for him with a grin. “I’ll handle the discharge papers as soon as I’m done with this.”

“Good. And your other patients?”

“Aliiive and kicking, baby,” you say in a sinsongy proud tone, completely unaware of the term you just slipped at the end. It’s not the first time it happens anyway. 

Robby just nods with a tight-lipped smile. 

Your focus settles completely on the chart after that, so he reaches for his phone–only to close the tab, of course–because apparently he’s now a nearly fifty year old man hiding real estate listings from people like he is looking at something illegal or, according to you, inappropriate.

His eyes get caught on the porch again, and he has to keep himself from letting out a pathetic sigh.

“Is that a lake house??” 

Robby closes his eyes, for one peaceful second, before opening them again to find you standing beside him like an excited puppy. You are closer than before, way closer, eyes shining bright with curiosity as you lean to look at his phone. 

“The place looks gorgeous,” you say. “Are you getting it?”

Robby glances down at the photo again, before shaking his head with a dry chuckle. 

“Just looking.”

You don’t seem taken aback, instead you shift closer to him, until you’re pretty much standing arm to arm. Robby just stares straight ahead at a random spot on the floor like that would somehow make him less aware of how close you were. 

It doesn’t. He can smell your perfume now, too sweet for a place like the ED, and it’s not helping.

“Can I see?” You ask, completely oblivious to his insides short circuiting.

NO. 

That’s the first answer that crosses Robby’s mind. No, I am not sharing my pathetic midlife crisis wish with a resident who was probably still in high school when I started losing sleep over whether my life was even worth it anymore.

Okay, maybe don’t say that out loud. Defeated, he slides the phone across the counter so you can see better. You take his phone with wide eyes, amazed at how beautiful the place really is. 

“It has a fire pit!” you say excitedly. “Did you see that?”

“Mhm, I saw.”

“And did you see the kitchen? It’s so lovely.”

“I also saw the kitchen.”

“Look at the slanted ceilings and the big windows facing the lake! Dr. Robby, this is so cute,” you beam, like this is you getting such a beautiful property. “Aww, there’s even ducks in the lake, look!” 

He can’t help but smile, you’re practically buzzing next to him. “It’s a nice place,” he agrees. 

Robby watches you go through the dozens of pictures and zoom in on every detail, commenting on how cozy every single room looked. He found himself smiling wider by the time you reached the last photo. 

“What’s stopping you from getting it?” You ask, half turning to him. 

Robby has to lean his head back a little, since you don’t seem to realize how close you two are right now. One slip, and he’d be crashing against your lips face. He ignores the way Princess and Perlah mutter something behind him, as your question lingers in the air.  

He actually appreciates it, because you make it sound like him eyeing a lake house is not some embarrassing fantasy. Like it’s not ridiculous that a tired man like him, who had spent too much of his life between cold hospital walls might want somewhere quiet to go, even if he has no one to share it with. 

Which is funny, cause that’s the very thing that’s stopping him. 

Robby could say it’s about money, but everyone knows that attending salary is more than enough. He could say timing, but the older he gets the more it makes sense for him to look for a quiet place to settle down. He could say work, practicality, maintenance or even some bullshit about property taxes. 

All of those would be easier than the truth: that every time he looks at the photos, he sees a life he had not managed to build. 

The life he once dreamed of.

Having someone dancing barefoot with him in that kitchen. Kids running down that dock with a towel around their shoulders. Coffee for two on the porch at sunrise because he’s an early bird. Moments of unscripted happiness in rooms that aren’t illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights, but by the warm embers of a cozy fireplace. 

That he wanted a place for holidays and weekend getaways. A family that loved and admired him. A life that didn’t make him feel like a failure.

He had spent years telling himself there would be time to have all of that.

There would be time after med school. Then after his residency, or after his next promotion. Then maybe after he had more experience running the department. And then and then and then…one day he looked up and realized time had not waited for him.

He came home to no one. He woke up only to look forward to when he got to close his eyes again. He had nothing more than a bank account filled with money that couldn’t buy him good mental health or happiness.

And now he was standing at the nurse hub, looking at a lake house like it could fill the void he feels inside every single day of his miserable life. 

“...Hello?” 

Your sweet voice snaps him out of his thoughts, as you playfully nudge his arm with your shoulder. It feels like a ray of sunshine in the middle of his midnight storm. And he’s not sure if he even deserves it. 

“I don’t get much free time,” he finally says, managing to keep his tone casual. “I probably wouldn’t use it enough to justify it.” 

That’s a way of putting it, because you look at him like that is the least convincing thing he has ever said. You put his phone down, and pull out yours to type something in it. 

“It’s only an hour away,” you say after a few seconds.

“What?”

You raise your phone to him, showing him a google maps route with the address on the listing. “See? It says one hour and seven minutes with traffic. Probably less if you leave early.”

He stares at the screen, and it sure is. He hadn't even noticed the house was indeed not as far as he’d imagined.

“...Right,” he says. 

He could make it in even less time if he went on his bike. 

“You get every other weekend off, right?” You continue, getting an amused laugh from him.

“When the department isn’t falling apart,” he says.

“So…every other weekend,” you insist. 

“That’s very generous of you to say, but yes, probably.”

“Then you could go,” you say simply. Like his life could be simple. “You don’t have to stay a whole week to enjoy it. You could literally ride there Saturday morning–wearing a helmet, of course–then sit on that dock, and drink coffee while you stare at the water like a sad old man, and then come back Sunday night after fishing all day or whatever you do at a lake house.” 

“A sad old man?” he repeats, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“You have that vibe,” you shrug, reaching out for your drink again. He raises his eyebrows in amusement at you. “Respectfully,” you add, sipping from the straw. 

A raspy laugh escapes him before he can help it. Princess mutters something again, and Robby side eyes her before clearing his throat, looking back at the listing. 

You smile to yourself and return to the computer. 

He probably should’ve dropped it there and go do his fucking job, but as he stares at that damned porch again, words escape him before he can stop himself. 

“It’s not really the kind of place you buy just to sit in alone, though,” he says.

You stop typing when you hear it, and Robby regrets it immediately. But before he can dig a hole in the ground to bury his head in, you turn to him, and it’s not pity that looks back at him…but softness. Understanding.

Thank God. 

“Well, you have plenty of friends here. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind being invited,” you say with a bright smile that makes his heart ache. 

For a second he’d expected you to make fun about him, but you had taken his lonely little confession and placed it somewhere safe. 

Friends. 

Maybe if he squinted he could see it: his colleagues at a barbecue by the lake. Jack flipping burgers, Mckay with her son by the water, Princess “getting a tan” and Dana probably staying in a cozy corner inside reading a book. 

He’d also invite Whitaker and Santos, and maybe Javadi would want to come too. Then you would have your friends there as well. Because…he’d want you there, of course. Not that he would only invite the others just so that you come–okay, he needs to stop stressing over the hypothetical guests list of his hypothetical lake house. Besides, you probably wouldn't even want to waste your sacred weekend spending more time with people from the hospital. 

Or with…him. The sad old man.  

At least Jack wouldn't say no. It’s not the main vision he had but the listing didn’t say anything about the house coming with a white picket fence family included, so his brother would have to do. 

“Oh shoot, gotta go,” you suddenly gasp beside him, checking some labs on the computer.

“What happened?” He asks, stepping behind you so he can see the screen too. 

“Just got the results from my teenager on triage. No wonder he couldn’t stop sweating, his potassium came back lower than I expected,” you explain, already logging out the computer. 

If Robby hadn’t stepped back in that second, your back would’ve collided with his chest.

“I’m checking on him, gotta keep them alive and kicking, boss,” you say with a two finger salute. 

Robby hums in amusement, watching you drop the empty cup in the trashcan and walking away toward triage. He forces himself to look back down at his phone, and the stupid lake house stares up at him.

Cozy, beautiful…out of reach. 

Just like you. 

Or maybe not, because when he locks his phone and looks up, you’re sprinting back toward the nurse station like you forgot something. Your sneakers come to halt on the other side of the counter, planting your hands on it. 

“For the record, I wouldn’t mind either, Dr. Robby,” you say, a little agitated, but smiling at him bright and shameless and maddeningly sweet. 

“...You wouldn’t mind what?” He asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Being invited,” you say casually, before turning around and leaving again before he could even think what to respond. 

Robby stands in the middle of the central hub, smiling like an absolute idiot. He turns to Perlah and Princess–who both do their own versions of “we weren’t eavesdropping” casual whistling–and gives them an unimpressed look before leaving.

He makes his way toward Pedes, already dialing the listing’s number with a smile on his face.

NEW YORK BOTANICAL GARDEN — DAY

It feels almost unreal, being here with him. You’re stepping into something softer than the life you’re used to. There’s so much sky, air, and a multitude of colors; it’s a stark contrast to the Pitt.

November has settled into the Botanical Garden like it owns the place—gold and rust and deep burnt orange spilling across every path. Leaves crunch under your boots, pumpkins arranged in little clusters like someone carefully curated joy itself, vines twisting around archways, the light filtering through branches in a way that makes everything look warmer than it should be.

It’s stupidly beautiful.

The kind of charm that makes your chest tingle with hope because you don’t get to exist in it often.

Robby is with you, completely present, and no longer carrying the weight of an entire emergency department on his shoulders. Simply walking next to you. Close enough that you’re aware of him constantly, like a second heartbeat.

There’s something tentative in the way both of you move. It’s as if you’re learning each other all over again. Like one wrong step might undo this fragile, miraculous thing you’ve found your way into.

It feels ridiculous, but also—like a high school crush. The kind where your hands brush, and it feels like lightning. Where every glance lingers half a second too long. That thought you don’t quite know what to do with your body because suddenly everything feels like it matters.

You stop near a row of pumpkins, laughing softly as you take a photo. “Okay, wait—this one’s cute.”

“Everything here is cute,” he says.

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m just stating facts.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway, adjusting the angle, snapping a picture. At some point, an older couple approaches—gentle smiles, bundled in scarves. “Would you like us to take one of you together?”

You blink before you, then glance at him.

He glances at you, and there’s that flicker again—that quiet, are we really doing this?

You nod and reply, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

You step closer to him, hesitant to touch each other at first. Then instinct—or courage—bridges the gap. Your arm slips lightly around his, while his hand settles at your back. He’s asking permission even in the way he holds you.

“Ready?” the woman calls.

You look up at him just as the photo is taken. The smile that catches your face isn’t practiced; it’s entirely authentic.

After you thank them, watch them walk off hand-in-hand, something soft settling in your bones at the sight.

You and Robby keep walking on the paths, with leaves falling. Conversation is easy, then quiet, then easy again.

Without warning, it happens. So subtle you almost miss it.

Robby’s hand brushes yours twice, then—he makes a decision. His fingers curl around yours, testing. He's prepared for you to pull away. But you don’t; instead, you let your fingers lace with his, and it feels right.

He exhales, almost imperceptibly, that tiny release, a quiet relief.

Then, without thinking, you shift closer and wrap both your arms around his. Tucking yourself into him as you walk, and it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He nearly forgets how to function, and actually stumbles half a step. You laugh softly as you ask, “You good?”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He is, in fact, not good. Because, in all honesty, he is dangerously close to short-circuiting. Because you’re holding onto him like you want to. His arm tightens just slightly, protective. You lean into him, and he leans into you, for a while—you just walk like that together.

Later, softer, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look at him, “Tell you what?” 

He hesitates before saying, “Back then… that you…” You tilt your head, a small smile tugging. “Liked you?” 

He huffs a breath. “Well—yeah. That. Or… the other thing.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Why didn’t you?”

He exhales. “…Touché.”

You smile, but it fades into something more honest. “Back then…” you begin slowly, “I don’t think I could or should have.” You look ahead. “I wasn’t even sure you liked me.”

“But I did,” he says immediately.

You shoot him a look. “You gave me a verbal order once, I said no, and you got mad.” He winces at that, “Yeah… okay. Not my finest attending moment.”

“Mhm.” There’s a small smile there, but your voice softens after.

“When someone likes me…” You hesitate before saying it anyway. “I get anxious.”

He becomes perfectly motionless next to you.

“I start wondering how they could.” Your voice drops. “If I’m worth it or if I deserve it. I start thinking maybe I won’t be able to love them right. Or back.” You swallow, a little more vulnerable. “I’ve never really… had that before.”

He becomes perfectly motionless next to you, then gently pulls you to a stop with him. You look up, and there’s no teasing in his face now or deflection, only quiet understanding.

“It makes sense,” he says softly. “That you’d be scared.” His thumb brushes over your hand. “But it’s still worth trying. Even if it might not work out.” His eyes hold yours. “There’s always that little part of you that hopes it will.”

A loosening of tension is felt throughout. 

“Kindness is scary,” you admit and he nods, “Yeah.” You laugh softly, shaking your head. “It feels like something that’s gonna disappear.”

“Sometimes it does,” he says honestly. “And sometimes it doesn’t.” A second ticked by before he adds, “Sometimes it stays.”

You look at him, and you don’t immediately brace for loss. Instead, you smile, and you both keep walking hand in hand, with leaves falling around you, talking about nothing and everything, laughing too easily.

Your head tipping back at something he says, laughter spilling out of you. Because you belong here, with him, for the first time in a long time—what’s past is past. Something new, quiet, fragile, hopeful—begins again.

STEPHEN SONDHEIM THEATRE, BROADWAY — NIGHT

Broadway at night feels electric.

The city glows differently here—gold lights reflecting off wet pavement, taxis blurring past in streaks of yellow, crowds bundled in coats and scarves moving together like a current. The marquee for & Juliet shines above the street, bright and dramatic and alive, and you can’t help the grin already stretching across your face before you’ve even made it inside.

Robby notices immediately. “You’re excited.”

You look at him like that should be obvious. “It’s Broadway.”

“I gathered that.”

“Michael,” you whisper, scandalized, “this is culture.”

That gets a warm and easy laugh out of him.

God, he loves hearing you laugh.

Inside, the theater buzzes with energy. Playbills rustling, people talking over each other, the smell of expensive perfume and old velvet seats, and overpriced cocktails lingering in the air. Everything feels grand in that old New York way—ornate ceilings, glowing chandeliers, red carpeting worn down by decades of people coming here to feel something.

Beside him, you’re glowing. You clutch your Playbill to your chest as you both find your seats, leaning close to whisper commentary to him before the show starts. “Oh my God, these seats are amazing.”

“They better be for what I paid.”

You snort. “You sound ninety years old.”

“I feel ninety years old.”

“You are so silly.”

“You work in emergency medicine, too. You’re not exactly a spring chicken.”

You gasp softly. “Wow. Okay.”

He grins, shameless.

The lights dim before you can retaliate, and the entire theater erupts into applause.

Then the music starts, you are gone. Completely, utterly delighted, and Robby spends half the show watching you instead of the stage.

Not because the show isn’t good—it is. Funny and bright and ridiculously entertaining, packed with pop songs that make the audience laugh and cheer and sing under their breath—but because you are impossible not to look at.

You mouth along quietly to nearly every song, not obnoxiously or loudly, but enough for him to notice. Your shoulders shimmy in your seat during the upbeat numbers, your knee bouncing to the rhythm. Sometimes you clap immediately after a performance with this wholehearted enthusiasm that makes him smile before he even realizes he’s doing it.

At one point, you lean over during a song and whisper excitedly, “I love this one.”

“I can tell,” he whispers back, watching you more than the stage.

You don’t even notice him staring.

You’re too busy laughing at a joke, one hand flying to his arm instinctively as the crowd around you bursts into applause, the contact nearly kills him.

You pull away quickly afterward, still smiling toward the stage, unaware of the way his heart just stumbled over itself. He looks at your profile under the soft theater lighting. Your flushed cheeks, the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and the tiny sparkle of your necklace when you move. He believes that this feeling is something he could’ve lost forever because of fear or cowardice. 

At intermission, you immediately turn to him, vibrating with excitement. “This is so fun.”

“You’ve said ‘oh my God’ at least fourteen times.”

“And I’ll say it fourteen more.”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You’re cute when you’re excited.”

You blink at him, then immediately look away, cheeks warming. “You can’t just say things like that randomly.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I stop functioning.”

That almost takes him out at the knees. He has to look away for a second, rubbing at his mouth to hide the helpless smile there.

By the second act, you’ve relaxed into him more naturally. Your shoulder brushes his constantly now. Thigh presses lightly against his. At one point during a slower song, your fingers absentmindedly curl into the sleeve of his dress shirt while you watch the stage. Like you want grounding, and you trust him enough to take it from him. Robby thinks he could live inside that feeling forever.

The show itself—God, it’s joyful. The audience cheers and laughs and claps along, and you join in without hesitation, head tipped back laughing at one scene so hard you nearly wheeze.

He’s never seen you like this before. Completely alive and not exhausted and running on adrenaline and caffeine. Simply put, you look happy.

You catch him staring eventually. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

He smiles to himself before answering honestly. “I just…” His voice lowers. “I really like seeing you like this.”

Your expression softens instantly.

“Oh.”

There’s so much hidden meaning in that tiny word.

The lights from the stage flicker gold across your face as you look at him, and suddenly the moment feels unbearably tender. Two people are carefully learning happiness at the same time.

By the finale, the entire theater is on its feet, including you. You’re clapping enthusiastically, laughing as the cast bows, turning toward him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “That was amazing.”

“Yeah,” he says softly.

But he isn’t looking at the stage anymore, he’s looking at you, and for the first time in a very long time, Robby realizes something terrifyingly simple: He wants more of this.

Late-night theater shows with your hand finding his in the dark. Listening to you laugh until his ribs ache from it. Wanting tomorrow with you more than anything.

As you beam at him under the dim Broadway lights, still buzzing with excitement, your fingers slipping into his as you leave the theater together and disappear into the glowing New York night.

DINER — NIGHT

The city is still buzzing by the time you leave the theater.

Broadway lights glow behind you, traffic reflecting off wet pavement, while people pour down sidewalks in coats and scarves and hurried conversations. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. You’re still humming one of the songs under your breath when Robby checks his phone for the fourth time. Then he groans, and you look over immediately and ask, “What?”

“The restaurant.” He clarifies, and you tilt your head, asking, “What about it?”

“It closed.”

You blink. “The fancy one?”

“Yes.”

“The one you made reservations for?”

“Yes.”

You stare at him for exactly one second before dissolving into laughter. Head tipped back, hand clutching his arm, while he looks personally offended by modern business hours.

“This city used to stay open all night,” he mutters, and you shrug, “COVID killed late-night culture.”

“It’s un-American.”

“Okay, gramps.” You grin and point down the block toward a glowing neon sign. A diner. Open 24/7. “C’mon,” you say. “Breakfast for dinner.”

He looks at you carefully, then, almost suspiciously. “You’re not mad?”

Your face softens immediately. “No.” Because the truth is—you’d eat gas station chips with him on the curb and still be happy right now.

The diner is warm in that old New York way. Slightly sticky menus, cracked leather booths, fluorescent lights softened by time, the smell of coffee and syrup and grease lingering in the air. Somewhere behind the counter, a waitress calls someone “hon” while a tired cook flips pancakes like he’s done it for thirty years straight.

It’s perfect.

You slide into the booth first, but instead of sitting across from him, you tug gently at his hand. “Here.”

His brows lift in question, but you grin, “Sit by the same side as me.”

Robby’s insides twisted at the way you said it. He slides in beside you, thigh pressed against yours instantly in the cramped booth. Your fingers stay intertwined the entire time you look at the menu, and neither of you lets go. The waitress comes by, exhausted but kind. “You kids know what you want?”

Kids.

Robby almost laughs at that.

You order waffles and fries because, apparently, you enjoy chaos, plus milkshakes, pancakes, eggs, and mozzarella sticks. After all, once you started ordering, neither of you knew how to stop.

The second the waitress leaves, you immediately cuddle against his side. It feels like instinct now, as if your body already knows where it wants to be. Your head rests against his shoulder while his arm wraps around you automatically, hand settling warm against your waist beneath your coat.

And Robby—fuck. Robby is completely gone for you. He tries not to make it obvious, but every time you curl closer to him, every time your fingers absentmindedly play with the sleeve of his shirt, every time your perfume drifts toward him when you move—he feels it everywhere.

You’re watching the city through the diner window. People hurrying by under streetlights, the steam rising from subway grates, taxi horns, and New Yorkers somehow managing to look annoyed even at eleven at night.

You mumble sleepily against him, “I kinda love this city.”

“It’s growing on me.”

“That’s because it’s like you.”

He looks down. “What does that mean?”

“Tired. Mean-looking. Secretly soft.”

He huffs a laugh into your hair.

Eventually, you shift, hugging his arm with both of yours instead while he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Your eyes close immediately, content and happy.

He lingers there a second too long, breathing you in quietly. Your shampoo, perfume, and something warm underneath it that is just you.

Then suddenly—you sit upright. “Oh, my God.”

“What?”

You point animatedly toward the window. “Is that pigeon waiting to use the crosswalk?”

Robby squints and spots the pigeon standing there at the curb beside several pedestrians. Then the light changes, and the pigeon starts walking directly across the street while using the crosswalk. You gasp like you’ve witnessed a miracle. “Holy shit.”

Robby bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, it is.”

“That’s insane.”

“That pigeon pays taxes.”

“That pigeon has somewhere to be.”

You’re both laughing now.

“It’s so New York,” you continue. “The rats here probably have organized crime families.”

“Oh, definitely.” Robby agrees with you as you continue to ramble, “The Bronx rats and the Brooklyn rats are in active gang warfare.”

“Queens rats stay neutral.”

“Absolutely not. Queens rats are laundering money.”

“And Manhattan rats?”

You lean in seriously. “Real estate moguls.”

He laughs so hard he has to lean forward for a second, rubbing at his face. The waitress brings your food, still chuckling at whatever joke she overheard last. “Anything else for you two?”

“We’re good, thank you.”

The food is ridiculous—it’s perfect diner food. Greasy fries, fluffy pancakes, waffles drowning in whipped cream. You immediately start stealing from each other’s plates.

“Try this.” You tell him.

“I have my own.”

“No, this one’s better.” You stab a waffle piece with your fork and hold it toward him, and he opens his mouth obediently. Later, he does the same to you, holding out a bite of pancake dripping with syrup. “C’mon.”

You lean forward automatically, lips wrapping around the fork as you take the bite. Jesus fucking Christ. His brain fully short-circuits because you do it absentmindedly and completely unaware.

Still chewing while reaching for your milkshake.

Meanwhile, he’s suddenly trying very hard not to think about your mouth. You keep talking normally while he stares at his coffee like it personally betrayed him. Then you get whipped cream just above your lip.

Without thinking, he reaches over, thumb brushing softly across your mouth, and the touch stills both of you for half a second. Your eyes flick to his before you very slowly take his thumb into your mouth, your gaze warm and playful as it never leaves his.

Robby nearly loses his fucking mind as his entire body goes tight. “You…” he starts hoarsely.

You only smirk and kiss his cheek sweetly like you didn’t just do that. Pretending you didn’t just set his nervous system on fire inside a diner at midnight.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters as you grin against his shoulder, biting your lower lip, “Maybe.”

He leans closer, voice lower now. “Careful.” While your brows lift innocently. “Hm?”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

Heat floods straight into your face. But instead of backing down, you sip your milkshake calmly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He actually laughs under his breath at that and points at your plate. “Finish your food.”

“Bossy.”

“We’re going back to your apartment after this.”

Your stomach flips violently, and you try to look out the window to hide it.

Of course, he notices, but the smug bastard kisses your temple anyway. When the check comes, you automatically reach for your wallet. Robby spots your movement and thinks, absolutely not. He catches your wrist immediately. “I got it.”

“You already paid for Broadway and the gardens.”

“And?”

“You don’t have to keep spending money on me.”

His expression softens instantly. “It’s not about the money.” He adds quietly, “I just like taking care of you.” That shuts you up completely while he pays.

Leaves an absurd tip that makes the waitress blink twice at the receipt, and afterward the two of you step back out into the cold New York night together—warm from diner coffee and laughter and each other—walking shoulder to shoulder beneath the city lights.

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — NIGHT

By the time you both get back to the apartment, New York has settled into that strange late-night quiet that only happens after midnight. The soft, distant hum of traffic outside the windows. The occasional siren somewhere far off. Rainwater still shines on the streets below under streetlamps, and your cheeks still hurt from smiling.

Robby shuts the apartment door behind him while you toe off your boots near the entryway, laughing quietly when Bowie immediately trots over, demanding attention.

“Hi, buddy,” you murmur, crouching down to scratch behind his ears. “Did you miss me? Hope you had a good time with Grace today.”

“Traitor,” Robby mutters when the dog immediately abandons him for you.

You grin over your shoulder. “He knows who feeds him.”

“He also knows who dropped half his scrambled eggs this morning.”

“That was tactical.”

“Mmhm.”

You laugh softly and wander toward the kitchen while Robby moves toward the little speaker by the bookshelf. A second later, music drifts through the apartment. Soft indie music, gentle guitar, and the kind you play during night drives or rainy mornings.

You glance back at him immediately. “You remembered.” He shrugs, suddenly shy about it. “You always played this in the ED break room.”

Something warm blooms low in your chest. The apartment lights are dim except for the little lamp near the couch and the warm glow from the kitchen stove light. It makes everything feel safer somehow.

You’re standing by the counter when he walks over, drawn to you. His hands settle carefully at your waist, and your breath catches as he asks you, “Dance with me?”

You smile instantly.

“Michael Robinavitch,” you whisper dramatically, “are you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?”

“Unfortunately.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and then he pulls you closer. You sway together in the middle of your sister’s apartment kitchen like two people who almost lost the chance to do this at all.

Your arms loop around his neck while his hands rest low against your waist, warm and grounding. The music hums softly around you while he tells you stories between slow movements.

About the cruise, Greece, and getting sunburned in Naples because apparently an emergency physician with multiple advanced degrees forgot sunscreen existed.

You laugh so hard you nearly bury your face in his chest. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not.”

“You’re a disaster.”

“I’m aware.”

He tells you about the people he met. Older couples traveling together after retirement. Multiple families. A little Filipino grandmother who apparently adopted him emotionally within fifteen minutes.

“She yelled at me,” he says seriously.

You blink. “What?”

“She asked why I looked sad.”

“Oh, my God.”

“And then she fed me.”

You nod at that, “Yeah, that adds up.”

“And then,” he continues, “she told me I was stupid.” You burst out laughing, “She was right.”

“She also told me to stop acting like a martyr and go after the woman I love.”

Your laughter quiets, as your vision softens and focuses on him, “Oh.” He nods once. “They taught me a few words, too.”

Your brows lift, “Oh?” He shifts slightly closer, and then, carefully—as he practiced, he says, “Pasensya na.” (I’m sorry.)

Your breath catches as you realize what he was saying.

“Patawarin mo ako.” (Please forgive me.)

“Salamat.” (Thank you.)

Your eyes already sting. But then he looks directly at you, voice rougher now. “Mahal kita.” (I love you.)

You start crying instantly as that absolutely destroys you. Sobbing as you slap a hand over your face while laughing through it, overwhelmed beyond reason. “Fuck you, Michael Robinavitch,” you cry. “That is so unfairly romantic.”

He laughs softly too, eyes glassy now as you throw your arms around him. You hold him tightly, still afraid this could disappear.

His face buries into your hair, and for a moment neither of you says anything. Only breathing and holding on. Later, quietly, against your temple, “Come back to Pittsburgh with me.”

You pull back just enough to squint suspiciously at him through your tears. “How did you know I’d be back next week?”

That smug little smile appears, a dangerous thing. “I may have asked your sister when she was getting home.”

You gasp softly. “You schemed with my family?”

“She likes me.”

“Knowing her, she probably threatened to murder you.”

“Yeah, but warmly.”

You laugh helplessly again, shaking your head before touching his face carefully. “Michael Robinavitch,” you whisper. Your voice breaks around it as you smile, “I love you too. Mahal Kita.”

The look on his face after you say it—God. All the grief he’s been carrying in his ribs for years, and suddenly there’s room for something else now.

You kiss him first. It’s soft and tender. Then again, longer, and something changes. Maybe it’s the air, the space between you and the wanting that’s been simmering quietly for months—years, suddenly rises all at once.

His hands slide carefully up your back, holding you like you’re precious. Still trying to convince himself this is real. You kiss him deeper, and he makes this quiet sound against your mouth that nearly wrecks you.

Then suddenly he pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. Forehead resting against yours. “We don’t have to do this.”

You blink.

His thumb strokes gently against your waist. “I mean it.” His voice is low, steady despite the obvious restraint in it. “We can stop. We can slow down. We can sit on the couch and cuddle all night if you want.” Another soft breath as he finishes, “I’ll wait however long you need me to.”

Your heart actually hurts as you stare at him in disbelief. “Do you understand,” you whisper, “how insanely attractive consent is?”

That startles a laugh out of him.

“I’m serious,” you continue, emotional and wrecked and completely gone for him. “I love you.”

Something in his expression crumples, as if the tenderness physically pains him. So, you kiss him again, harder this time. And in response, his hands tighten instinctively at your waist. You climb halfway into his lap on the couch without fully realizing you’re doing it, and he exhales sharply into your mouth like the contact nearly kills him.

The kisses deepen slowly, carefully. He lets you set the pace even now. When his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, it’s hesitant, asking.

You answer by kissing him deeper. And fuck, the sound he makes. His hand slides down instinctively, gripping softly at your thigh, then lower—curving over your ass through your skirt.

You gasp softly against his mouth, and pleasure sparks hot down your spine. His forehead falls briefly against yours as he exhales shakily. “You’re killing me.”

You laugh breathlessly, dazed and happy and dizzy on him. His mouth trails once along your jaw, then pauses. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Still okay?”

“Yes.”

He kisses you again immediately after that, like he can’t help himself anymore. Slow, deep, and so very starved. While your fingers disappear into his hair, his grip tightens at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s barely space left between you.

Somewhere between the soft melodies still playing from the kitchen, the city lights flickering like distant candles outside the windows, and the way he says your name against your mouth—a whisper, a prayer, a sacred invocation—you realize this isn’t just longing anymore. It’s home, a belonging that seeps into your bones, warm and inevitable.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to your sister’s guest room, his lips never leaving yours. 

Michael lays you down on the bed with a gentleness that makes your heart ache, his eyes tracing every line of your face as if memorizing it anew.

The room is bathed in the soft glow of a streetlamp outside, casting long shadows that dance with the sway of distant trees. His hands, rough and warm, slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher as he kneels before you. He looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch, his brown eyes dark and hungry under hooded lids as he pulls your underwear down your legs.

“So pretty.” He lowers his head, his beard scratching deliciously against your inner thighs as he takes his first taste of you. A low sound rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he laps at you with a hunger that leaves you gasping. 

He takes his time, savoring you like a man starved, his tongue circling and flicking against your clit with a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure crashing through you.

His fingers join the dance, slipping inside you with a smoothness that makes your back arch off the bed. The sounds of your pleasure fill the room—the slick wetness of his fingers moving in and out of you, the ragged moans escaping your lips, the hushed murmurs of his voice as he whispers filthy promises against your flesh.

He looks up at you then, his eyes wild and dark, completely lost in the taste of you, in the sounds that spill from your lips. Your orgasm hits hard and fast, your body convulsing as you grip his hair tightly, squeezing his head with your thighs as waves of release crash over you.

You were still panting when Robby’s mouth trailed up your belly, your ribs, resting between your breasts like it was a stopping place. His beard was slick with you, his hands strong and gentle where they stroked your hips, your stomach, your trembling thighs. He kissed your sternum, the valley between your breasts, the scars left by the scabs on your arms, then pressed his ear to your chest like he liked hearing what his work had done to your heartbeat.

He looked up at you, hair mussed and lips wet and so goddamn earnest it hurt. “You okay?”

You nodded, still in the afterglow, still not convinced your body would ever fully coalesce again. “More than okay.”

He grinned that soft, private little smile of his—the one he calibrated only for you, infuriatingly shy and possessive at once. You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up, kissed him hard so you could taste yourself on his tongue, a feral, greedy thing.

You’re still riding the high, boneless and thrumming, you can barely catch your breath, but you manage a tremulous, “You’re going to kill me.”

He just grins, some pride, some gratitude, none of the usual self-effacement. “You’re tough, Ducky.”

You watch him crawl up your body, helping you remove several articles of clothing. Stripping you naked, he gazes every valley, every inch of your skin in such awe as a man who wholeheartedly desires you, your softness, the natural shape and curves of your body.

“You are so fucking beautiful.” He says, bracing himself above you, arms caging you most thrillingly. He’s still fully clothed, but you can feel the length of him hot and insistent through the fabric of his pants, a tease of pressure at your hip. 

You reach for the waistband greedily, and he lets you strip him down, helping only enough to make you feel like you’re the one in charge.

Robby crawled up your body, gold chain around his neck catching in the light, dangling, as he is bracing himself above you, his presence hot and insistent against your hip. You reached for his waistband, pulling him closer. He was heavy, a promise made manifest. 

You lick your lips as you look up at his heated gaze, “That’s not gonna fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

Fucking hell.

“Condom?” He asked, and you shook your head, “If you’re okay with it… I’m clean, and I have an IUD.”

“I recently got tested, and haven’t had sex at all during my sabbatical.” Robby breathes heavily.

“At all?” You widened your eyes in surprise, and he chuckled, “All I could think about was you. I wanted no one else.”

You nearly tear up again, then nod, “Okay.”

You looked up at him, breathless and dazed, and the sudden reality of the situation crashed into your head. "Oh, god," you whispered, eyes widening. "HR is going to kill us."

Robby let out a choked, breathless laugh, pressing a wet, scorching kiss. "Ducky, my love, please don't talk about HR when my dick is about to be inside you."

"Sorry," you squeaked, your brain short-circuiting as he pressed into you, the friction sharp and divine. "My brain won’t shut up sometimes."

He huffed, a sound of pure, possessive affection, and kissed you hard, effectively silencing your thoughts.

Robby moans your name in pure bliss. “Fuck, good—good girl. You’re so fucking tight—fuck.” He began to rock into you, steady and rhythmic, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re taking it so well.”

In the dim light of the apartment, with the city breathing outside the window, nothing else mattered—not the job, not the risks, only the way he grounded you, pulling you impossibly closer until the two of you were moving as one.

The laughter dies in your throat, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of breath as he commits to the motion. It’s a slow, deliberate slide, a physical realization of the hunger that’s been stalking the edges of your perception for years. 

You aren’t ready for the sheer weight of him, the way he seems to displace everything else in the room—the air, the sound of the rain, the lingering anxiety of your jobs.

“Ahhh.” The sound escapes you, not as a cry, but as a shaky, stuttered exhale. He’s stopped, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, watching you with eyes that look like molten copper in the low light. He’s waiting. Always waiting for you to catch up.

"Okay?" he whispers, his voice dropping into that register—the one that usually steadies a crashing patient, but now is meant solely for you.

"Keep going," you manage, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders, your legs tangling with his to pull him tighter. "Please."

He huffs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, and then he moves. It starts slow—a deliberate, agonizingly sweet pace that stretches you, makes you feel full and centered and completely his.

The friction is electric, a heat that builds behind your navel and radiates outward, turning your limbs to water. 

He leans down, and his lips find the crook of your elbow, then drift down to the faded white lines on your forearm. He presses a lingering, reverent kiss there, his beard grazing your sensitive skin. It’s a gesture of such profound acknowledgment—that he sees the history etched into your skin and wants it all—that you nearly lose your rhythm, your breath hitching in your chest.

“Mmm—ah! Please—” You arch your back, gasping as he catches the pace, his hips connecting with yours with a steady, relentless thud. 

He grunts, "That's it, just like that.” The bed creaks, a rhythmic, wooden groan that joins the soundtrack of your night. 

You can feel him everywhere—the heavy, solid presence of his thighs against yours, the heat of his sweat, the way he watches you with an intensity that makes you feel naked even beneath the tangle of sheets.

"I— fuck, oh, Michael—" you babble, but the words dissolve into a fragmented oh as he hits a nerve, a spot so deep and precise it sends a jolt of lightning straight down to your toes.

"You like that?" he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. He’s not laughing anymore. The humor from a moment ago has been incinerated by the raw, kinetic energy of the act. He sounds desperate, starved. 

"Michael, please!" you moan, your voice a desperate plea. 

He shifts, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin, anchoring you to the mattress. "I've got you, I've got you.”

He rocks into you, deeper this time, and you feel the way he shudders, the way he’s fighting to hold back for you, even when he’s so clearly on the edge himself.

He makes a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. You’re spinning, the room tilting as the pressure mounts. You can see the veins corded in his neck, the way his jaw is set, his lips pulled back slightly as he battles his own control. 

"Look at me," he commands softly.

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. It’s like looking into a furnace. There’s no ambiguity left, no "HR," no "traitor," no jokes about emergency medicine. Just two people, finally, finally finding each other in the dark.

"I’ve wanted this," he whispers, his voice cracking. "Since the first time you walked into the break room with that stupid coffee mug."

"That was years ago," you gasp, your nails digging into his back as the waves start to crash. 

"I know," he grunts, his movements accelerating, the rhythm becoming a blur of friction and heat. "I’ve been waiting since the first time I saw you smile at a patient. I've been waiting forever."

His words shatter the last of your composure. You stop thinking about the job, the risk, the fallout. You just let go. Your core tightens, pulling him closer, wanting to consume him.

“Ah! Ah, Robby!” You scream his name, a soft, high sound that gets swallowed by the room as your body begins to convulse, the release hitting you like a physical blow.

He doesn’t break his gaze. He watches you fall apart, his face twisting in a mix of pride and fierce possessiveness, and then he gives a final, powerful thrust, letting out a sharp, ragged shout that sounds like a prayer. 

He collapses onto you, his forehead resting against yours, his body heavy and warm, shuddering with the aftershocks.

For a long time, the only sound in the guest room is the two of you—sucking in great, lung-filling breaths, the rapid thump-thump of your heart against his, the soft, distant hum of New York continuing on as if the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hair damp against his forehead, his face flushed and wrecked in the most beautiful way. He reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your temple, his touch so light it borders on worship.

"You okay?" he asks again, his voice gravelly, stripped raw.

You can only nod, unable to string a coherent sentence together. You feel boneless, melted into the mattress, your skin humming with the memory of him. 

He chuckles, a low, exhausted sound that vibrates in his chest against yours. He shifts, rolling onto his side but refusing to break contact, dragging you with him so you’re flush against his side, his arm draped possessively over your waist. 

"HR," he mutters, his voice heavy with sleepiness and smug satisfaction. "You were worried about HR."

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him—soap, rain, and the faint, musky scent of sex. You laugh, a soft, bubbly sound that feels lighter than air. "Shut up," you murmur.

"No, I’m just saying," he teases, kissing the top of your head. "If they have a problem with it, they’ll have to get through me first."

"You're a doctor, Michael. You're supposed to save people, not threaten the administration."

"I can do both," he whispers against your hair. "I'm a multi-tasker."

You drift into a haze, the reality of the night settling over you like a warm blanket. You’re in your sister’s guest room. The city is still breathing outside. And beside you, the man you’ve been pining for is finally, truly, yours. 

The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s thick with the unspoken promises of the hours to come. You close your eyes, the exhaustion of the shift and the emotional vertigo of the last hour finally pulling you under. 

"Ducky?" he whispers just before you drift off.

"Hm?"

"Stay," he says. Not a command, just a plea. 

You snuggle closer, tucking your hand under his chin. "I'm not going anywhere."

He sighs, a sound of profound relief, a soft whoosh of air against your ear, and pulls the duvet up higher over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. In the darkness, you can still feel the echo of him, the phantom pressure of his skin against yours, a map of where you’ve been and where you’re going.

A moment of blissful quiet passes, then a new thought surfaces, cutting through the dreamy haze. “But I do need to pee,” you mumble, a slight groan escaping you, “cause UTI is not particularly fun.”

Michael’s hand, which had been resting gently on your hip, gives a soft squeeze. “Smart girl. Don’t want any nasty infections ruining our glow.” He shifts, and you feel the cool air momentarily as he moves to the bedside table. A warm, damp cloth is gently dabbed between your legs, cleaning you with an unexpected tenderness. 

His fingers are careful, reassuring. “There,” he murmurs, his voice low, “all clean. Now go do your business.”

You untangle yourself from the sheets, the sudden coolness of the room a stark contrast to the warmth of his body. A small thump as your feet hit the carpet. You pad across the room, the floorboards creaking softly under your weight, and slip into the adjoining bathroom. The familiar flush of the toilet sounds remarkably loud in the quiet apartment.

When you emerge, Robby is already sitting up, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Feel better?”

“Infinitely,” you sigh, stretching your arms above your head. “Now what?”

“Now?” He pats the spot beside him. “Now, we get properly clean.” He swings his legs out of bed, the duvet sliding down with a soft swish. “Shower?”

You nod, a grin spreading across your face. “Definitely shower.”

He takes your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and leads you into the bathroom. The air is cool, but a moment later, the shower starts, a steady stream of water hitting the tiles. Steam begins to curl, blurring the edges of the mirror. You step in first, feeling the initial cold spray, then the welcoming warmth as the water adjusts.

Robby steps in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his front. The water cascades over both of you, a comforting roar. He presses kisses to your shoulder, his lips warm and wet. “Mmm, you smell good,” he hums, a deep, resonant sound in your ear.

His beard, a soft brush of dark hair with those intriguing silver strands at the temples, tickles your skin as he trails kisses down your neck, then along your collarbone. The giggle you let out is a light, airy sound, as his beard brushes against a particularly sensitive spot. “Stop, you’re tickling me!” You squirm playfully in his embrace, but he only holds you tighter.

“Am I?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Good. I like your giggles.” He continues his assault of soft kisses, his hands moving over your skin, soaping your back with slow, deliberate strokes. You lean back into him, letting the warm water and his ministrations wash away any lingering tension.

You reach for the soap, then gently take his hands, turning to face him. You begin to wash his chest, your fingers tracing the firm lines of his muscles, the softness of his belly, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.

He closes his eyes, a soft moan escaping his lips as your fingers glide over his skin. “Mmmph,” he sighs contentedly, leaning his head back against the tiled wall, letting you take control.

You work the soap into his hair, feeling the thick strands between your fingers, the soft grey at his temples contrasting with the darker brown. He lets out a soft groan of pleasure as you massage his scalp, his body relaxing completely against yours. “That feels… incredible, Ducky.”

“Only the best for my favorite doctor,” you tease, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. The water streams down his face, washing away the suds. He opens his eyes, droplets clinging to his dark lashes.

His gaze is intense, full of a raw, tender emotion that makes your breath catch. He reaches out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. “You know, I’ve been in love with you for so long, Ducky.” His voice is a low rumble, earnest and raw, barely audible over the shower’s spray.

“Since that first day you tripped over your own feet in the ER and spilled coffee all over my scrubs.” He chuckles softly, a deep, rich sound. “I thought, ‘Well, that’s just adorable.’ And then you apologized for about five minutes straight, looking like a drowned kitten.”

You remember that day, a wave of heat rising to your cheeks. “I was mortified!” you protest, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You just stood there, looking all… stoic and intimidating with your perfectly pressed scrubs.”

“Stoic, maybe,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eyes. “Intimidated? Never. Fascinated? Absolutely.” He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, the water still cascading over both of you. “You’re everything I didn’t know I was looking for.”

A tremor runs through you, a delicious shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water. “Oh, Robby,” you whisper, using the affectionate nickname that feels so right on your tongue, a name you’ve never dared utter before tonight. “You’re so in love with me, aren’t you?”

He pulls back slightly, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hmph,” he grunts playfully, a sound of pure affection. “Is it that obvious?” He leans in again, his lips finding yours under the spray, a long, deep kiss that tastes of water and passion and a future you’d only dared to dream of.

After the shower, wrapped in thick, fluffy towels from your sister’s linen closet, you pad back into the guest room. The city outside is beginning to stir, a faint increase in the distant traffic hum. Michael sits on the edge of the bed, toweling his hair dry, his gaze fixed on you as you search for clothes.

“What are we going to tell Dana?” you ask, your voice a little shaky as you pull on a soft t-shirt. “She’s going to flip.”

Michael throws his towel over a chair. “We tell her the truth,” he says, his voice calm, but with an underlying steel. “That we’re together. That it’s serious.” He stands, walking over to you, his hands finding your waist. “She loves you like her own kids, Ducky. She’ll understand, and besides… pretty sure she won everyone’s money with Ahmad’s betting board.”

“But… the hospital,” you murmur, the worry creeping back in. “HR. Our jobs. It’s a huge conflict of interest, Michael. We both know the rules and how this looks.” A knot tightens in your stomach. The thrill of the night was giving way to the cold reality of your professional lives.

He pulls you closer, his warmth a comforting presence against your growing anxiety. “I know the rules,” he acknowledges, his voice softer now. “And we’ll navigate them. We’ll be discreet. We’ll be smart.” He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes, usually so serious and focused in the operating room, are now filled with a tender resolve. “Are you regretting this?”

You shake your head, a quick, emphatic movement. “Never. Not a single second. I’ve wanted this for so long, Michael.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It’s just… scary.”

“I know,” he whispers, pulling you into a tight hug, his chin resting on the top of your head. “Shhh, Ducky. I know. But we’re in this together, okay? We’ll figure it out.” He presses a soft kiss to your hair. “I wouldn’t trade last night, or any future night with you, for anything. Not a promotion, not a perfect record, nothing.”

You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the clean scent of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear. “Mmmph,” you hum, a sound of both comfort and lingering worry. “I’m glad you said that.”

He pulls back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Besides,” he says, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper, “who’s going to tell HR that Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief Emergency Medicine, is madly in love with the best emergency nurse in the hospital? I’d like to see them try.” He winks. “They’d have to get through a very protective Robby first.”

You laugh, a nervous but genuine sound. “Still threatening the administration, are we?”

“Only when it comes to you,” he says, his smile softening, his gaze full of adoration. He gently strokes your cheek with his thumb. “I’m not letting you go, Ducky. Not now, not ever.”

The sun begins to peek through the curtains, casting long, pale streaks across the room. The city outside is fully awake now, a symphony of distant horns and the rumble of delivery trucks. The world was moving on, oblivious to the momentous shift that had occurred in your small corner of it. But for you, nestled in Michael’s arms, the future, with all its challenges, suddenly felt less daunting. You had him. And that, you realized, was everything.

The day before your sister and her boyfriend are due back from their trip, Michael asks you out again.

You are standing in the kitchen in fuzzy socks and one of your oversized sweaters, sleep-mussed hair clipped back badly while coffee brews beside you. Bowie is sprawled upside down across the floor nearby, watching you with the intensity of a Victorian child dying of consumption because breakfast is thirty seconds late.

The apartment smells like coffee and cold November air drifting through the slightly cracked kitchen window.

Michael leans against the counter across from you, arms folded loosely over his chest. He’s freshly showered, wearing a dark Henley with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and he’s looking at you with that soft, hopeless expression he gets now when he forgets to guard himself.

“So,” he says casually. Immediately, your eyes narrow. “That tone means trouble.” A grin pulls slowly at the corner of his mouth. “Go on another date with me?”

You pretend to think very seriously about it while stirring cream into your coffee. “Hm,” you hum thoughtfully. “Depends.”

“On?”

“What’s the date?”

“A picnic.”

You blink once.

“A picnic?”

“In Central Park.”

There’s something so earnest about the way he says it that your chest hurts a little. This is a man who spent years speaking in trauma protocols and dry sarcasm, and now he’s standing in your sister’s kitchen asking you on a picnic like a teenager with a crush.

You stare at him for another second before smiling helplessly into your mug. “That’s disgustingly cute.”

“I’m trying very hard here.”

“You really are.”

He is, that’s the thing. Michael Robinavitch has always loved intensely. Like a flood. Something all-consuming and frightening in its depth. But now—after the burnout, after the grief, after the running and finally turning around and coming back—he’s learning how to love gently too.

CENTRAL PARK — DAY 

The afternoon is freezing in that crisp November way that bites at your cheeks and turns your nose pink, no matter how deeply your hands stay shoved in your coat pockets.

Central Park looks unreal.

Burnt orange leaves blanket the walking paths. Trees glow gold against the pale sky while bundled-up New Yorkers wander past with scarves tucked up to their noses and coffee cups in mittened hands. Somewhere nearby, someone is playing a saxophone badly enough to be charming.

Michael insisted on carrying almost everything.

Which means he currently has the picnic basket in one hand, blanket tucked under his arm, and your tote bag slung over his shoulder because apparently this is now his personal romantic pilgrimage.

“You know,” you say while walking beside him, “I actually do have functioning arms.”

“I’m aware.” He hums. You gesture to everything that he’s holding, “You’re literally carrying all the bags.”

“Correct.”

“You’re being weirdly macho about this.”

“I’m courting you.”

You bark out a laugh loud enough that a woman walking her poodle glances over, while Robby only looks smug. 

“You say courting like you were born in 1942.” You teased, and he smirks, “Maybe I was.”

“You absolutely were.”

By the time you settle near the water, your coffee is lukewarm, and your fingers are freezing, but you don’t think you’ve stopped smiling once.

The blanket is spread beneath a tree dusted in orange leaves. Around you, the park hums softly with life. There’s distant laughter, joggers, and dogs barking somewhere farther down the path.

The picnic itself is almost offensively thoughtful.

Sandwiches from the deli you mentioned liking once in passing. Pastries from the bakery he dragged you into earlier because, according to him, “You looked at the cinnamon rolls too long.” Fresh fruit. Coffee. Little packets of hot chocolate were shoved into the basket “for emergencies.”

You sit cross-legged beside him while he opens containers and hands you food with the kind of quiet attentiveness that makes your chest ache.

Then there’s the touching. Dear God. Dr. Michael Robinavitch cannot keep his hands off you. Not necessarily in a vulgar way or intentionally, really.

It’s worse than that.

Hopelessly affectionate.

His hand settles automatically on your thigh while you talk. Fingers rubbing absent circles through your tights while he listens to you complain about Mateo nearly setting a microwave on fire one time in the break room.

Then later, while you’re laughing, his hand drifts to your waist beneath your coat. He just needs contact. 

Because being near you has become instinctive now. Every so often, he kisses you absentmindedly during conversation. Your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your jaw. Those little touches of affection that still make your brain short-circuit every single time.

You’re halfway through telling him another story about Dana bullying Langdon when Michael suddenly leans over and presses a kiss against the side of your neck.

Your entire sentence dies instantly, and you stop talking mid-word and slowly turn to stare at him. “Michael.”

“Hm?” he asks innocently, mouth still dangerously close to your skin.

“We are in public.”

“No one’s looking.”

You gape at him. “Sir, there are literally children fifteen feet away.” He glances over briefly, shrugs, “They seem busy.”

You smack his shoulder lightly, horrified laughter escaping you. “Michael Robinavitch.”

He only grins against your cheek, utterly shameless now.

Somewhere in the last few days, he’s become almost drunk on being allowed to love you openly. But honestly? You think maybe he deserves to be.

Then somehow—somehow—his hand slips lower beneath your coat until his warm palm settles over your ass possessively through your skirt.

Your mouth actually falls open against his shoulder. “Michael,” you whisper, scandalized and breathless all at once.

“What?” he murmurs, not even pretending innocence very well anymore.

“You are being insane right now.”

“You started it.”

“I absolutely did not.”

He gestures vaguely toward you. “You wore this skirt knowing I’m weak.”

You burst into laughter so suddenly that you nearly choke on your own coffee. “Oh my fucking God.”

You hide your burning face against his shoulder while he looks unbearably pleased with himself, arm tightening around your waist as your laughter shakes against him.

And the thing is—he’s happier now. You can feel it in every small thing. He’s not magically healed. Some mornings, he still goes quiet in ways that worry you, and some nights he still wakes up tense from dreams he won’t fully explain.

But he’s lighter, more present. He’s finally allowing himself to imagine a future again instead of just surviving one shift at a time.

One of the things he wants in that future is very obviously you. The realization still startles you sometimes. The fact that someone can look at you—with your scabs, scars, your anxiety, your messiness, your tendency to pull away when things become too real—and still choose you this completely.

Robby catches you staring at him.

You hadn’t even realized you were doing it. Your head resting against his shoulder while the wind coming off the water turns colder by the minute, leaves skittering across the grass around the picnic blanket. The late afternoon sun hangs low now, all honey-gold and soft around him.

He looks back at you, brows lifting slightly. “What?” You shake your head softly before you can stop the smile spreading across your face.

“I love you.” Your voice comes out quieter than expected, shy despite everything. “Mahal kita.”

The words settle between you tenderly. For a second, he just looks at you. It physically hurts him to be loved this much. Then your hand reaches for his instinctively across the blanket, and he takes it immediately, fingers slotting between yours like they were always meant to fit there.

His gaze searches your face carefully, almost reverently. Then he says your real name. Not Ducky or some teasing nickname. Your actual name, spoken with that unmistakable American roughness still clinging to the syllables. Imperfect accent and all. “Mahal kita.”

Your breath catches, because he says it carefully. Just as he practiced. He wanted to get it right for you, and maybe that’s what destroys you most.

You laugh softly through sudden tears, and then he’s kissing you before either of you can say anything else. Slow and wholehearted. The kind of kiss that feels less like heat and more like surrender. You kiss him back just as fully, your hand sliding up into his hair while his palm cups your jaw like he still can’t quite believe you’re real and all you can feel is him.

Later, you’re curled together on the picnic blanket beneath his coat, your legs tangled with his.

Robby’s arm is wrapped around your waist while the fingers of his other hand move absently along your skin, tracing. His thumb brushes lightly over the faint scars near the creases of your elbows. Pale marks mixed among healing patches from recent flare-ups.

His touch slows.

“How’d all this happen?” he asks quietly. There’s no judgment in it, only concern. You glance down at your arms for a moment before shrugging lightly. “Atopic dermatitis,” you say. “Skin asthma basically. Had it my whole life.”

His brows pinch slightly while you continue softly, “It gets worse with stress sometimes. Allergies too. I only recently started immunotherapy for it.”

His thumb traces carefully along one of the faded scars like he’s trying not to hurt you. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.” You shrug again. “Mostly during flare-ups. It burns more than anything. Feels like my skin’s angry at me.”

His expression tightens immediately at that. You know that look. It’s the physician in him cataloguing symptoms automatically. The man in him hates that you’ve suffered quietly beside him for this long. “When do you go next?”

“Next Saturday.”

He nods once, thinking, then, “Can I come with you?”

You blink at him.

“It’s literally upstairs from the ED,” you say with a small laugh. “One of the outpatient allergy clinics.”

“I still want to come.”

The answer comes immediately. He presses a kiss against the side of your head while his hand stays warm over your arm.

You look at him for a second before sighing fondly. “It’s not a huge deal, Robby. They give me the injection, then I wait around for observation afterward to make sure I don’t have a reaction bad enough to send me downstairs to the ER.” You grin slightly. “Which, thankfully, hasn’t happened.”

His face does not look reassured.

“Atopic patients can still develop anaphylaxis during immunotherapy,” he mutters automatically. “Oh my God,” you laugh. “You sound like Uptodate.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His hand tightens around yours slightly.

“Then I’ll wait with you,” he says quietly. “I don’t ever want to be downstairs working a shift and suddenly see you come through those ambulance doors as my patient.”

The sincerity in his voice knocks something loose in your chest, and you smile softly at him. “We’d have to disclose the relationship by then,” you point out gently. “People are gonna be confused why the Chief Attending of the PTMC ED is hovering upstairs during my allergy appointment.”

Robby doesn’t even hesitate. “Then we do the paperwork.”

You stare at him, and he shrugs lightly. “Our relationship didn’t start in the hospital anyway. It happened during your leave and my sabbatical. HR’s probably just gonna make sure there’s no favoritism or conflict with staffing.”

You pick at the sleeve of his coat thoughtfully.

“Worst case scenario,” you murmur, “they transfer me somewhere else in the hospital.” His jaw tightens instantly. Because you both know how these systems work sometimes. Especially for women. 

You look at him carefully. “You know how it is.” Robby nods once slowly, eyes darkening. Then, very calmly says, “I’ll fight the whole board if I have to.”

You snort. “Even Gloria?”

“Especially Gloria.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, “My hero.”

But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he turns toward you more fully, expression serious in that devastatingly earnest way he gets sometimes now. “‘M serious, Ducky,” he says quietly. “I’ll step down as Chief Attending if I have to.”

Your eyes widen immediately.

“What—Robby, wait.” You push yourself upright to look at him properly. “That’s your whole career.”

“And you’re you.”

The answer comes so simply that it nearly steals the air from your lungs. As if it’s obvious. Plain as day. There was never even a choice.

His hand slides into yours again.

“I spent my whole life thinking the job was the only thing in my life worth keeping,” he says softly. “I’m not doing that anymore.”

Emotion climbs painfully into your throat. Because this man—this impossible, stubborn, honest man—is looking at you like loving you is not a burden or a sacrifice. But something sacred enough to rearrange his life around.

You shake your head a little, overwhelmed. “You can’t keep saying things like that to me.” A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Why?”

“Because eventually I’m gonna believe you.”

The look he gives you then—warm, wrecked, completely certain—feels a little bit like standing in sunlight after surviving winter.

“Good.”

Your chest aches because your feelings always come out sideways when they become too overwhelming. You murmur against his shoulder, “And then we’re gonna end up with a house by a pond.”

His brows furrow instantly. “How did you—”  You grin immediately. “Samira.” His eyes widen slightly in betrayal. “She told you?”

“She told me before she left Pittsburgh for her fellowship,” you say smugly. Then his expression changes completely. “She left?”

The amusement softens from your face, and you nod gently. “Mhm.”

A cold breeze rustles through the trees overhead while the light over the park deepens more softly and gold.

“She finished residency,” you continue quietly. “We had a whole goodbye party in the staff lounge. I cried first, obviously. Then Dana started crying because I was crying. Then everyone else followed.”

Robby huffs out a faint laugh at that, but it fades quickly.

“I thought she would’ve…” He trails off, gaze drifting toward the water. “I don’t know. Stayed in Pittsburgh.”

You shake your head a little. “I don’t think you realized how competitive PTMC got for fellowships.”

“Yeah,” he mutters softly. “Damn.”

There’s something sad about the way he says it, wistful. He blinked and suddenly the residents he trained are becoming attendings somewhere else. Building lives outside the hospital halls where he first met them.

You squeeze his hand gently. “She was one of your best.” He nods immediately. “Yeah.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek softly, smiling when his beard tickles your lips.

“She’s smart,” you murmur. “Resilient. Kind. Every bit as hardworking as she thinks she has to be.” You smile a little. “She’ll be okay.”

Robby stares quietly at the river for another moment before admitting softly, “I wish I wasn’t such an asshole to her last shift.”

The Fourth of July shift. You both know the one, the shift that cracked him open. You lean back slightly to look at him properly. The regret on his face is real, and you brush your thumb along his wrist gently.

“We were all trying to survive that day,” you say quietly. “Some of us just did it better than others.”

His eyes flick toward yours.

You shrug softly.

“We make choices with the version of ourselves we have at the time. Sometimes they’re messy. Sometimes we hurt people.” Your voice gentles further. “That doesn’t mean we stop deserving the chance to become better afterward.”

Something in his expression falters at that. Because he still doesn’t fully know what to do with forgiveness when it’s offered freely.

Especially yours.

The silence that settles afterward feels comfortable, the kind you don’t need to fill.

You curl closer beneath his coat, tucking your face against his chest while his arms close around you automatically. The steady weight of him surrounds you instantly, grounding and safe.

You can hear his heartbeat as it slows down to a rhythmic calm. His chin rests lightly on top of your head, listening to the ambience that Central Park provides

After a while, almost without thinking, you begin humming softly against him. Just a little melody under your breath. Quiet enough that anyone else would miss it beneath the wind and distant traffic.

But Michael notices immediately, because you always sing when you’re content. He figured that out months ago during rare late-night shifts when you’d hum absentmindedly while organizing meds or charting at three in the morning.

Now, wrapped up together while the city glows gold around you, he closes his eyes briefly just to listen.

Your voice is soft, sleepy, and tender around the edges. Suddenly, he’s struck with the terrifying realization that this—this right here—is the closest he’s ever come to peace.

You in his arms, humming softly while the world keeps moving around the two of you. His hand slides slowly up your back, holding you closer, and quietly, against your hair, he whispers, “I could listen to you forever.”

You smile faintly against his chest. “Forever seems like a really long time.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, then the expression on his face is so unbearably tender it almost hurts to hold. The kind of look that makes you understand, all at once, why poets used to write themselves sick over love.

His thumb brushes softly beneath your eye. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s kinda the point.”

Your breath catches a little because he says it so simply, as if forever isn’t frightening to him anymore if it includes you.

The wind shifts colder around you, but his coat is wrapped around both your shoulders now, his warmth completely surrounding you. “I used to think forever sounded exhausting,” you admit softly.

Michael hums quietly. “How come?”

You shrug a little against him.

“I don’t know. I think…” Your fingers twist lightly into the fabric of his sweater. “I think when you spend most of your life waiting for good things to disappear, you stop trusting permanence.”

His face changes immediately at that, since he understands that feeling too well. So instead of trying to argue with it, he just presses a slow kiss against your forehead and says quietly, “Then we’ll take it one day at a time.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. No promises too huge to carry or impossible guarantees. Only choosing each other again and again for as long as you can. Something about that feels even more romantic than forever ever did. You smile shakily. “That sounds suspiciously healthy.”

“I’ve been to therapy now,” he says dryly. “I’m insufferable.”

You laugh softly, and the sound lights something warm inside his chest immediately. The terrifying, miraculous realization that happiness still exists for him after all.

He wraps his arms tighter around you instinctively, burying his face briefly into your hair. And quietly—so quietly you almost miss it—he says, “I really thought I lost my chance with you.”

Your heart squeezes painfully.

You pull back enough to look at him fully. The evening light catches in his tired brown eyes. The faint silver at his temples. The softness he spent years trying to bury beneath competence and exhaustion and grief.

You touch his face gently. “You came back.” A pause, then his forehead rests against yours. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I did.”

Later, after the picnic is packed away and the blanket folded up unevenly because Michael absolutely refuses to let you help, he carries nearly everything despite your protests.

The basket hangs from one hand while the tote bag digs into his shoulder. “You’re gonna throw your back out,” you warn.

“I’m fifty-three, not eighty.”

You snort immediately. “You made a dad noise standing up earlier.”

“That was on purpose.”

“Mhm.”

“It was.”

You give him a skeptical look while walking beside him through the glowing November evening. Then, without missing a beat, he adds, “Besides, you liked the noises I made last—” You choke on your own spit. “Okay!” you yelp loudly, scandalized. “Calm down, ER Cowboy.”

Michael looks entirely too pleased with himself. “You started it.”

“I literally did not.”

“You looked at me in a manner.”

“Oh, my God.”

He laughs then, open and warm and surprised out of him. The sun begins to set slowly by the time you make it to the Hudson River promenade. The skyline stretches across the water in shimmering gold and glass. Sunset melts through the sky in layers—orange fading into pink, fading into deep bruised blue. The river catches all of it, liquid fire rippling beneath the wind.

People pass around you bundled in coats and scarves, couples walking hand in hand, joggers slowing as evening settles in. Michael walks slightly closer to the street side automatically. You notice that quickly, the tiny unconscious things he does now that scream care louder than words.

When the wind gets sharper, his hand settles against your lower back. You shiver slightly, and he immediately asks, “You cold?”

“I’m Filipino,” you deadpan. “Anything below seventy degrees feels like psychological warfare.” He huffs a laugh through his nose and immediately starts unwrapping his scarf. You try to protest, “Michael, no.”

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m literally fine.”

“You’re lying.” Before you can argue further, he loops the scarf gently around your neck anyway, fingers brushing your skin in the process.

Your cheeks warm instantly.

“There,” he says softly, adjusting it once. “Better.”

“You know this is how old men flirt, right?”

His mouth twitches. “Good thing I’m ancient.”

You glance over at him then. At the softened lines around his eyes now. The healthier color in his face from months away. The way he doesn’t seem quite so haunted standing still anymore. Somehow, the sight of it makes your chest ache worse than the sadness ever did.

Because this version of him—hopeful, trying, letting himself want things—feels unbearably precious. “You okay?” he asks quietly after catching you staring again.

You blink. “Yeah.” He studies your face for another second like he’s checking whether you mean it. Before he gently bumps his shoulder against yours. “C’mere.”

You move closer immediately, your arm slipping through his while you continue walking beside the river.

The city glows around you, alive and bright. The kind of evening that makes even strangers seem softer somehow.

Michael starts telling you another story from the cruise, then. Something about accidentally ending up at a family karaoke night in the Philippines section of the ship because a Lola physically dragged him there after hearing him say he knew one Filipino word.

You’re already laughing before he even finishes. “She made me sing.”

“Oh no.”

“I didn’t know the song.”

“What song?”

“I don’t know,” he says defensively. “It had emotions.” You laugh so hard you nearly walk into the railing. “And then,” he continues with growing offense, “they scored me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“How bad?” You asked, and his silence answers for him, while you gasp dramatically. “Robinavitch!”

“I was set up.”

“You lost karaoke to Filipino titas?”

“They were vicious.”

You are fully doubled over laughing now, clinging to his arm while he watches you with that helplessly fond expression again, because the truth is, your joy itself is something sacred to him.

Eventually, your laughter softens into quiet again as you both stop near the railing overlooking the water. The sun hangs low now, huge and golden, while the skyline burns softly beneath it.

You lean against the railing beside him, shoulders brushing lightly in the cold. Softly, almost without meaning to, you say, “I’ve never really liked sunsets.”

Michael looks over immediately. “Why?”

You shrug a little, eyes fixed on the horizon. “They always made me sad.” The wind lifts your hair gently. “Like…” You pause, searching for the right words. “Endings, I guess.”

Your fingers curl together against the cold metal railing.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then quietly, you add, “But today…” You glance toward the water again, sunset painting everything gold and amber. “…today I like it.”

Michael’s expression softens instantly.

“It’s beautiful.”

He steps closer behind you then, both arms wrapping loosely around your waist while his chin settles lightly against your shoulder. The kind of closeness that quiets something restless inside you.

The river glows ahead in streaks of molten gold while the sun slowly sinks behind the skyline, buildings turning amber at the edges as evening settles over the city.

You lean back into him instinctively, and somewhere between the cold air and his heartbeat against your back and the way his fingers absentmindedly trace slow patterns against your coat, you realize something has changed inside you, too.

Ever since Robby showed up at your sister’s apartment, soaked from the rain, heart cracked open in his hands, asking you to come back, mornings have stopped feeling so heavy.

You used to wake up with dread sitting quietly in your chest. The kind that came from too many shifts, too much grief, too many years spent surviving instead of living. Even good things used to feel temporary. Fragile. Like happiness was something borrowed that would eventually be taken back.

But now—now you catch yourself looking forward to things.

Waking up to coffee in the kitchen while he stands there, sleepy and warm and annoyingly handsome. Hearing him shuffle down the hallway in the morning. To the way he always reaches for you first without thinking. To sunlight creeping through apartment windows while New York wakes up around the two of you.

You started looking forward to the sunshine greeting you every morning.

Because for the first time in a very long time, tomorrow no longer feels like something you have to endure alone.

Robby presses a soft kiss just beneath your ear.

“What’re you thinking about?” he murmurs.

You smile faintly, eyes still fixed on the sunset. “That maybe life doesn’t feel as scary anymore.”

His arms tighten around you slightly at that, while you turn your head slightly toward him.

“And I think…” Your voice softens. “I think you ruined me a little.” That earns the quietest laugh from him, warm against your skin. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“How?”

You glance up at him finally, and fuck, the tenderness in his face nearly undoes you again. “You made me want things.”

You can actually see the impact your words have on him happen. His expression falters slightly, emotion moving across his face too fast to fully hide. Because he knows exactly what you mean. Wanting things again is terrifying. It means hope, risk, and imagining a future and caring enough that losing it would hurt.

Robby’s hand slips into yours carefully, fingers threading together while the last light of sunset catches against the silver strands of his beard. For a moment, he just looks at you, and then quietly, honestly, he says, “Good.”

End Notes:

writing smut and fluff with my mood being all over the place is a testament to my meds and my therapist, so gg on that

lol sorry for not updating as frequently as before but I told you guys I was gonna take it slow for a bit cuz brain go brrrr and that one anon pmo lol

The whole pigeon and rat convo is based on an actual convo I have with my older sister, so… yeah.

^^It’s because we have to be smart all the time, so it’s fun to sometimes shut down your brain and think of silly, whimsical, “stupid” things.

Halfway through the haze of smut, I wrote I was like “OH SHIT PROTECTION WAIT—”

When they mentioned Ho'oponopono during S1 of the Pitt, I was like, oh my god I KNOW HOW I'M GONNA MAKE EM ADMIT THEY’RE IN LOVE— ahem anyways, Chekov's gun.

“Who took care of Bowie while you guys went out?” - Answer: The dog walker/ neighbor. Me. I am the dog walker. Just imagine me, Grace is the dog walker. He’s fine, guys dw. I, the author, deem him fine and alive. Gave him belly rubs, too.

Been switching back and forth with this, my Jack Abbot fic, and then the soulmate au I’m still cooking up on…

Anyways, yay, HR mess is gonna be fun. Dw, it’s light angst. I’m sure irl if this were to happen, HR would be unhappy! Cause ethics or whatever 😔

But I am the author, therefore I say… HR can eat my ass—

Ok, I’m tired. Thank you for reading my ramblings. If you made it this far, you get a cookie and a gold star.

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He reads one page, then another, and then all of them. Through the night, until dawn. He reads about stairwells and panic attacks. About wanting him and pretending not to. Watching him unravel and loving him anyway. His laugh and his hands. His damage and his cruelty to himself, and his goodness.

There are pages where he is barely discussed and pages where he is the whole subject. Entire entries written after shifts he barely remembers—and you remembered all of it. He finds lines underlined so hard they nearly tore paper.

I am more afraid of losing him for the rest of my life than losing his affection.

It may seem desperate and pathetic, but this is love, too.

Another, in your writing, “He keeps trying to save everyone but himself.”

He stops reading, stands up, and walks to the cabin sink to stare at himself. He laughs once in disbelief, before he cries, truly cries. Because—holy shit.

He was on every page, as he had been living inside your heart and never really knew. All those glances and almosts. Moments he thought he imagined are real. He goes back and reads every word… twice.

At some point, whispers to the empty cabin, “Jesus Christ, Ducky.” As it were, hymns or grief or wonder. Like regret arrived all at once, and when he reached the pages about the last few weeks of June, early July, and New York. About the thoughts of leaving and the offers you’ve received… and his stomach drops.

No. No no. He grabs his phone. Calls immediately, and it went straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again.

The number you have dialed is not in service…

He hangs up. Redials, again, and again, then every day after that. Ports. Airports. Hotel rooms. Layovers. Morning. Night. Always, voicemail, or disconnected silence.

He leaves messages anyway. At first, it’s awkward. “Hey… it’s me.” Then, desperate and raw. “Please, pick up. I read it.” His voice shaking, “I should’ve known.”

Then the one he says with tears on a hotel balcony in Barcelona: “I love you.”

Words he has never said to you, not once. Spoken to a machine, and still no answer.

He starts carrying both journals together. Yours and his, bound by a rubber band. Presumably, if it were something sacred, and entirely unfinished. For the first time in years, Robby doesn’t want to run. He wants one thing… one person. To get back and find you. Ask around where you are, if you’ve left. To tell you, he read every word. Admit it to you, he has been in love with you, too—terribly. For longer than he understood.

Somewhere over open water, holding your journal against his chest, he realizes with a kind of awe that terrifies him—the trip did not save him.

You did, and now you are gone.

DANA’S HOUSE — DAY

November comes to Pittsburgh in shades of smoke and rust. The trees have changed color, leaves skitter across sidewalks in little dry spirals, gathering in gutters and along curb lines. Tiny ghosts appear in between words when people talk outside.

After four months away—after sea salt, foreign ports, therapy sessions whispered over unstable Wi-Fi, after sleepless nights rereading your journals until the spine softened from use—Robby comes home.

He comes back firmer, a little darker from the sun, and less haunted in some places. The tan does something unfair to him, makes him look healthier than he feels. But the exhaustion sits too deep in his face to hide.

The first thing he does—before going home and unpacking. Before even stepping foot in the hospital, is for him to drive to Dana’s. Because if anyone knows where you are, it’s her.

Inside, a kettle whistles, and a sitcom plays low in another room. The house smells faintly of coffee and toast with cinnamon. Domestic and warm. The sort of warmth Robby has spent years orbiting but never quite entering.

Dana is in the kitchen when the knock comes, and Benji looks up from the paper. “I’ll get it,” she says. Wiping her hands on a dish towel as she goes. She opens the door—and just stares.

Because there he is, on her porch. Duffel slung over one shoulder. Hair a little longer, bearded, still graying. Windblown, and eyes hollowed out with something close to panic. And before she can even smile, he says, “Where’d she transfer to?”

Zero preamble, just straight to the point. 

Dana blinks, then folds her arms. “Well, good morning to you, too, Robinavitch.” A beat passed before she added, “Welcome back. How was your sabbatical?”

His jaw works, impatience barely leashed. “Wonderful.” He thrusts a paper bag at her. “Here. Souvenirs. For your family.”

She takes it, peeks in, and there are little trinkets and magnets. A toy for Benji’s niece. Very him, somehow, and very not him, too.

And before she can thank him—

“Where’s Ducky?”

The words come out rough, as though he’s been holding them through the whole drive. Dana stares at him, sees too much at once, the desperation, the sleeplessness. The man who has clearly come straight here because he couldn’t bear one more minute not knowing.

Because she’s Dana, tenderness usually arrives in sarcasm first—she steps aside and says, “Come in before the neighbors call the cops.”

He obeys automatically, as if being ordered into an exam room. Inside, he hovers in the entryway instead of sitting. Still wearing his jacket, ready to leave whenever.

Dana shuts the door and turns, studies him, “You check her apartment?”

He laughs once, humorless. “Locked. No answer, and her mailbox stuffed.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I called every day.” His voice cracks around every.

Dana’s expression shifts and softens despite herself while Benji pokes his head in from the kitchen. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He grins. “The ER cowboy returns.”

Robby barely manages a nod, distracted, his eyes already back on Dana. “Dana.” That tone. Please. She hears it and feels it. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the leather journal. It’s yours. Then, he sets it on the hall table like evidence. “I found this.”

Dana looks at it, then at him. Oh. Oh. Now she understands. “You read it.”

His laugh this time is broken. “I read all of it.” A pause, quieter, “She wrote about me on every damn page.”

Dana exhales through her nose, almost smiles. “Well. About time you caught up.” He ignores that, or can’t process it, while his voice drops, raw. “Did she transfer?”

Dana leans against the wall and lets him squirm for a second. Maybe because he deserves it, and because she’s enjoying this slightly, she needs to see how much this matters.

He steps closer. “Dana.” For once, not attending to charge nurse. Not friend to friend. Simply, a man begging. “Where is she?”

The room goes still, and even Benji quietly retreats, sensing this is sacred territory. Dana looks at him for a long time. At the journals he has now tucked under his arm and at the panic in his face. At the love, he somehow managed to miss until it nearly left him.

She says carefully, “What exactly are you planning to do when you find her?”

Robby stares, as if the answer should be obvious. “I don’t know. I just…” He stops, and swallows, then starts over. “I need to see her.”

Dana catches it, and she raises a brow. “Why?” And this—this is the test. He could joke, deflect, or run. Well, the old Robby would. Instead, he looks wrecked enough to confess, because he is.

“Because I think I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

Silence. Then—so quietly it nearly disappears, “I think I’m in love with her.”

Dana’s mouth opens, then shuts. Because after years of wanting to shake both of you, there it is.

Fuckin’ finally.

She mutters toward the ceiling, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Then points a finger at him. “You listen to me… You do not get to show up after a sabbatical tan and emotional breakthrough just to screw this up.”

He almost looks offended. “I’m trying not to.”

She squints, and then, finally, mercifully smiles. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. Starts dialing, and Robby frowns, confused. “Who are you—”

Without looking up, “Shut up, Robinavitch.” And somehow he does, which makes Dana snort. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Then—pickup.

Dana lifts it to her ear, “Hey.” A second ticked by, then, casually, like she isn’t detonating his entire nervous system, “Robby’s here at my place.” His head snaps toward her. “What—”

She lifts a finger at him. After a moment, there’s a burst of voice from the other end, too fast to catch, and Dana’s grin widens, then she taps the speaker, and suddenly, a familiar voice fills the kitchen: your sister, your terrifying older sister.

“Spit it out, Robinavitch.”

Robby freezes. “Oh shit.”

Dana folds her arms, far too pleased. Benji peeks from the kitchen, sensing blood in the water. Robby straightens unconsciously, like he’s been called into an attending review. Because your sister has always somehow had that effect. The woman once threatened to break his fingers when you pulled three doubles in a row, and he forgot to make sure you ate.

He clears his throat. “Hi.” Dead silence… before your sister exclaims, “That’s what you got?” 

Dana nearly chokes laughing while Robby rubs his face. “I’m trying to find her.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

He shoots Dana a look begging for backup. She gives him none; it’s sink or swim. Your sister keeps going. “You disappear for four months, come back looking like some emotionally improved pirate, and now suddenly you’re here asking about my sister?”

Robby blinks. “…That sounds worse when you say it.”

“It is worse.”

Even Benji laughs; there is no surviving this. Then, he just says it, because apparently, there’s no dignity left to preserve. “I love her.”

Everything stills, and Dana goes silent, even your sister, because he decides to say it plainly. After a long beat, “…You better.” Then she pivots. “She’s at my apartment in Murray Hill, Manhattan.”

His whole body stills. “She is?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” She continues. “My boyfriend and I are in Vermont for a wedding. She’s dog sitting.”

You were dog sitting… didn’t transfer or leave. Relief hits him so hard he has to brace a hand on the wall as your sister keeps talking. “I’ll text you the address.” Then her voice drops. “And Robby?”

He goes still. “Yes?”

“If you fly your ass to New York and hurt her again…” Dana mouths oh boy. “—I will literally find a way to murder you and get away with it.”

Silence. He answers, dead serious, “That’s… fair.”

Dana barks out a laugh, and Benji has to look away, but your sister isn’t finished. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“She cries over you, I bury you.”

He nods before realizing she can’t see. “Understood.”

“And don’t make me regret giving you my sister.”

His voice roughens. “I won’t.” A pause. Then unexpectedly, she adds, “She loves you, you know.” His eyes close, and hearing it hurts. Like he has wanted and feared those words in equal measure. “I know.”

Maybe he didn’t, not fully. Not until missing you hollowed him out. But now—he knows. His phone buzzes. The address, and he stares at it as if it might vanish. Dana leans in. “Well?”

He’s already moving, but Dana catches his sleeve before he bolts. He turns, and she fixes his collar like he’s sixteen, or heading into battle. “Don’t say anything stupid.”

He looks wounded, “That narrows my options considerably.” She smacks his arm. Then softer, “Go get my girl.”

A part of him in his expression breaks. He feels open, young, terrified, and… in love. He turns for the door… but stops, looks back at Dana. “Thank you.”

She waves it off before she gets emotional. “Go.”

Cold November air rushes in when he opens the door, sharp and alive. He steps onto the porch. Heart pounding like a trauma alarm. Already halfway to LaGuardia in his mind. Behind him, through the speaker, your sister calls out one last time. “Robinavitch?”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

“If you make me come home early to kill you—”

He laughs, pure actual laughter. “I won’t.” 

He runs down the steps. Into the cold, toward you, who’s in Manhattan, somewhere above the city lights, probably walking a spoiled dog, completely unaware the man you love is coming.

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — NIGHT

It had been one of those strange New York nights where the weather seemed to lose its mind. One minute, the city had been holding itself together in damp November cold—taxi lights smeared gold against wet pavement, the distant hum of traffic drifting up through Murray Hill.

Next, it rains biblically hard. Rattling against the tall windows of your sister’s apartment in sheets. The kind of rain that made the city feel submerged.

Inside, soft music played from your phone on the counter, it’s low and aching and warm. The apartment lamps were dimmed. The dog—Bowie, spoiled rotten and aware of it—was sprawled across your feet while you folded laundry in sleep shorts and an old, oversized shirt. Devoted and quiet, the sort of peace you only ever borrowed. 

Then—a knock. You freeze. At this hour? Another knock, then Bowie lifts his head and barks. “What the hell?”

You shuffle to the door in your house slippers, confusion knitting your brow, one hand still absentmindedly rubbing sleep from your eyes as Bowie trails after you, toenails clicking over hardwood. You unlatch the door and pull it open, and the breath leaves you.

Robby stands in the hallway, soaked to the skin, rainwater running from his hair in slow rivulets down his temples, dripping off his jaw, his jacket and backpack blackened and heavy with storm. His chest rises too fast, too hard, as if he ran all the way through Manhattan just to get here before he lost his nerve.

For a second, you only stare because your mind cannot make sense of him standing on the other side of your sister’s door like something pulled from longing. As if misery hallucinated a man.

His eyes move over you just as stunned, and stop. Not at your face first, but your arms. The half-healed scabs near your wrist, and the angry little crescents where nails had broken skin, faded silver scars older than tonight. Evidence of all the anxious picking and scratching you never managed to hide from him, though you always tried.

Something fractures in his demeanor as it changes shape.

It’s not pity, but recognition. He sees every quiet war you fought while he was gone, and he hates that he wasn’t here for any of it. His gaze lingers a fraction too long on the marks before lifting back to your face, and there is something almost devastated in his eyes.

That undoes you more than if he’d touched you. Your heart knows him before your thoughts can catch up, and then it comes out of you in a breathless rush, “Are you insane?”

It comes out half laugh, half gasp. 

He looks wrecked, beautifully wrecked. Water pooling at his boots and somehow—hopeful. “How did you even get in here? There’s a doorman.”

His mouth twitches. “Your sister called ahead.”

Of course she did. Traitor.

His voice goes rough. “Please come back.”

The words hit you square in the ribs. Too raw, and because crying at the door feels risky, you grab his wrist and yank him inside. “Can you get inside first, Jesus fucking Christ.”

The door shuts behind him, the storm mutes, only rain on glass now, and both of you breathing. Bowie circles him immediately, tail wagging hard enough to take out furniture.

Robby crouches automatically, wet and smiling for the first time. “Well, hello.”

The dog all but climbs into his lap, and you cross your arms. “Unbelievable.” Robby glances up. “What?”

“Even the dog likes you.”

He rises slowly. And for one suspended moment—you’re just looking at each other. Months of distance in one silence, and then practicality saves you. “You’re freezing.”

You move first, pull towels from a closet, and push one into his hands. “Take a warm shower.”

You disappear toward the guest room, rummage through drawers, and return with sweatpants and a cotton shirt. Holding them out, you clear your throat. “My sister’s boyfriend is… a bit shorter than you.” Your eyes do an up and down. “A lot shorter.”

His smile deepens. “I’ll make it work.”

You gesture toward the bathroom. “There are toiletries in there. Toothbrush under the sink.” You add, softer, “Ignore the mess in the room. I’ve been sleeping in there.”

You turn before he can answer. Because being looked at by him right now makes you feel vulnerable. The dog follows you back into the kitchen.

Robby lingers a second.

Watching.

You're wearing slippers over hardwood, and talking to Bowie under your breath. Living in a space that somehow already feels like you. Warm, cluttered, and tender.

He steps into the guest room and sees your half-unpacked suitcase. A pile of sweaters. Books are stacked on the floor. Your new journal on the nightstand. A cardigan draped over a chair. Evidence of you everywhere, and something in him wrinkles. Because even your mess looks gentle, as if being let into a life.

He showers, the steam, and silence calm his racing thoughts. Trying to slow a heart that has not been steady since he left Pittsburgh.

When he emerges clean, hair damp, borrowed shirt a little too small—you nearly short-circuit. He looks… dangerously domestic. Seemingly belonging here, which feels somehow more intimate than seeing him half-undressed ever could.

You busy your hands at the stove, heating leftovers, and Bowie sits begging shamelessly. You tear off a little piece of beef and feed him. “Your mom is going to murder me if you gain any more weight, buddy.”

Robby watches you with something almost helpless in his expression. Yeah. That makes sense.

You glance up and try not to stare. Obviously, you fail. “I bet you’re hungry.” You nod toward the food. “They’re leftovers but they’re good.” A pause. “Do you eat rice?”

He almost laughs, “I’ll eat whatever you’ll give me. Your cooking’s the best.” You shrug, trying to hide how much that warms your heart. “Eh. It’s okay.”

He eats, like actually eats, as if he hasn’t in days, all while you sit opposite him at the table. Rain against the windows and the music low with the dog asleep at your feet. It all feels so heartbreakingly ordinary.

Eventually, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you ask, “How did you find me?”

He wipes his mouth. “I went to Dana’s.” A beat. “She called your sister.”

You shut your eyes. Of course.

“That bitch.” There’s no venom in the way you said it, only affection. He smiles into it as he finishes eating. 

You reach for his plate, but he catches your wrist lightly, declares, “No, I’ll wash.” But you shake your head, replying, “Not a chance.”

“I’ll wash, you dry?”

You arch a brow. “Are you even in a position to negotiate?” He looks up at you—those impossible brown eyes gone soft. “Please.”

And damn him, you melt.

“Okay.”

So you stand side by side at the sink as he washes and you dry. Passing plates back and forth. Shoulders brushing. Tiny accidental touches that are electric every time. Neither of you speaking.

Because the silence is saying too much already. Water runs, and rain falls. The dog snores. And in the small domestic hush—with dish soap on his hands and your fingers warm around a towel—it feels almost impossible that two people who nearly lost each other can stand here now arguing quietly over plates like this was always where they were meant to end up.

Robby breaks the silence first, barely above a whisper. “I read the letter… and your journal.”

Your hands stop, and the plate in your grip goes still, damp dish towel forgotten between your fingers.

The room somehow grows quieter than silence. Outside, thunder rolls over Manhattan, low and distant. Inside, your heart does the same. A storm answering a storm.

You don’t turn around right away. Because you knew this moment would come the second you hid that false bottom in the box. Still, knowing doesn’t make being seen any less terrifying.

“I know,” you say after a beat, too casually. A small shrug. “Well… I figured.”

His breath catches like he wants to say ten things at once. “I—”

You cut him off too quickly. Coward, or self-preservation. Maybe both. “How do you feel about hot chocolate?”

It startles him enough that he blinks. As if you’ve changed the subject so violently he can’t find the road back. “…I’d like that.”

You nod once, grateful for something ordinary and something safe. “Go wait for me in the living room.” You force a small smile. “I’ll make us some.”

He obeys. Because of course he does. And maybe because he senses you’re buying time. Maybe because he needs it too.

Eventually, you’re both sunk into opposite ends of the couch, mugs warming your hands. Rain threads down the windows, the dog sleeps with his chin on your foot and the apartment hums softly around you.

It feels almost too intimate.

Steam curls from your cocoa, and you stare into it as if answers might rise there. You clear your throat as you say, “I didn’t transfer.” 

The words sit between you, while Robby goes still. “What?” He turns fully toward you. “But I thought—”

“No.” You shake your head. “I got offers… and I came close… really close.” Your thumb traces the ceramic rim. “Especially after the Fourth of July shift. I thought maybe leaving would fix something.”

You give a crooked little laugh. “Go to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. Start over.” Then softer,  “But I couldn’t.”

He watches you like moving would break the moment.

“I liked the Pitt too much.” A sad smile. “As fucked up as that is.”

You huff out, “There is definitely something wrong with me.”

That finally pulls a smile from him.

You continue. “I like the people there.” A beat. “I…” Your throat tightens. “I liked having somewhere I belonged.” His expression changes at that, into something wounded. Because he knows exactly what you mean. 

You take another sip. “I just took leave. Needed it anyway.” You look toward the rain-smeared windows. “It’s nice coming back here. During November, the Fall… Y’know, with everything changing. It’s nice.”

Robby opens his mouth. “I just thought I—”

You shake your head gently. Don’t let him say whatever apology he’s building. Not tonight. “I don’t think we should be having this conversation right now.”

He looks almost startled.

You stand, mug in hand. “You’re exhausted. Probably crashing from enough adrenaline to kill a horse.” A small attempt at humor.

You fail to hide concern. “We can talk about the letter. And the journal. And… everything else. Tomorrow.” Your words feels kind, merciful.

He studies you, as if trying to decide whether you’re sparing him—or yourself. You clear your throat. “I can change the sheets in the guest room.”

“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I can tell you’re exhausted.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods, because he’s very sure. What he doesn’t say is that those sheets smell like you. Laundry soap, skin, everything that makes you home. You don’t know that, or maybe some part of you does. “Okay…”

You glance around, “I need to find another pillow for you. One sec.” And you disappear down the hall, leaving him alone in the living room.

He looks around at the life around him, and all the places you exist. Little trinkets on shelves, ceramic birds, books with your dog-eared tabs, and a candle burned halfway down.

Somehow—even in your sister’s apartment—he can tell where your hands have been. You are all over this place. There’s a framed photo of you and your sister at a beach. Younger, with wind-tangled hair and salt-happy. Laughing so hard the camera caught you mid-collapse.

He stares too long, and there’s another—you grinning beside an alpaca at some animal sanctuary, with your arms wrapped around its neck. Ridiculous joy.

He laughs softly under his breath. Of course. There are photos of you with dogs. One kissing your cheek and one asleep in your lap.

He feels something ache open in him. Then, paintings on the walls. He knows your signature, recognizes the small mark in the corner. Your hand in every brushstroke. And scattered among them are photos of your sister in foreign cities.

There are award ceremonies, mountain ranges, conference stages. A whole life. Big, brilliant, and threaded through all of it—you.

Loved and included, completely held.

He sees it instantly, that your sister loves you fiercely, as fiercely as you love her. And for some reason that undoes him. Because he had spent so long imagining you alone. Waiting. And instead he sees something far more precarious. A life full enough without him; a life he may have to ask permission to enter, and he wants to.

God.

He wants to.

You come back carrying a pillow and catch him staring at the beach photo. “That was Cape May.”

He looks up, saying, “You look happy.”

You pause, then smile, “I was.”

The words come soft, almost shy, and linger in the room longer than they should. Robby keeps looking at you. Not at the photograph anymore, but at you. As if he’s trying to memorize the version of you standing here now against lamplight and rain.

You hand him the pillow, and your fingers brush his. A small thing, but not small at all.

You clear your throat, suddenly awkward in a way you haven’t been around him in years. “Um…” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “I’m gonna sleep in my sister’s room, so—”

You mean to say goodnight, you really do mean to keep this simple. But his voice stops you. It’s tentative, almost boyish, and fragile in a way you’ve never heard from him.

“Can I…” He swallows, and looks almost embarrassed asking. “Can we… hug?”

The question lands so gently it nearly breaks you. Not may I hold you. Not even I need you. But… Can we.

As if it belongs to both of you and he’s asking permission to need comfort.

Your throat tightens, and you nod before you can trust words. Then manage, barely above a whisper, “I’d like that.”

For a second neither of you moves. Then he does, slowly. As if approaching something sacred, and then his arms are around you, and yours are around him.

Full body, no polite half-embrace or brief goodbye squeeze. A real one. The kind people fall into when they’ve been starving. His chest against yours and your cheek at his shoulder.

His arms wrapping so fully around you it feels less like being held and more like being gathered up and kept. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, and the other at your waist, secure, and protective. As if he’s afraid if he loosens his grip even slightly you’ll disappear again.

You feel his breath leave him against your hair, shaky, relief hurts. And God—he smells like soap and rain and borrowed cotton. You clutch the back of his shirt, and fist the fabric, without meaning to or pretending anymore.

Neither of you lets go as seconds stretch, then keep stretching. Until time feels embarrassed to intrude. And somewhere in it—you realize neither of you is comforting the other. It’s that you’re both being saved a little.

His chin brushes your temple, you feel it when he exhales. Feel his body soften into yours. As if this simple human closeness has taken some unbearable weight off his spine.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither, and the hug just slowly becomes less desperate. Less clinging, though not by much.

When you finally pull apart, it feels wrong. Like surfacing too soon. Your hands linger at his arms, while his stay at your waist a second longer than they should. Eyes meeting, with too much in them and a lot unsaid.

You manage a smile, small and tender, as you say, “Goodnight, Robby.”

His answer comes roughened, he knows sleep won’t touch him for hours. “Goodnight, Ducky.”

You turn before staying becomes all too much. You walk down the hall, and don’t look back. Because if you do, you might crawl into bed beside him and never recover.

The bedroom door closes softly behind you, and he stands there alone in the living room for a long moment. Touching the place on his chest where you had been. As if checking it happened.

Then he moves to the guest room, well your room, tonight.

He shuts the door, dim lamp, and rain still tapping glass. He sits on the edge of the bed. Exhaustion crashes over him all at once, but he doesn’t lie down immediately. Instead looks at the traces of you everywhere, it feels impossibly intimate, as if being let into worship.

He finally lies back. And the pillow—fuck. The pillow smells like you, not perfume exactly. Something softer, skin, laundry soap, your shampoo, warmth, it’s all… you.

It undoes him, actually undoes him. He turns into it before he can stop himself. Presses his face into the pillow like a man half feral with relief. A little pathetic. He’d be embarrassed if anyone saw.

Instead he rubs his cheek there, eyes shut, breathing you in as though scent could anchor him. As if he were some lovesick dog, and maybe he almost laughs at himself. But then his chest tightens, because for the first time in months, even maybe years—he doesn’t feel like running.

Tomorrow exists, and that tomorrow has your face in it. Your voice. Coffee maybe along with hard conversations. Possible forgiveness, and maybe even something more sincere.

Hope.

He lies there in your scent and lets that thought settle over him, not as fantasy, but as possibility. 

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — DAY

Morning arrives quietly, not with alarms or trauma pagers or overhead codes. But with light. Thin gold November light spilling through linen curtains, the kind that makes dust look holy.

You wake slowly, tangled in blankets, confused for one suspended second by the unfamiliar softness of the bed—then remember.

Robby.

Your chest gives a startled little thud, memory returns in fragments. His rain soaked jacket, his face in the doorway, and the hug.

The way he asked Can we hug? like asking for mercy.

You stare at the ceiling a moment, almost afraid last night was grief dreaming. Then you smell coffee, and something buttery.

Your brows knit.

What—

You drag yourself up, hair a mess, sleep shirt wrinkled, shuffling half-awake down the hall with the peculiar little waddle of someone not yet fully vertical. Mentally you’re already cataloguing the morning.

Feed Bowie, then take Bowie out and figure out breakfast later.

Pretend not to be catastrophically aware there is a man you love sleeping under your sister’s roof. You round the kitchen corner—and stop.

Robby is already up, at the stove in a gray borrowed shirt with sleeves pushed up. Making breakfast, actually making breakfast. Eggs, toast, and there’s coffee poured. Your coffee, with exactly the amount of cream you take.

How—

He glances over his shoulder, and smiles softly, “Morning.” You blink at him, because your brain needs evidence. “…You can cook?”

He gives you a look, deadpan. “I live alone.” A short pause. “Of course I can cook.”

You stare harder, skeptical and a little suspicious. Almost offended by how domestic he looks. Who is this man and what has he done with Robby?

“You’re messing with me.”

He snorts. “Nope.”

There is something so unfamiliar about this version of him—gentle. Rested, almost playful—that it leaves you slightly disoriented. Similar to handling a creature you thought was wild only to find it purrs.

You move to the pantry in a daze, scoop kibble for Bowie, and the dog circles your legs, ecstatic.

While you’re pouring food, you ask a little too casually, “Do you have a flight back or…”

Robby flips something in the pan. “It’s next week.” You pause and turn. “What? You just got back. How’d you get time off so soon?”

He shrugs like it’s obvious, “Chief emergency physician attending perks.” Then, with a crooked smile, “Besides, Jack said he’d cover for a little bit.”

You stare, “He knows you’re here?”

Robby grins. “Yep.” A beat. “Pretty sure everyone in the ED knows by now.”

You close your eyes, “Jesus.”

Of course they fucking do.

You move instinctively toward the stove, “I can help—” He points with the spatula. “Go sit.”

You laugh. “Are you sure?”

“I can—”

He cuts you off. “Go sit there…” His eyes flick over you. A dangerous little pause. “…and look pretty.”

Your whole face goes violently hot at that as you just stand there. Broken, because what the hell is that. 

He smirks, knows exactly what he did. And you—who have stared down crashing patients and violent psych holds—cannot survive one flirtation over scrambled eggs.

So yes, you obey.

Mostly because your knees forgot how to work.

You sit at the table and watch him, which somehow feels even more intimate. His shoulders move as he cooks, the ease in his body. The ordinary miracle of a man you almost lost making you breakfast barefoot in a Manhattan kitchen.

You could cry over it, but instead, Robby plates everything and says, quieter, “I have a question.”

You look up. “Mm?”

He hesitates before asking,  “Why weren’t you answering your phone?” A pause. “I tried calling but…”

Your stomach drops. “Oh.” And you look down, embarrassed. “My phone got stolen a few weeks ago.”

His face changes, almost offended on your behalf. “What?”

You nod. “Yeah. All my stuff wasn’t backed up.” You grimace before your voice softens. “And I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

That last part hangs there because it reveals too much. That you knew he’d worry and maybe some part of you hoped he would. He says nothing for a moment, only looks at you, and he quietly adds, “I did.”

Two small words, but they’re huge. You look away first, because your heart cannot be trusted.

You eat, and the food is actually good, annoyingly, and you point with your fork. “This is suspiciously decent.”

He looks offended. “Suspiciously?”

“Very.”

He laughs, and the sound settles into the kitchen like sunlight. 

Bowie barks, demanding his walk, and you glance down. “Well.” You stand and you clip the leash, and look up at Robby, trying to sound casual but failing. “Wanna go for a walk with me?”

He doesn’t even pretend to consider. “Yes.”

You smile before you can stop it, and he catches it. You reach for your coat, but he reaches for yours first and holds it open for you.

You freeze, again. Fuck, this man is a serious risk.

You slip into it mutely, and he helps adjust the collar, his knuckles brushing your neck. A tiny touch with catastrophic consequences. You lend Robby a coat, and he laces up his shoes while Bowie whines impatiently.

Eventually, Robby hands you the leash, “You ready?”

You look at him, morning light in his hair and Coffee still warm on the table. Your whole life somehow suddenly feels… movable, and you answer softly, “Yeah.”

For the walk… and for him. Maybe for something else too. Outside, New York hums awake, and for the first time in a long time—neither of you is running.

PETER DETMOLD PARK — MORNING

The East River glints silver beyond the railing, restless and bright under weak November sun. Wet paths shine beneath your sneakers. Leaves skitter over the promenade in little bursts whenever the wind rushes through. Somewhere, a ferry horn moans low over the water.

Bowie pulls ahead on the leash like his life depends on reaching every smell before another dog can.

You and Robby walk side by side through the quiet of the morning, not speaking much. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much. The kind of silence that breathes.

Your shoulders brush now and then, while his hand swings close enough that once, his knuckles graze yours. An accidental touch, too brief and electric. He pulls his hand back almost immediately. As if he touched something sacred he hadn’t earned.

You notice, and you notice too, the way, a few minutes later, his hand drifts close again before he deliberately hooks his thumb into his coat pocket instead. Restraining himself, because he’s trying to do this right, and that softens something in you.

At one point, Bowie attempts to drag you toward a man eating a bagel. “Absolutely not,” you scold.

Robby laughs. “He has criminal impulses.”

“He gets that from me.”

He looks at you sideways, “That worries me.” You smile before you can stop yourself, and walking beside him begins to feel terrifyingly natural. Maybe you’d once imagined this and forgot.

Then the dog run appears, chain-link fencing. It’s complete chaos, along with happy barking and tennis balls flying. The familiar corner of Peter Detmold Park Dog Run buzzing with neighborhood regulars.

You unclasp Bowie’s leash, and he launches into the pack like a torpedo. Immediately making reckless social choices.

You and Robby move off to the side by the fence, watching. His shoulder almost touching yours. Then, you hear your real name get called. You turn and Mia waves with Evie beside her, both with their dogs.

You brighten, and pull them into quick hugs. Dog chatter along with morning gossip. Evie’s eyes flick immediately to Robby, then to you and then back. A knowing smile.

“Well,” she says. “This is interesting.”

You mutter, “Don’t start.”

Too late.

Connor arrives with Paris, a giant golden retriever who crashes into Bowie like a linebacker, and then Alex enters in with Fern.

Alex with his rolled sleeves and easy smile and vaguely insufferable handsome-neighbor energy. He spots you and lights up. “There she is.”

Robby goes quiet beside you, very quiet as Alex strolls over, ablivious. “Thought you abandoned us.”

You laugh. “Temporary exile.”

He leans casually near you. “So… you owe me coffee for disappearing.”

Mia nearly bites through her lip, and Connor looks ready to explode but Alex keeps going. “I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to grab some this week.”

And Robby—who has clearly reached some invisible threshold—thinks: absolutely the fuck not.

One smooth motion, his arm comes around your waist. It’s every bit warm and certain. Not tentative or friendly. Possessive enough to announce itself, as his hand settles at your side as though it belongs there. As though it has always belonged there.

You forget how breathing works and Alex finally notices. “Oh.”

Robby nods politely, “We’re catching up.”

We.

Your stomach flips, but Alex recovers admirably. “Well. Good for you.” Then to you, with a small smile, “Coffee offer stands.”

Before you can answer, Robby says mildly, “She’s pretty booked.”

Connor chokes laughing, while Evie literally turns away, and Mia looks heavenward.

Alex grins, message received. “Got it.” He backs off with Fern trotting behind him. The second he’s gone, you hiss, “What was that?”

Robby blinks. “What?”

“You just claimed me like a Victorian duke.”

He looks almost offended. “He was flirting.”

“Yes.” A second ticked by. “And?”

He looks down at you, very serious. “I didn’t care for it.”

God help you—you laugh, can’t help it. And because you lean into him laughing—his arm tightens. Just slightly, as if it were instinct.

Connor calls across the run, “Doc got jealous!”

Robby without missing a beat replies with a flat,  “Yep.”

Everyone erupts, even you. When the teasing fades, the dogs resume their chase. The river moves beyond the fence, and the world narrows strangely. Just the two of you. His hand still warm through your coat.

You murmur, almost teasing, “You jealous?” He leans close, mouth near your ear and voice low enough only you hear. “Yes.”

You turn your head, meet his eyes. Brown gone almost gold in winter sun. Too open and soft. And for one suspended second—everything pauses.

Then Bowie slams muddy paws into both of you, breaking it… well, sort of. And Robby laughs. Real laughter, his head tipped back. And you think—you could get addicted to making him sound like that.

Beside the East River, dogs barking, cold wind cutting through the morning—his arm still around your waist—it feels absurdly, terrifyingly like the beginning of something.

EAST RIVER ESPLANADE — DAY

Eventually, the dog run empties around you. Mia and Evie head off. Connor leaves with Paris, dragging him like a hostage. Even Alex disappears with Fern, though not before giving Robby a long, amused look that makes you want to evaporate.

Bowie, gloriously mud-streaked and smug, is leashed again, and somehow the morning keeps unfolding. As if neither of you wants to be the first to say it should end.

So you walk down toward the river. Past iron railings and benches slick from last night’s rain. The East River churns beside you in gray-blue ribbons, sunlight breaking over the water in shards. Across it, Queens hums, behind you, Manhattan clatters on, indifferent.

Ahead—a bench. Half in the sun. Half in shade. You sit with Robby beside you, close enough that your knees nearly touch. Bowie settles at your feet, apparently committed to people-watching as a spiritual practice.

For a while—nothing. Only gulls, wind, and a cyclist passing, along with the city breathing. You look out at the skyline. Glass towers rising, steam drifting from rooftops. November light is soft over everything.

Robby is looking at you. Not the skyline. You. You feel it before you turn, and when you do, he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

It isn’t rushed or defensive. Not one of those apologies meant to end discomfort. A real one. Heavy and earned. You hold his gaze and somehow smile. “I know.”

His mouth twitches, as if he expected punishment, but you decide to give him mercy instead. After a beat, you ask, “How was your sabbatical?”

He leans back, looks out at the water. “Good.” A breath. “Saw a lot of places. Took a cruise.”

You grin, “As Jack suggested.” 

He huffs as he clarifies your statement, “As Jack aggressively insisted.” You look him over, the sun-browned skin, the softer edges in his face, the rest in him. “Good. I’m glad.” And you add quietly, “Nice tan, by the way.”

That gets a laugh.

“You seem like you got some rest.”

He studies you. Maybe hearing more in that than you meant. Then you ask, a bit too casually, “Did you meet anyone special while you were off sailing the world?”

A jealous question wearing a joke’s coat, and he hears it exactly as intended. His mouth softens, and he shakes his head. “No.”

Instead, unexpectedly, he shares, “I met a couple of Filipino families.”

You blink. “What?”

He smiles, “On the ship. One big extended family. Loud and really friendly.”

You laugh, “Oh no.” He nods solemnly. “They basically told me to get my head out of my ass. In a very loving way.”

You laugh harder, “Sounds right.”

“They fed me, scolded me, and then one Lola threatened to haunt me if I let you go.”

Your hand flies to your mouth. “No.”

“Yes.” He looks down, almost embarrassed. “I kept talking to strangers about you.” The wind seems to pause, as he says, “And then I read your letter.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to—”

“And then I read the journal.”

His voice roughens. You glance from the corner of your eye—and realize he has fully turned toward you. Body and soul, facing you. And before you can think, his hand lifts. Touches your face, cups your cheek, warm palm, rough thumb, gentle enough to ruin you.

You lean into it before pride can intervene. Instinct that something in you has waited years. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and his voice lowers. “I was too afraid to tell you what I wanted.” He swallows, as he admits, “Because you deserve so much better than me.”

You shake your head already, but he keeps going. “Someone without all this fucking baggage. Someone younger and less broken.” His mouth twists. “You deserve more than some worn-out old man.”

Suddenly, your eyes burn because he believes this, still, even now. Then his voice breaks.  Because some part of you has been braced for years against never hearing those words, and now they’re here.

Your mouth parts before you know what you mean to say. “I…” Your voice shakes, then you laugh once, helplessly, through tears. “I kept telling myself maybe I deserved someone else.”

A pause. “But…” You look at him fully then, no hiding and no more cowardice. “I always wanted you.”

You watch it happen as his whole face changes. He looks almost shocked. Breathless. As if he has spent so long preparing for rejection he has no idea what to do with being chosen.

A small, aching smile trembles at his mouth. It's lovely enough to cause pain and sad enough to destroy you. And then—God—his eyes fill. He laughs once under his breath like he can’t believe what he just heard. “You…” He shakes his head. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You’re trembling, and he is too. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough that your breaths keep tangling.

“There’s… something I need to show you.” His hand slips from your cheek but lingers at your jaw, unwilling to leave. He looks suddenly nervous. “In the apartment. I brought something for you.” A crooked little smile, self-conscious. “Before you decide I’m too old and damaged and emotionally catastrophic to keep around.”

You let out a wet laugh, and he almost smiles wider. Then, quieter, he adds, “Before you decide what to do with me…” His voice nearly breaks there. “…I want you to read what I wrote.”

He looks down for a second, then back up. “I need you to know who I became when I was away from you.”

His thumb brushes once under your eye, catching a tear. And in a whisper that sounds almost ashamed to want this much, “I came all this way to ask if there’s still a place for me with you.” Your chest throbs so hard, you can barely speak. And all you manage is, “Show me.”

And the way he looks at you then, like a condemned man offered pardon, makes your knees weak.

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY

The apartment is quiet when you come back. Afternoon light spills across the hardwood in long gold bands, warming the rugs, catching on dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Somewhere outside, the muffled pulse of Manhattan carries on—horns far below, a siren in the distance, somebody laughing on the sidewalk.

Inside, it feels suspended. Bowie is asleep in a patch of sun, twitching through some dream, and Robby stands near the dining table with that look he gets when he is about to do something emotionally reckless and medically unadvised.

He disappears briefly into the guest room, and when he returns, he is carrying the journal you gave him before he left. Only now it hardly looks like a journal anymore. It looks lived in.

Its leather cover is softened and worn, swollen with tucked papers, postcards, folded notes, and photographs jutting from the edges. The spine bows from overuse. It looks like something carried close to the body.

But that isn’t all.

In his other hand is a small wooden chest—weathered, carved, no bigger than a shoebox. Something old-fashioned and improbable, like it belongs in an attic or a ship’s cabin.

He sets that down first, almost shy. “I, uh… this too.”

You look at him, confused, and lift the lid. Inside, you find a life gathered in fragments. A pressed flower bookmark from Lisbon, still holding the faint ghost of summer. Sea glass earrings from Santorini, pale blue and green, catching the light. A tiny hand-painted saint medal from Naples. Ridiculous fridge magnets—a goat from Crete, a crooked lighthouse, and one that simply says Wish You Were Here.

A fountain pen from Marseille, heavy in the hand, because once during a night shift, you’d cursed hospital pens as instigators of pain, and he remembered.

A little tin of tea. Foreign coins. Shells. A folded map with certain ports circled. Polaroids banded together with twine, and tucked at the bottom, a few postcards unsent.

All of it collected for you. Not random souvenirs, but offerings. Proof he had been thinking of you in every strange corner of the world.

Your chest tightens so suddenly it hurts. “Oh my God,” you whisper. His mouth twitches. “I might have overdid it.”

You laugh through the twinge rising in your throat. “You think?”

But then he lifts the journal, and that changes the air. He holds it almost reverently, as if it’s something alive and afraid to hand over. “I… wrote in it.” His voice is quieter now, barely above a whisper.

He offers it to you. “You don’t have to read it now.” A beat. “Or at all, really.” His eyes drop. After everything I did. After what I put you through. He doesn’t say it outright, but it lingers there.

He forces himself through it anyway. “I just…” An exhale. “I hope you do.”

You take it with your hands that are shaking, and then you sit. Open the first page, and the breath leaves your body. Because there—written across the top—is your name. Not Ducky or a shorthand of some nickname to soften the feeling.

Your real name, written slowly and carefully, as if he was afraid of getting it wrong. And beneath it are polaroids, a sunrise at sea. A crooked Lisbon street drenched in gold. A ferry ticket pressed flat. Foreign stamps. Postcards. Receipts. Small scraps of living.

And every page—you. Mentions of you. Thoughts of you. Things he wished he could text. Observations, memories… and confessions.

There are entries from good days to bad days. Days he almost turned around and came home early. Pages where the handwriting goes jagged with grief. Pressed too hard into paper, ink blotting where he must have stopped.

Other pages lighter… looser and healing. And through all of it—you. Intertwined through everything.

You, a compass point. His north star.

Your vision blurs, and tears spill before you can stop them.

One page reads:

“Today I heard a woman laugh in Naples and thought of the way she snorts when she laughs too hard.”

Another:

“Bought a postcard she would’ve liked. Kept it because I didn’t know if I’d be brave enough to give it to her.”

Another:

I am beginning to suspect loving her has been the healthiest instinct I have.

Your mouth trembles, and you crumble. Silently crying over pages and over ink. The unbearable intimacy of being loved in handwriting, of being studied this closely. Remembered this faithfully.

Robby does not interrupt or explain. He leans against the kitchen counter across the room, arms folded loosely, watching. Waiting. Because he understands this moment belongs to you now. To both of you.

There is something almost unbearably vulnerable in how he stands there letting himself be read. As if he has taken his ribcage apart and handed it over. This is bigger than apology, and larger than romance.

This is witness, repair, and devotion in paper form. 

You turn another page.

One entry is after therapy. “Today I admitted I love her.”

Your breath catches, you go completely still. Another page writes, “I thought distance might make me less ruined for her. Instead it taught me every beautiful thing I see turns into wanting to show her.”

Another says, “Bought sea glass earrings because she would call them mermaid trash and then wear them anyway.”

A wet laugh escapes you. Then, on another page, tucked there is a tiny pressed bougainvillea bloom. Below it says, “There are women I have admired. Women I have wanted. There has only ever been one I have wanted to come home to.”

You cover your mouth, sobbing now, and yet you still keep reading. Because now you can’t stop. Pages on therapy. On grief. On the things he has never told anyone. His mother leaving. His shame, fear, and loneliness.

Then it’s you again… everywhere. 

“She makes bright hospital lighting look merciful.”

“She scratches at her arm when anxious and I keep wanting to catch her hand.”

“I think she sees every broken thing in me and stays anyway.”

Your tears fall onto the paper, and you don’t wipe them. Let them stain the ink, and somewhere across the room, his voice comes quietly, almost afraid.

“I thought if I wrote it down…” He stops, swallows. “…I might finally deserve to say it out loud.”

In every page that fate has ever penned, it's you—it's always you again. The chapter he keeps returning to, on and on.

You lift your eyes to him, through tears, and he looks almost undone by being seen. Suddenly, you understand—he didn’t bring you back a travel journal. He brought you the record of becoming a man brave enough to return to you.

How do you sit still after that? How do you keep reading when the person who wrote every trembling word is standing only feet away, breathing like he’s waiting to be sentenced?

You can’t.

Your hands close the journal gently as you set it down. And before you can think better of it—you’re moving. Crossing the room, as if you two were magnets.

Robby barely has time to straighten before you are in front of him, and then your arms are around him. A full-body collision of longing.

You throw yourself against him, and he catches you with a sound that almost isn’t a sound at all—something punched out of him. His arms come around you hard, as if he’s afraid that if he loosens his hold, you’ll disappear again.

And then he actually folds into you. His face presses into your shoulder, your cheek against his neck. His hands spread over your back, trembling.

You can feel the shake in him, the breath hitching. The way he’s trying and failing not to cry. And then you realize—you are both crying. The kind of crying that comes from surviving too much, and that wrings a person out.

His chest heaves against yours, and warm tears slip into the collar of your shirt. You feel them, and somehow that undoes you more.

Because this man—this stubborn, impossible, guarded man—is letting himself break in your arms. Your fingers clutch the back of his shirt, holding on. As though you are trying to keep every fractured piece of him together with your hands.

His voice comes rough against your shoulder. “I thought I lost you.” The words are so small. Nothing like the man who runs trauma rooms.

You pull back just enough to look at him; his face is wet, eyes red, nonetheless beautiful and wrecked.

You cup his face with both hands, your thumbs catching tears. “You found me.”

That almost makes him cry harder. He gives this breathless, disbelieving laugh through tears. His forehead drops against yours. And for a while—that’s all there is.

Foreheads touching, shared breath along with the city humming beyond the windows. The dog lifting his head from the rug and settling again. The soft clink of a radiator. And two people who have wanted this for too long finally no longer pretending otherwise.

His hands slide up your back, gentler now, one settling at the nape of your neck. Seemingly, he still needs proof you’re real.

He whispers, voice cracking, “I wrote all that because I didn’t know how else to tell you.”

You shake your head, crying again. “You told me.”

A pause. Then, so honest it hurts, “I felt every page.”

His mouth trembles, and he presses his face briefly into your hair. Breathes you in, similar to relief or prayer.

This is not one of those dramatic reunions that people write about, you know, now. This is more subdued, even more destructive. Because it feels like coming home after assuming home was gone. He holds you as though grief itself might steal you if he lets go. And you let him.

You see, true love might occasionally look just like this. Standing barefoot on wooden floors, two weary individuals sobbed in each other's arms because one of them had returned.

Once it is spoken—or maybe not even spoken so much as finally allowed—everything changes with a softness neither of you had expected. The aftermath is the strange, almost miraculous easing of something that had been tight for too long. It’s two people setting down heavy things at the same time.

After years of orbiting each other in careful ellipses—glances held too long, feelings swallowed at the nurses’ station, almosts stacked atop almosts—there is suddenly no need for tiptoeing.

No more pretending not to reach or disguising tenderness as banter. No more acting like longing is a private wound. It is out in the open now, and because of that, bravery starts looking ordinary. The kind that sneaks in quietly and makes the little things feel enormous.

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY

By the second morning, the apartment has taken on that lazy, lived-in softness that only comes when people have stopped performing around each other. Coffee gone half-cold on the counter, a dish towel over your shoulder, and Bowie asleep in a stripe of sunlight.

Robby is standing in your sister’s kitchen in an old, faded T-shirt that fits him just a little too snug across the shoulders, sleeves pushed up, looking absurdly serious over a cutting board.

A trauma attending preparing for an onion-related catastrophe. You hand him garlic cloves and point the wooden spoon at him. “Okay. Rule number one.” He glances up. “There are rules?”

“There are many rules.”

He braces himself.

You narrow your eyes.

“Don’t disrespect the garlic.”

He stares.

Then deadpan—

“I didn’t know garlic had civil rights.”

You choke out a laugh. “It does in Filipino households.”

“Noted.”

“It can tell when you’re lazy.”

“That sounds made up.”

“It absolutely isn’t.” You bump his hip as you move past him for soy sauce. “We excommunicate people over bad adobo.” He lifts a brow. “That feels extreme.”

“That’s because you’re white.”

That gets an honest laugh out of him—warm, startled, unguarded enough that it makes something in your chest loosen. God. You love that sound. It’s not the dry, tired huff he gives coworkers over bad jokes in the ED or the sharp, amused exhale he gives when Jack says something ridiculous. A real laugh, full-bodied and alive. It makes the whole kitchen feel brighter.

You’re making chicken adobo because the day before he had looked genuinely scandalized—personally offended, even—when he realized he had known you this long and never learned how to make a single Filipino dish.

As if this were some ethical failure on his part.

“I can’t believe,” he had said, hand to chest in mock injury, “I’ve gone this many years without adobo.”

Now he is here, sleeves rolled up, pretending to be sous-chef while mostly getting in your way. The chicken simmers low. Soy, vinegar, garlic, bay leaves deepening into something dark and glossy. Steam curls up into the warm kitchen air as the scent wraps around both of you.

It’s savory, sharp, and every bit comforting like a memory. As if somebody’s grandmother should be here… and maybe that’s what moves you a little. How food can cross oceans, or care can take shape in different forms.

You may not always come from the same language. But warmth—sweetness—the instinct to feed someone you love—that has always been universal.

You scoop a little sauce over a piece of chicken, blow on it once, then turn toward him. “Taste.”

He leans obediently toward the spoon, then pauses, raises an eyebrow. “You feeding me?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m definitely making it weird.”

“Robby.”

But he opens his mouth anyway. Takes the bite and freezes, while his whole face changes. Brows lifting, eyes widening, as he chews slowly. Like processing revelation. Then a gasp, “Oh.”

You blink. “What?”

He points at the pot. “That.” A brief pause. “That is outrageous.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s adobo.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head like you’re underselling a miracle. “That is a religious experience.” 

You laugh. “There he goes.” He reaches for another bite before you can pull the spoon away. You smack his wrist lightly, chastising, “Patience.” 

He looks wounded. “I’m in love.”

“With the food.” You say, but he looks at you, very deliberately. “Didn’t specify.”

Your face heats instantly, and you busy yourself stirring. But too late, he saw. You hand him another taste just to survive the moment. He takes it and closes his eyes. “Oh, I’m ruined.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“This is what people write poetry over.”

You snort at that, and he opens his eyes, and there is that look again. That soft wrecked one. You try to roll your eyes and fail.

And before you can turn back to the stove, he steps in, very gently, and touches your wrist, waits, as if asking. Then leans down and kisses the tip of your nose. Barely there, light as breath.

A stupidly tender little kiss.

You freeze entirely, brain gone. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and the smile he gets—God. You melt so fast it should be medically concerning.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Because nothing useful comes out. He looks entirely too pleased. “What was that for?”

He shrugs. “Chef’s kiss.”

You cover your face. “Oh, my fucking God.”

He laughs.

You’re completely doomed. And later, while you plate adobo over garlic rice and eat with your knees bumping under the table, you realize something almost frightening in its sweetness—this is how people fall in love in kitchens. In spoonfuls held to lips, teasing, feeding each other, and maybe a nose kiss that nearly stops your heart.

BATHROOM — NIGHT

By evening, Bowie needs a bath. Or rather—you decide Bowie needs a bath.

Bowie, however, clearly believes this is a state-sponsored betrayal. The moment you so much as turn on the tub, he knows. His ears flatten, and he backs away. Suspicious, offended, and a little traumatized.

Robby folds his arms and watches this mutiny unfold. “I just want the record to show,” he says gravely, “I opposed this operation from the start.”

You point at him. “You literally offered to help.”

“I was misled.”

“You volunteered.”

“I was coerced.”

Bowie makes a break for it, and Robby barely intercepts him.  Holding a forty-pound wriggling dog like unstable trauma equipment. “Oh my God,” he grunts. “Why is he so strong?”

“Because he senses fear.”

“I sense fear.”

You are laughing before this has even begun, and somehow that only gets worse. Because once Bowie is in the tub, everything devolves immediately.

There’s soap everywhere, water on the floor, and your shirt sleeves were drenched. Robby is on his knees beside the tub, trying to rinse shampoo while Bowie acts as though he’s being waterboarded.

“This was your idea,” Robby mutters.

“It was our idea.”

“No.” He points. “This was all on you.”

You snort, and he looks at Bowie. “I trusted you.”

Bowie shakes violently, and it’s a tidal wave that both of you take full force. Robby gets blasted in the face. His hair drenched and shirt soaked through. You laugh so hard you have to grab the tub, as he wipes water from his eyes. “You are enjoying this way too much.”

“You look like you lost a fight with a car wash.”

He narrows his eyes. “This is how you treat a man trying to win you back?”

“Oh, you have so much more groveling to do.”

He looks at you, actually considers it. Then, dead serious, “Okay.”

And before you can process that, he leans down and starts kissing an apology into Bowie’s wet forehead. “I’m sorry they did this to you.”

You wheeze laughing. “They?”

He nods solemnly. “You’re management.”

Then Bowie escapes, a wet missile, launching out of the tub, and bolting down the hall.

“No no no—”

“Oh my God, grab him!”

Bare feet slap hardwood as you and Robby chase a flying, dripping dog through the apartment, laughing so hard neither of you can breathe.

Robby almost eats shit turning the corner while you’re bent double. Bowie circles the coffee table. Slides and you lunge, only to miss. At one point, Robby catches Bowie, loses Bowie, and mutters, “I’ve had easier trauma codes.”

Then Bowie darts between your legs, and you stumble backward, straight into Robby. His arms catch you, hard and instant, with your back against his chest, with his hands at your waist.

Water dripping, both of you breathless and panting. Laughing, fading into something else. Everything slows with his mouth near your ear, warm, close enough to ruin you. “You okay?”

Your voice comes out smaller than intended. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves immediately, and then, very quietly, Robby says, “I’m really sorry.”

It takes a second to realize he doesn’t mean the dog.

You turn slightly. “What?”

His arms don’t leave your waist. “For hurting you.”

The room goes still, even wet dog chaos recedes.

“I know I’m joking around and trying to be charming and—” He exhales. “But I am sorry. Every hour.”

Your chest tightens, but before you can answer—Bowie barks, loud and indignant. Spell broken, and you both dissolve into helpless laughter again.

Later, Robby insists on blow-drying Bowie, horribly. Like a man operating unfamiliar machinery. “You’re fluffing him wrong.”

“There’s a wrong way to fluff a dog?”

“There absolutely is.”

“You are ruthless.”

“You’re welcome.”

And he just looks at you, so openly adoring—you have to turn away. Because otherwise you might kiss him.

LIVING ROOM — NIGHT

Eventually, Bowie is dry, overfed with apology treats, and asleep like a prince between you on the couch.

A movie plays that neither of you is watching. You’ve curled against Robby almost without noticing, with his arm around you as naturally as breathing. His thumb traces absent little patterns over your shoulder repeatedly. Enough to make your eyelids heavy, your body soft, sleepy, and safe. He notices before you do, how your head keeps tipping and your blinks grow slow.

He reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV quietly. Darkness settles except for the city light through the curtains.

Bowie hops down to his bed, circles twice, and drops.

Robby doesn’t move or want to disturb you. Because you look so peaceful, and he isn’t used to seeing you at peace. His eyes drift to your forearm, where faint old scars and fresh healing scabs mark where you’ve scratched yourself raw. His fingers hover, then very carefully trace near one faded line. It’s not intrusive, but almost reverent, a question he doesn’t yet ask.

Something in him stings because he can’t stand imagining you hurting where he wasn’t there. His mouth brushes your temple, as a thought, barely spoken, “What happened to you, sweetheart?”

You murmur something half asleep, and nestle closer, and his heart nearly gives out. He pulls the throw blanket over both of you and tucks it around your legs, letting you fold into him. Eventually sleep takes him too, curled around you on the couch.

You wake tangled together, morning light gold across the room, with your cheek against his chest. His arm heavy over your waist, and one of your legs thrown over his.

For one blissful second, you don’t move, because neither does he. “I’m awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. 

You smile against his shirt. “So am I.”

“I’m sorry.”

You lift your head, snorting, “Jesus.” He looks sheepish. “What?”

“You apologize in your sleep, too?”

He laughs, but is serious again, “I mean it.” His hand moves to your hair as he says. “I’m gonna spend a long time making up for what I did.”

You squint. “That a threat?”

“Promise.” He kisses your forehead. You realize that he is groveling, in the way grown men do. Consistency, tenderness, and showing up for someone.

So, when he disappears later and returns from the corner bodega carrying coffee and flowers, you nearly choke. There he is with a messy bouquet, it has peonies and whatever else the guy sold him. Held awkwardly in one hand, as if he’s sixteen. “These are for you.”

You stare. “You bought me flowers?”

He clears his throat, nervous. “Yeah.” Then, almost formal, “Would you let me take you on a date?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish's. He rushes out, “A real date, dinner. Where I wear a clean shirt.”

You are smiling so hard it hurts. He looks terrified. “Ducky…” He steps closer, with flowers between you. “Let me do this right.”

Somehow, that wrecks you more than every confession. Because this brilliant broken man is asking, not assuming. You take the flowers and smell them before looking up, “Yes.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He exhales like he’d been holding his breath for months, and grins devastatingly, “Tomorrow?”

You tuck your face into the flowers, trying not to melt, agreeing. “Tomorrow.”

End Notes:

Why did it take Robby finishing the journal for all of this to happen? Why didn't Ducky just tell him that she loves him at the end of S2?

Because as much as love can be used as a tool to help someone, it can also be weaponized. She didn't want him to get better just for her. She wanted him for himself; to want to get better. Put in the work without her. To figure himself out. Literally want to live and to love. Want to be open to new experiences. Good and bad. (And that's still in progress every day.)

Because Robby finished the journal, it means he did it for himself. You help nudged him in that direction, but he wrote in that thing, not really knowing what your letter would be.

We cannot fix him. God knows we tried. Love cannot save you, but it will hold on and cling for dear life as you save yourself.

Lelele, why so slow burn? Cause mental illness does that to ppl… well for me personally anyways. I genuinely felt insane at one point in my life and felt so unlovable. It took me 6 years to finally feel okay and not hate myself. :D So four months is like spare change lol

We are not thinking machines that feel, we are feeling machines that think.

Robby has given his life to try to save people when no one was able to save him. :,)

Lowkey… this chapter was horrifying to publish. I didn’t want it to seem like Ducky forgave him right away, but I also wanted to show that you are capable of compassion and understanding. That you are willing to see the work Robby has done and will continue to do.

But for those who want more groveling etc… don’t worry, we still have HR to deal with lol

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CENTRAL 14 — DAY

Ahmad is right behind Robby.

“Move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move!”

Robby pushes through the crowd, eyes scanning—assessing, calculating. “What the hell happened?”

Dana doesn’t look up from Curtis, breathless but controlled. “He attacked Ducky and Emma, so I gave him a shot to settle him down.”

Robby’s attention snaps to Emma. “Are you all right?”

“Let’s see,” Perlah says, already checking her over.

Curtis grunts as he’s forced back onto the bed, restraints securing his wrists and legs this time. He thrashes weakly, the medication beginning to take hold.

Robby’s gaze flicks to the blood. “How did he get a bloody nose?”

Dana answers without missing a beat. “He slipped.”

Then—

A sound.

Not loud; subdued and restrained.

But it cuts through everything.

A broken, desperate cough.

Robby turns.

And sees you.

On your knees. Folded in on yourself. Gasping like every breath is a fight you’re not sure you’re winning.

Everything in him drops.

“Can I see?” he asks, already moving.

Perlah answers quickly, voice tight with what she just witnessed. “He had her in a headlock. Then he was choking Ducky.”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Something in Robby shifts. It’s not loud, and it doesn’t show in any obvious way. No raised voice. No sudden movement.

Just a sharp, internal shift.

His jaw sets. His shoulders square—too still. And for a fraction of a second, the math runs in his head—clinical, automatic, terrifying. Airway compression, Carotid pressure, Time.

How long it takes... How little it would’ve taken.

His stomach drops. Not because he doesn’t understand what happened—

But because he does.

Because he knows exactly how close that line was.

And he wasn’t there.

A quiet, simmering anger curls under his ribs—at Curtis, at the situation, at the fact that this happened in his department—

At himself.

It doesn’t have anywhere to go.

So he moves.

Across the room in seconds, cutting through the noise, the bodies, the aftermath. He drops down in front of you, controlled but urgent, like he’s trying to close the distance that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.

You flinch.

Hard.

It’s immediate—your body reacting before your mind can catch up, shoulders pulling back, breath hitching.

Robby freezes.

Not fully—but enough.

Enough to see it, and enough for it to land.

His expression shifts instantly, something tightening in his chest as he registers it—not as rejection, but as evidence. Of what you just went through. Of how close you still are to it.

His hands ease, lowering slightly, voice softening in contrast to everything around you.

“Hey—”

Gentler now.

“It’s me.”

Not a command— not a reassurance he expects you to take right away.

Just something steady. Something familiar. Something you can choose to believe when your body finally catches up.

His voice softening instantly, grounding, careful. “Hey—hey… I won’t hurt you.”

A beat.

“It’s me. It’s Robby.”

Your vision is still blurred, tears clinging to your lashes, your throat aching with every breath. You try to focus on him—on his face, on something familiar.

A small, broken sound escapes you.

Not quite a sob. Not quite a word.

Just pain.

Robby shifts closer, but slower this time, deliberate—giving you space, letting you see him. One hand hovers near your shoulder before finally settling there, light, steady.

He angles himself slightly, shielding you from the chaos behind him. From Curtis. From the noise. From everything.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

Your chest stutters again, another cough tearing through you. He steadies you instinctively, his hand firm but gentle at your back.

“In through your nose,” he coaches quietly. “Slow. That’s it.”

You try.

God, you try.

Your hands grip onto his scrub top without thinking, fingers twisting into the fabric like it’s the only solid thing in a world that just nearly slipped away.

“Robby—” your voice is wrecked, barely there. “You need to check on Emma, she—”

“I’ve got her,” Perlah calls from behind him.

Robby doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even look away.

His eyes stay locked on you.

Not just looking—assessing.

Your pupils. Your breathing pattern. The way your chest rises—too fast, too shallow. The faint, angry flush already forming beneath your jaw where Curtis’s fingers had been. He watches for asymmetry, for stridor, for anything that would tell him your airway is about to betray you.

He counts your breaths without saying it out loud.

But beneath it— something fractures.

Fear.

Raw and immediate. The kind that doesn’t belong in an environment like this; the kind that doesn’t fit inside protocol or training or years of experience.

Because this isn’t just a patient.

This is you.

“I’m right here,” he says, quieter now. Not for the room—for you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His thumb brushes against your arm—light, careful, like he’s testing whether you’re solid. Like he needs the confirmation. The warmth of your skin, the slight tremor in your muscles, the fact that you’re still here, still responsive, still breathing.

You feel it.

That steadiness, a promise.

And God—you want to believe him.

So you do.

For now.

You let your grip tighten in his scrub top, grounding yourself in something that feels unshakeable. Something that feels like it won’t slip through your fingers the second you look away.

Because right now, he’s here.

Right now, he’s choosing to stay in front of you instead of turning back to the rest of the room. To the chaos, and the responsibilities waiting for him just a few feet away.

But you know him.

You know the way his mind works—how it pulls him in a dozen directions at once, how duty always wins, how he gives and gives until there’s nothing left of him to give at all.

You know this moment—

This closeness.

It isn’t something he knows how to keep.

Your throat tightens, not from the injury this time, but from something quieter. Something that settles in your chest and lingers there.

Because when he says it—

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s not a lie.

Not exactly.

It’s just… temporary, and maybe that’s worse.

In the room, Curtis lets out a muffled groan, restrained now, the medication finally taking hold. Monitors continue their steady rhythm. Perlah’s voice carries softly as she reassures Emma.

Life moves— the ER doesn’t stop, and neither does he.

But still, his hand doesn’t leave your arm.

His eyes don’t leave your face.

Not yet.

Not while your breathing is still uneven. Not while your voice is still gone. Not while there’s even the smallest chance that something could go wrong.

You swallow, wincing slightly as your throat protests, your voice coming out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Michael…”

It’s enough.

He leans in just slightly, close enough that you don’t have to strain. Close enough that you don’t feel like you’re losing him just yet.

“I’m here,” he answers immediately.

And for a fleeting, fragile moment—

You are.

Still breathing, and still his to worry about.

CENTRAL 14 — DAY

It takes a moment.

Longer than you’d like to admit.

Your breathing is still uneven, throat raw, every swallow a quiet sting. The world feels a half-second behind itself, like you’re catching up to something that already almost happened.

Robby doesn’t rush you.

His hand stays steady at your elbow as you push yourself upright, your legs unsteady for a moment before they remember how to hold you.

“Easy,” he murmurs—low, meant just for you.

You nod, even if it’s more instinct than certainty.

He watches you for one more second—long enough to be sure you won’t drop—before he turns back toward the room, slipping seamlessly back into command.

“Okay, are we all good in here?”

Ahmad is already at the bedside with the others, Curtis fully restrained now, still groaning under the weight of the sedative.

“Oh, yeah, boss, we got this.”

Robby gives a short nod, but his eyes flick once more to you—quick, checking—before he guides you out into the hallway.

The noise hits differently out here.

Quieter and controlled. But your ears are still ringing faintly, your body still riding the tail end of adrenaline.

Emma stands near the wall with Dana, shaken but upright.

Robby steps in front of her immediately. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Emma exhales shakily. “Uh, I think so.”

“Okay, good. Come.”

He gestures subtly, guiding all three of you a few steps away from the room—out of the direct line of sight.

Space to think.

“So what exactly happened?” he asks, voice steady again—but tighter now, threaded with something restrained.

Dana answers without hesitation. “He grabbed Emma and put her in a chokehold. Ducky managed to get her out. Then he tackled Ducky to the ground and put his hands around her neck. I ran in and gave him a shot.”

Robby’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, “Right. And did he slip before or after the shot?”

“Before.”

Emma nods, still trying to piece it together. “Yeah, he had me in a headlock, then I called out for help. I didn’t see what happened.”

Silence falls.

You’re there—but not fully.

Your eyes blink slowly, like your body is recalibrating. Your throat aches with every breath, voice caught somewhere you can’t quite reach yet. The skin around your neck is already darkening, the imprint of fingers beginning to surface.

Robby looks at you.

Just for a second.

But it lingers, then he turns back to Dana. “What did you give him?”

“Four milligrams of Versed.”

“Who wrote the order?”

“I had it in my pocket. I was on my way to waste it when shit went sideways.”

Robby gives her a look—sharp, assessing.

Dana meets it immediately. “What?”

He exhales, tension threading through his posture. “Okay, so now he’s altered from alcohol, Versed, and a head trauma. Now he’s gonna need a head CT to rule out intracranial bleeding and a fracture.”

Dana’s expression hardens, disbelief flashing across her face. “Would you rather it be Emma with a head injury or Ducky with something worse?”

Robby doesn’t answer right away.

The question hangs there—heavy, unfair, and completely real.

He meets her gaze.

And for a second, it’s not just about protocol.

It’s about you.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dana cuts in before he can respond. “We got this.”

Robby shakes his head. “No, there’s no we here. You need to pass this patient off and report him.”

“Fine.” Dana turns, decisive. “Emma and Ducky, you’re done with this bastard. I’ll handle him now.”

“No, no,” Robby steps in, voice firm now, unmistakably in charge. “This is my emergency department, and I’m telling you to pass it off.”

Dana stiffens immediately. “These are my nurses, and I choose what cases they work, and if you think for one minute I’m putting anyone else from my staff at risk with that asshole, you better give your fucking head a shake.”

Robby lifts his hands slightly—not backing down, but not escalating. A measured pause.

Before anything else can be said, Dana turns sharply, already moving you and Emma along. “Come on. Come on.”

You go, more because your body follows than because your mind does.

As you pass, Samira steps in, catching the tail end of the exchange. Her eyes flick over you—taking in your face, your neck, the way you’re holding yourself.

She gives you a small, reassuring smile before turning to Robby, “MVA coming in.”

Robby nods automatically. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Thank you.”

Just like that, he’s pulled away.

You feel it before you even look. That shift— the invisible line where you stop being the center of his attention and become something he has to trust is stable enough to leave behind.

Behind you, he lifts a hand to his temple, pressing briefly—frustration, stress, too many variables stacking at once.

You swallow carefully, wincing at the burn in your throat, your fingers brushing lightly over the bruising that’s beginning to set in.

You’re still standing and breathing.

But the imprint of it— of his hands around your throat, of Robby’s voice grounding you, of the way he looked at you like you almost—

It lingers.

And even as you’re led away—

A part of you stays.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The ambulance bay doors slide open with force.

Javadi and Whitaker push a gurney in fast—too fast for anything routine. The patient’s chest heaves violently, each breath a fight, a wet, rattling sound that carries even over the noise of the department.

“Drive-in with severe respiratory distress,” Javadi calls out.

“Left-sided dialysis shunt,” Whitaker adds, already moving to reposition the oxygen. “Probable renal failure and fluid overload.”

The smell hits next—uremia, faint but unmistakable.

Robby is there in seconds, slipping into place like he never left the floor. “Have respiratory set up BiPAP.”

“When was his last dialysis?” Al-Hashimi asks, already checking access.

“It was supposed to be yesterday morning,” Mason answers.

Langdon doesn’t hesitate. “I’m gonna need a nitro drip ASAP.”

Robby glances once—quick, assessing—then nods. “You got this?”

“Yeah.”

And just like that, he lets it go—trusting the team, moving on.

Because he has to.

You’re standing near Central, beside Emma, your back lightly pressed against the counter.

Your throat still burns.

Every swallow reminds you. Every breath feels just a little too deliberate. You haven’t said much—haven’t trusted your voice enough to try.

Emma shifts beside you, quieter than usual.

Robby approaches Dana. “Is that the guy who attacked Ducky and Emma? Is he going to CT?”

“Yeah,” Dana answers, clipped. “Ms. Emma and Ducky here needs an H&P.”

Robby nods once, already turning. “Uh, Cassie, can you give Emma here a workup? I’ll do one for Ducky.”

Your head lifts at that.

“You really don’t have to—” you start, voice rough, barely holding.

“Start a chart,” Dana cuts in. “Victim of assault.”

McKay looks up. “Really?”

“I’m fine,” Emma insists, almost reflexive.

Dana doesn’t budge. “He was choking both of you.”

Emma shakes her head slightly. “He had me by the head mostly.”

“You’re both patients now,” Dana says firmly. “Full examine in South 18, McKay, and then Central 9 for Ducky. You both need to make a statement to the police.”

Your stomach twists.

“But we need the beds,” you push, quieter this time, but still there—still thinking like staff, like someone who doesn’t get to stop.

Dana’s look is sharp. Unyielding.

It’s enough.

You exhale, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “Just do mine quickly. We’re understaffed as is.”

“Is that really necessary?” Emma asks, glancing between all of you.

“Yeah,” Robby answers.

“Absolutely,” Dana adds. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there with you.”

“Come on,” McKay says gently, guiding Emma away. “Let’s get you a spot.”

Emma hesitates—but goes.

You stay.

Of course you do.

“Well, your guy just bumped my guy for CT,” Robby says, tension creeping back in.

“Now he’s my guy?” Dana shoots back.

“Duke’s gonna chew me a new one ‘cause he’s been sitting here forever, and I’m never gonna get out of here.”

“Tell it to someone who cares.”

Robby exhales sharply. “You know what? You should care, because if you gave that guy a serious injury with force inflicted from a sedative you are not licensed to prescribe—”

“Anyone else uses force to stop an assault, they’re a hero,” Dana cuts in, anger flaring. “But a nurse does it, and we’re punished.”

“You just happened to have a vial of Versed in your pocket?”

“It was extra from the medics. Good timing, I guess.”

Robby’s jaw tightens. “When we waste a controlled substance, we need a witness to sign off.”

“I was on my way to when I spotted that asshole attacking Ducky,” Dana snaps. “Anything else, Nancy Drew?”

A beat.

“Where you going?” Robby asks.

“Taking a pee,” she fires back, already turning away. “Do I need your permission to do that, too, now?”

She’s gone before he can answer.

The tension lingers in the space she leaves behind.

Robby stands there for a second, shoulders tight, the weight of too many things pressing in at once.

Across from him—

You.

Still quiet.

Still trying to hold yourself together like nothing happened.

His gaze finds you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.

Because now there’s no mess between you.

No immediate crisis to hide behind.

Just the aftermath.

And the fact that you’re supposed to walk away from it like it’s just another shift.

CENTRAL 9 — DAY

The room is quieter than the rest of the department. Not silent—never silent—but contained. The steady hum of overhead lights. The distant rhythm of monitors bleeding in from the hallway. Controlled.

Robby moves through the exam with practiced precision.

“Any dizziness?”

“A little.”

“Vision changes?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“Just… pressure.”

Your voice is rough, each word scraped out carefully, like your throat hasn’t decided if it’s safe to cooperate yet.

He notes it. Of course he does.

He checks your pupils—equal, reactive. Fingers light as he follows the line of your jaw, your neck. The bruising is more defined now, mottled beneath the skin, fingerprints beginning to surface in a pattern that makes something in his chest tighten again.

“Swallow for me.”

You do.

You wince.

His eyes flick up instantly. He hears it more than sees it.

“Any trouble breathing now?”

“No.”

“Any hoarseness before this?”

You almost laugh at that—if it didn’t hurt. “No.”

He exhales quietly through his nose, already building the picture in his head. Airway still patent. No immediate stridor. But he’s listening for it anyway—watching your chest, your throat, the way your voice catches.

Always watching.

You sit there, hands in your lap, shoulders slightly hunched—smaller than you usually are. Like your body hasn’t quite come back to itself yet.

He finishes noting something down.

Silence settles.

Until—

“Dana did it to protect me. To protect Emma,” you say, voice low but steady despite everything. “Don’t punish her for it.”

Robby doesn’t look up right away.

“I’m not going to,” he says finally. “But she put herself at risk.”

You swallow, ignoring the burn. “Doing this job every day puts us at risk.”

The words land heavier than they should. Because they’re true, and they’re obvious. Because they don’t change anything.

A beat passes.

“I run the ED,” he says, quieter now, the edge gone but something firmer underneath. “And you’re my friend. I’m supposed to protect you.”

The word friend sits there.

Careful. Measured. Not wrong—but not everything, either.

You meet his gaze. “I never asked you to. And you never asked me if I even wanted you to.”

The air shifts between you—something unspoken pressing at the edges, something neither of you quite names.

You look away first.

“Besides,” you add, softer now, the thought slipping out before you can stop it, “it’s my fault. I should’ve—”

Robby moves before you can finish.

His hand closes around yours—firm, grounding, stopping the spiral where it starts.

“Don’t even start with that.”

“But—”

His other hand comes up, sliding behind your neck—not rough, not forceful, but steady enough that you can’t avoid him. Not after everything that just happened.

“Don’t.”

Your breath catches.

Not from pain this time.

From proximity.

From the way he’s looking at you—like he’s trying to anchor you in place, like if he lets go for even a second you’ll drift somewhere he can’t follow.

You don’t argue. Not because you agree, but because you’re tired.

So tired.

It settles into your bones, into the space between your ribs. The kind of exhaustion that makes everything feel distant—arguments, anger, even fear.

You don’t have the energy to fight him.

Or yourself.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Because somewhere deep down, beneath the logic and the training and everything you know—

You would follow him.

Anywhere.

Even if it breaks you; even if he doesn’t know how to stay.

Your fingers tighten slightly in his.

You don’t pull away.

He studies your face for a second longer, like he’s trying to read something you’re not saying.

Or something he’s not ready to hear.

“Are we good for that talk later?” he asks.

Careful again, like he’s testing the ground.

Your eyes lift to his, “Be here later.”

It’s quiet.

Not a demand or quite a plea.

But close enough.

Something flickers across his expression—too quick to name.

“We made a pinky promise,” he says, softer now, trying—just a little—to pull you both back from the edge. “You know I take those seriously.”

You want to believe him.

God, you want to.

So you nod.

“Okay.”

And for now—

That’s enough.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

Robby steps into Trauma One for a quick check on the father and son—voices low, controlled, reassuring in that way he’s practiced into second nature. You don’t follow. You peel off toward Central instead, slipping back into motion because standing still feels worse.

Your throat aches when you swallow.

You ignore it as best you can. There are charts to update. Labs to chase. A rhythm to fall back into before your body remembers too much.

Robby exits Trauma One a minute later, pressing his palm into the automatic sanitizer mounted on the wall. He rubs his hands together thoroughly—longer than necessary, like he’s buying himself a second to reset.

That’s when he spots Dana.

She’s already mid-stride, stepping back into the chaos, voice sharp but controlled as she says to Monica, “All right, sister. How can I help uncluster this clusterfuck?”

Monica doesn’t even look up, already grabbing the red phone. “PTMC emergency, what do you got?”

Dana snatches up a clipboard, scanning it fast—back in it, like nothing cracked open minutes ago.

Robby approaches, still rubbing sanitizer into his hands.

“You ready to finish our conversation?”

Dana doesn’t look at him. “We talked, okay? Now I got an ED to run.”

“Please.”

There’s something in his voice—not loud, not forceful—but enough.

He steps off to the side, then Dana exhales sharply and follows.

“Okay.”

“Talk to me.”

She sighs, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Tired of this shit.”

“Okay.”

“That’s the second time that Emma was attacked by a patient today. Not to mention Ducky almost—”

She cuts herself off.

Robby nods once, grounding. “Okay.”

“ICE took one of my nurses,” she continues, anger threading through every word now, “and these cyber-assholes have thrown us back into 1999.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Well, I’m worried about you. You are not yourself today.”

Dana lets out a dry scoff. “That makes two of us, then.”

Robby studies her. Not pushing yet—but close. “Do you have something you want to say? Go ahead. I can take it.”

She doesn’t hesitate this time.

“All right, then yeah. Sometimes it’s like you’re just tempting death ‘cause you don’t give a shit anymore.”

Robby’s brow furrows. “So this is about the motorcycle?”

“It’s not just about the motorcycle,” she snaps. “It’s about the whole damn thing. Robby, you’re actually telling people that you’re going to a place called Smash My Head In.”

“Close, not quite. That’s not—”

“Robby—”

You don’t mean to interrupt.

But your body moves before you think.

“Robby, your buddy Duke is insisting on leaving, and that MVA is here.”

Your voice is still rough, quieter than usual—but urgent enough.

He turns immediately. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

And just like that—

He’s pulled away again.

He goes without another word, already shifting gears, already moving toward the next patient.

Dana stays behind.

Her hand comes up, pressing flat against the wall for a second—frustration, exhaustion, everything she didn’t get to finish saying.

“Who’s open?” Samira calls out, stepping into the flow.

“Uh, South 15,” Monica answers, still on the phone, juggling three things at once.

The ambulance doors open again.

“Seventy-eight-year-old woman,” Medic Lidel reports as they roll the gurney in. “Very low speed auto versus pedestrian with ground-level fall. Bruising on her left hip. No head trauma.”

“Her husband, Eddie, came along,” Medic Bosco adds.

Robby is already there to meet them. “Hi. How do you do, sir? I’m Dr. Robby. Come with us—we’re gonna get you set up right over here.”

His voice is steady again, like nothing ever rattles him.

You watch him guide them toward the room, his hand briefly hovering at the patient’s shoulder, directing, anchoring.

He doesn’t look back.

Not this time.

Behind you, Dana finally pushes off the wall, composing herself, picking the pieces back up because there isn’t another option.

And you—

You stand there for a second longer than you should.

Your fingers brush lightly against your throat, wincing at the tenderness blooming under your skin.

Then you move again.

Because that’s what you do. Even when your body hasn’t caught up. Even when part of you is still in Central 14, trying to breathe.

SOUTH 18 — DAY

You step in beside Dana just as McKay finishes up with Emma.

“Okay, let it out. Same again. Deep breath in. Great. All done.”

Emma exhales, shoulders dropping, the tension easing out of her little by little.

“How’s she doing?” Dana asks.

“Pulse ox 100%, normal exam. No evidence of injury.”

“Great.”

Emma gives a small shrug, trying to brush it off. “I got way worse from my older brothers.”

Dana huffs, just barely amused. “I bet.”

“All right, I’ll go, uh, write up her chart.” McKay slips out, already moving on to the next task.

For a moment, it’s just the three of you.

Dana looks between you and Emma, her expression softening in a way it doesn’t out on the floor. “How about we call it a day?”

“My shift isn’t over,” Emma says immediately.

You shake your head, your voice still rough but steady. “I promised Lena I would stay and help you. I’m not going.”

Dana exhales, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “This was a shift and a half for anyone today, believe me.”

Emma lifts her chin slightly. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather stay. I’m not a quitter.”

Dana nods, conceding. “Okay, Ms. Emma, good for you. But stick close to Donnie for the rest of the day, would you?”

“Sure.”

“And you also need to make a statement to the police,” Dana adds, more serious now. “If we don’t stand up for ourselves, no one else will. We’re here to help, not to be punching bags.”

Emma’s voice softens. “Thank you for saving me.”

Dana’s answer is immediate. “I got you, girl.”

You watch Emma leave—watch the way she straightens her shoulders before stepping back into the department, like nothing happened.

Dana turns to you then, gentler.

“Are you sure?” she asks, pulling you slightly aside. “With everything that’s happened? You don’t want to go home yet?”

Your fingers brush absentmindedly against your neck.

“If I leave…” you start, quieter now, “I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anyways. Not easily.”

You swallow, ignoring the sting.

“Besides, I still need to give a statement to the police. Robby and I are gonna talk after—before he leaves for his trip. So… might as well be useful while I’m here.”

Dana’s expression shifts—soft, almost pained.

“I’ll be okay,” you add. “I always end up just fine.”

The question slips out before you can stop it.

“Why is it,” you say, voice low, thoughtful, “that when we step in and take a risk to protect someone, it gets second-guessed… but when a man does the same thing, he’s called a hero?”

Dana doesn’t answer right away.

She looks at you—really looks this time. At the bruising on your neck. At the way your shoulders are still slightly drawn in. At the fact that you’re standing here asking that instead of sitting down somewhere, shaking.

Her jaw tightens.

“Because they expect you to survive it quietly,” she says finally. “And him to be applauded for it.”

Her voice lowers—not softer, just steadier. “And I’m not interested in playing along with that.”

Her hand comes up, squeezing your shoulder—firm, deliberate.

“Not with you.”

Then she steps back.

And just like that—she’s gone again.

“Hoy…” (Hey…) Perlah’s voice is softer than usual as she steps in beside you.

Princess follows, hovering close, her eyes scanning your face, your neck, the way you’re holding yourself.

“Okay ka lang?” (Are you okay?) Perlah asks quietly.

You nod too quickly. “Oo… okay lang.” (Yeah… I’m okay.)

Princess tilts her head, not convinced. “Sigurado ka? Ang lala nun kanina.” (Are you sure? That was really bad earlier.)

You let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Kaya pa.” (I can still handle it.)

A pause.

Then Princess, softer—careful. “Hindi kita masisisi kung gusto mong mag-transfer sa New York after… all of this.” (I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to transfer after all this.)

That almost breaks you.

Your throat tightens, not from the bruising this time.

You look away, blinking slowly.

“Grabe naman kayo,” you mumble, trying to deflect. “Hindi pa ako aalis.” (You guys are too much. I’m not leaving yet.)

Perlah nudges you gently. “Hindi namin sinasabing umalis ka. Pero… you don’t always have to prove something.” (We’re not saying you should leave. But… you don’t always have to prove something.)

You don’t answer right away.

Because you don’t even know what you’d be proving.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself.

“Okay lang ako,” you repeat, quieter now. (I’m okay.)

Princess reaches out, squeezing your arm. “Andito lang kami, ha.” (We’re right here for you, okay.)

You nod.

That part—

That, at least, you believe.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The department hums at full volume again. The kind you’ve learned to move through without thinking—until today makes everything feel just a little louder.

“Something wrong?” Dorion asks, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

Santos barely looks up from her chart. “That depends. Are you a four-month-old with severe diaper rash?”

Dorion blinks. “No, I’m Dorion Cole, and I’m pretty sure that I broke my collarbone.”

Santos nods once, already half-moving. “Okay, we can help with that. I’ll be back.”

“Wait, wait—are you serious?” he calls after her. “Can I at least get something for my pain?”

“Sure. Sit tight.”

He scoffs under his breath. “This place sucks.”

Santos doesn’t miss a beat. “Tell me about it. Try working here.”

Robby passes behind her, catching the exchange. “Boy, you’re really working hard to boost those patient satisfaction scores.”

Santos exhales, rubbing her temple. “The chart for Central 7 doesn’t match the patient that’s in there.”

“Hang in there,” Robby says. “We’re almost over this.”

“I was over this six hours ago.”

Dana steps into the space, scanning the overcrowded waiting area beyond. “Chairs is looking like Mullaney’s on St. Paddy’s Day. They’re gonna break through the doors like zombies…”

Your hands move automatically over the counter in front of you—sorting labs, stacking charts, flipping through paperwork that blurs just slightly if you look at it too long.

“Incoming,” someone calls.

“If we don’t start moving more of the meat back there—” Dana mutters, already pivoting.

You don’t finish listening.

Because Robby’s right there. Close enough that you catch the faint scent of sanitizer again as he reaches across the counter in front of you, pulling a pair of gloves from the box. His sleeve brushes near your hand—barely there—but you feel it anyway.

Then—

The ambulance doors open.

“Dante Casella, 34,” Medic Nash reports as they roll the gurney in fast. “Blunt trauma from a fireworks explosion in a storage unit. A and O, good vitals, large scalp laceration and bruising to the chest. No meds or allergies.”

“Partial or full thickness burns?” Santos asks, already moving alongside.

“No burns. The blast launched him into a rolled-down garage door frame.”

Dante’s voice cuts through, panicked, disoriented. “Am I fucking dying here?”

Robby steps in immediately. “I’m Dr. Robby. This is Dr. Santos.”

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“Try the other side.”

Santos leans in. “I’m Dr. Santos. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah—Dante. Lot of ringing.”

Tinnitus. Blast exposure. You clock it automatically, your brain still working even as your body feels just half a step behind.

They move him fast—straight toward Trauma Two.

“Hey, McKay, Joy, you’re with us!” Robby calls out over his shoulder.

Both nurses drop what they’re doing, clipboards set aside as they follow without hesitation.

The doors swing shut behind them.

And just like that— they’re gone.

Pulled into another crisis. Another room you don’t follow into. You stay where you are, hands still on the counter.

Papers in front of you that you’re not really seeing. Your throat aches again when you swallow. Your body feels heavier now that the adrenaline has nowhere to go.

Perlah’s hand lands gently on your elbow.

“I got this one,” she says, voice low, steady.

Then, softer—

“Magpahinga ka muna ng onti.” (Rest for a bit.)

You almost protest. It sits right there on your tongue—automatic, reflexive.

But nothing comes out.

You just stand there, caught between staying and stepping back, between who you’re supposed to be in this space and what your body is quietly asking for. And for a second, you let yourself feel it.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

You’re back at the front of the counter.

Back where your hands know what to do—even if the rest of you is still catching up.

You cross-check lab results against patient charts, flag a pending CT that’s been sitting too long. Your pen moves across paper in quick, practiced strokes—notations, times, initials. You answer a quick question from a nurse passing by, redirect a transport request, restock a half-empty tray without thinking.

It’s easier this way—when your hands stay busy enough that your mind doesn’t wander back to Central 14.

“Um, hey,” Mel says, glancing over at Samira. “Where’d you learn that shoe trick?”

Samira looks up from her chart. “Oh, I did a clerkship at NJMS senior care. One of the attendings always said you can learn a lot about your patients just by looking at their feet.”

Mel smiles, amused, then reaches over and dings the service bell.

Dana appears almost immediately, like she’s been summoned by instinct alone. She grabs the clipboards, scans them quickly, then hands them off to you.

“Bravo, ladies,” she says. “Now on to the next lucky customers.”

You take them without hesitation, already flipping through the pages.

“Probably gonna have to stay late to catch up on all these patients,” Samira mutters.

“Night-shift reinforcements will be here soon,” Dana replies. “We’re supposed to be speeding up in the eleventh hour, not slowing down. They don’t call it the final sprint for nothing. Chop-chop.”

Samira and Mel peel off, both of them giving you a small, sympathetic smile as they pass.

You don’t comment on it, you just keep working.

McKay steps up beside the counter, glancing toward Behavioral One. “Is that the, uh, mom of the heatstroke?”

“Yeah,” Al-Hashimi answers.

McKay hesitates. “Do you believe it was just an accident?”

Al-Hashimi doesn’t look up. “Does it matter?”

McKay exhales slowly. “As a doctor, no. But as a mom…”

Al-Hashimi’s voice softens just a fraction. “Sometimes I can’t tell if motherhood has made me more understanding or more judgmental.”

The words hang there.

You don’t mean to speak.

But you do.

“Two things can be true at the same time,” you say quietly, eyes still on the chart in front of you. “It’s not mutually exclusive.”

They both glance at you.

You don’t look up.

You just underline a lab value, flip the page, keep going.

“Dana, got a couple visitors.” Princess leans over the counter, two people lingering uncertainly behind her.

A man steps forward first. “Uh, my—my brother. There was an explosion.”

A woman follows. “Hi. My mom was in a car accident.”

Dana nods once, already shifting gears. “Uh, okay. Monica, can you help these fine folks find their loved ones?”

“Yeah,” Monica answers, stepping in.

Dana turns back to Princess, narrowing her eyes slightly. “And, Princess, what are you still doing here? Don’t you got some crazy luau pig roast barbecue thing to get to?”

Princess snorts. “It’s lechón, but, yes, I do. I’m gonna sneak out in a few.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah,” Dana waves her off. “Go have some fun for both of us, all right?”

“Don’t stay too late.”

“Okay.”

Princess lingers for a second longer—just enough to look at you.

“Ikaw rin ha?” (You too, okay?)

You wave her off lightly, not looking up from the chart you’re updating. “Bigyan mo na lang ako ng tira bukas.” (Just save me some leftovers tomorrow.)

She huffs a quiet laugh.

But she doesn’t miss the way you don’t meet her eyes.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The shift keeps folding in on itself. You’re back at the counter, halfway through updating a chart when movement catches your eye—Robby cutting across the floor toward Central 11.

Duke.

Of course.

He slows just enough to reach the doorway, already half-turned like he’s about to step in—

“Hey, Robby.” Santos intercepts him before he can. “Our scalp victim is back from CT. They’re prepping him now.”

Robby’s head snaps toward her, calculation replacing everything else in an instant. “Shit. Uh, okay. I’m coming. Um—”

He lifts a hand toward Central 11—just a second, a promise without words. Inside, Duke exhales, frustration written all over him even from where you’re standing.

Robby doesn’t get to go in.

He turns back to Santos. They fall into step side by side, already moving toward Trauma Two.

“Is your friend doing okay?” Santos asks.

“He’s on my flight risk radar,” Robby answers, distracted, already thinking three steps ahead.

Santos nods, then— “Oh, and Dana put McKay on the guy who attacked Ducky and the new nurse. Are they okay?”

You don’t look up.

But you hear it.

“Physically, yes,” Robby says.

Physically— the word lingers longer than it should.

“I heard you had a little chat with Langdon earlier.”

“Yeah,” Santos shrugs. “Water under the bridge.”

Robby glances at her. “You have to figure out a way of working with him now that he’s back.”

“Or until he relapses.”

There’s no bite in it—just honesty. Tired, blunt honesty.

“You’re becoming a very good doctor,” Robby says, quieter now, but firm. “Don’t let old conflicts get in the way.”

They’re almost at Trauma Two.

“Speaking of which,” he adds, “I want you and everybody else to see the trauma counselor while I’m gone, yes?”

“Yes,” Santos answers.

Robby nods once, then—almost like he’s trying to keep things normal, like the day hasn’t cracked open in a dozen places—

“And I asked Whitaker to house-sit for me while I’m gone. I figured that would distract from the whole farmer’s widow thing.”

Santos blinks. “Wait—what?”

“Bring in the mail, water the plants—cool?”

She lets out a small breath. “Cool. Yeah. Fine.”

They disappear into Trauma Two, the doors swinging shut behind them.

You stand there at the counter, pen hovering just slightly above the page before you realize you’ve stopped writing.

You swallow, your throat still tender, the motion slower than it should be, and press your pen back to the chart, forcing your hand to move again—documenting, updating, continuing. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

But your gaze drifts anyway— toward the closed doors of Trauma Two, the space he just disappeared into.

You look at Santos and wonder if she’s okay. If she’s carrying it quietly the same way you are.

If anyone asked her—not as a doctor, not as part of the team—

But as a person.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself, then flip the page and keep working.

TRAUMA TWO — DAY

The room is bright and focused.

Dante lies on the bed, blood matted into his hair, a deep scalp laceration already irrigated and prepped. The metallic scent lingers faintly beneath antiseptic. Monitors tick steadily—heart rate elevated but stable.

Garcia leans in, inspecting the wound with practiced ease. “That looks good. You can start the repair after this one.”

“Feeling any pain, sir?” Joy asks, glancing down at Dante as she adjusts the drape.

“Uh, no pain,” Dante mutters, slightly dazed. “Just… wet.”

Santos looks up from the tray. “You already numbed him up?”

“I did.”

“1% with epi,” Garcia confirms, not looking away from the wound.

Robby steps in beside them, already gloved, eyes flicking between the monitors and the field. “CT back yet?”

“No, not yet,” Santos answers.

Garcia shakes her head lightly. “I watched the slices come up. Isolated sternal fracture. Everything else looked normal. Could send him home, but given the mechanism, should probably watch him overnight.”

“I agree with Dr. Garcia,” Santos says.

Robby nods once. “I agree with Dr. Garcia, too.”

“Three-layer closure,” Garcia continues, already stepping back. “Galea, sub-Q, skin staples. Enjoy the fireworks.”

She glances at Robby, a hint of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “And hey, if I don’t see you before you leave, don’t forget to buy me a souvenir—like a custom elk-bone-carved hunting blade.”

Robby huffs softly. “Nothing less for my favorite butcher.”

Garcia grins as she removes her gloves, “Aww. You’re gonna make a great ex-husband one day, Robinavitch.”

The room hums on—suturing instruments passed, gauze blotted, staples prepared.

But Robby drifts, just for a moment. His attention pulls—subtle, almost imperceptible—toward the glass doors.

Outside.

You, standing just beyond the threshold of Trauma Two. Not doing nothing—never nothing—but… paused. Like you’ve stepped just slightly out of the pace everyone else is still moving in.

The fluorescent lights don’t quite reach you there.

You look smaller from this distance.

Quieter.

One hand rests absentmindedly near your throat before you drop it, like you caught yourself. Your posture is composed, professional—but there’s something in the stillness that doesn’t belong to the version of you that keeps up with everything.

The strongest people don’t usually stop.

You did.

And that unsettles him more than anything that happened in the room.

Robby’s jaw tightens just slightly, something unreadable passing over his expression.

He shouldn’t be looking.

There’s a patient on the bed. A procedure underway. A dozen things demanding his attention.

But his gaze lingers a fraction too long.

Like he’s making sure—

You’re still there.

Still upright.

Still—

Okay.

His voice drops under his breath, almost lost beneath the quiet clatter of instruments.

“I hope not.”

It sounds like he’s answering Garcia.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

Because his eyes are still on you.

Just for a second longer, before he turns back, let the moment go, and the work pulls him under again.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The rhythm of the department presses in from all sides—phones, footsteps, clipped voices, the constant shuffle of paper and movement.

You stand beside Dana at the counter, one hand braced lightly against it as you steady yourself between tasks.

“Hospital’s got a defense attorney looking for Jesse,” Dana says, scanning a chart but clearly not seeing it. “Probably took him to an ICE detention center. Said we shouldn’t hold our breath, though.” She exhales sharply. “Whatever happened to we the people, huh?”

There’s nothing to say to that.

So you don’t.

Your gaze drifts—just for a second—and lands on Curtis being wheeled past, flanked by nurses, restraints still in place as they take him up to CT.

Your chest tightens.

Dana follows your line of sight, jaw clenching. “Anything back on that drunk son of a bitch that attacked Emma and Ducky?”

“Not yet,” Makedah answers.

“Christ’s sake.”

“I’m making a run now. I’ll ask.”

“Yeah.”

Makedah is already gone.

Langdon steps into the space, his eyes flicking between you and Dana before settling on you.

“That’s the guy who attacked you and Emma?”

You nod.

It’s easier than speaking.

“Mm-hmm,” Dana confirms.

Langdon exhales, taking it in. “That’s intense. How you two doing?”

Dana answers without hesitation. “Peachy.”

You try for something similar—but your voice comes out wrecked, scraped thin. “Wonderful.”

Langdon winces slightly, like he hears it. “Hey… you did what you had to do with that guy. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

He says it like it’s a certainty.

Like that’s how these things work.

Then he’s already walking off.

Dana mutters under her breath, “From your lips.”

A few minutes pass.

Or maybe longer.

Time bends a little out here.

Then—

“Oh!” Dana straightens slightly as someone approaches. “So the march of the walking dead night shift begins. First one in—Mateo. Ducky, give him a gold star.”

You don’t look up from the chart you’re pretending to focus on. “I have no gold stars left to give.”

Mateo stops in front of you—and then really looks at you.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “What happened to you? And what happened in here? I left you guys with a layup this morning.”

His eyes land on your neck.

You resist the urge to touch it.

“Don’t ask,” Dana cuts in.

Mateo lifts his hands slightly, backing off—but only just. “Noted.”

Then he shifts gears like everyone here does.

“Speaking of layups—what up, Dr. J?”

Javadi looks up, caught off guard. “Oh—right. That was, um… some sort of basketball player, wasn’t it?”

Dana gasps, mock-offended. “Shame on you. Only the greatest Sixer to ever play the game.”

Mateo grins. “Week one of year four of med school. You’ll be ordering me around before you know it. Gonna join the dark side when you graduate?”

“The emergency department?” Javadi asks.

“The night shift, baby,” Mateo says. “It’s wild.”

Then his gaze flicks back to you—softer this time.

“We’d like Ducky back on the night shift, too. The whole crew misses you.”

Something in your chest shifts.

You shrug lightly, keeping it casual even if it doesn’t feel that way. “Well… they’ll see me tonight. Not leaving for a few hours, so.”

Like it’s nothing.

Like you aren’t about to leave this place earlier for entirely different reasons.

Javadi fidgets slightly. “Um… I haven’t even decided what residency I’m applying for yet.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Mateo says easily. “Got lots of time.”

“Tell that to my parents,” Javadi mutters.

Before anyone can respond—

Makedah steps back in, holding out the results. “Dana, results are back on your guy.”

Dana takes them immediately. “Give me those.”

Dana takes them immediately. “Give me those.”

The paper snaps lightly between her fingers as she pulls it in, eyes scanning fast—too fast at first, then slowing, locking in.

You see it happen.

Not the words on the page—but the shift.

Her posture stiffens. Her jaw sets. Something sharp and controlled flickers across her face, then settles into something darker. Heavier.

Dana doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t explain; she just turns. And starts walking—fast, purposeful, cutting straight through the current of the department like she’s already decided what comes next.

Toward Central 14.

You track her movement without meaning to, your chest tightening just a fraction as she disappears down the hall.

CENTRAL 11 — DAY

The room feels smaller than it should. Not because of the space—but because of the waiting. Duke sits upright on the bed, one leg bouncing faintly with restless energy. The door swings open as Robby steps in.

“My man, how you doing?”

Duke lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Like you better roll in a bar cart and a happy hour buffet if I’m gonna be stuck in this place much longer.”

Robby huffs, leaning lightly against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest. “This place is a traffic jam. We’re trying to merge you in, I promise.”

“That’s no traffic jam,” Duke shoots back. “That’s a twenty-car pileup.”

Robby nods once, conceding that easily. “The sooner you get out, the sooner I get out, so you know I’m not bullshitting you.”

Duke watches him for a second—really watches him. “Why are you jonesing so hard to get out and start your ride tonight?”

Robby doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze drops for a fraction of a second, jaw tightening just slightly.

“I’ve got a schedule,” he says finally. “I’ve got places to go. I’ve got people to see.”

It sounds rehearsed, like something he’s already told himself more than once.

He pauses—just enough for it to crack a little at the edges.

Takes a breath.

“I just have to get going.”

Duke leans back slightly, studying him. “You’re worried if you don’t leave tonight… you won’t leave at all.”

Silence.

Robby doesn’t confirm it.

Doesn’t deny it.

But the way he exhales—slow, controlled—says enough.

Duke glances around the room, then back at him. “Look, I get it. I can feel it in the air here. This place is like quicksand.”

Robby nods faintly. “Right.”

A beat.

Then Duke tilts his head, voice softer now—but sharper where it counts.

“And what about your nurse—Ducky?” he asks. “You really just gonna take off without figuring that out first?”

It hits.

Robby stills.

Just for a second.

Your name—your nickname—hanging in the space between them like something neither of them can quite ignore. There’s a flicker in his expression—something conflicted, something guarded, something he doesn’t let fully surface.

He opens his mouth—

But—

The door swings open.

“Dr. Robby?” Joy calls, breath just slightly quickened. “Uh, Dante—the fireworks guy—something’s wrong.”

Robby’s head snaps toward her immediately.

Everything else drops.

“Okay—shit. Um—” He turns back to Duke, already moving. “Do not go anywhere. You are next up. I’m gonna deliver you myself.”

Duke lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m starting to feel like a hostage in this place.”

Robby pauses just long enough to shoot back—“How do you think I feel?”

—and then he’s gone.

Pulled out the door.

Back into the current.

Leaving the question behind—

Unanswered.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The chart racks are overflowing.

Paper clipped to paper. Lab slips tucked between folders. Names, times, numbers—stacked in a way that only barely passes for organized.

You stand at the counter, pen moving steadily as you update a chart—vitals logged, meds reconciled, a note added in the margin for follow-up. Your handwriting is neat out of habit, even if your head feels anything but.

Across from you, Robby and Santos flip through the racks, scanning, pulling, cross-checking.

“Dr. Robby,” Mel calls, stepping forward with Samira at her side. “May we present?”

Robby looks up. “Yeah, what do you got?”

Then, almost as an aside, he glances at Santos. “Hey, you should probably get started crossing your T’s and dotting your I’s for night shift handoff.”

“Right,” Santos says, already backing off. Then, with a small smirk—“Well, vaya con Dios, or whatever the bikers are saying these days.”

She walks off.

Samira and Mel step in closer.

“Our elderly couple—Frida and Ed…” Samira begins.

Mel picks up smoothly. “We’re anxious about their ability to recover at home or to remain at home in general.”

Samira nods. “But a number of Mr. Cohen’s medications are on the Beers List, and they may be contributing to his deteriorating health.”

Robby’s brows lift slightly. “May be?”

“We can’t be certain,” Samira clarifies. “But none of them are critical meds. We could have him stop them right now, follow up with his PCP, see how he’s doing in a few weeks.”

Robby considers it for a little while, then nods. “Run it by the family. Sometimes just affirming a patient’s… independence, autonomy can do a world of good.”

Mel nods, already stepping back.

You don’t look up—but you hear everything.

You always do.

Mel moves off to the side, waiting.

Samira turns to follow—

“Um, hey—Dr. Mohan.”

Robby catches her just before she can leave.

She pauses.

“I heard a rumor that you were looking for an elective,” he says. “Consider geriatrics. It’s as much of an art as a science. There’s usually an opening, and you seem to have a… predisposition to the pace.”

A beat.

Samira blinks.

Doesn’t answer.

Just nods once—small, polite—and turns back toward Mel.

They walk off together.

Your pen stills for a second, then resumes. But your eye twitches slightly—subtle, quick, gone just as fast.

You glance up at Robby, muttering under your breath, “Congrats, you just lost one of your best residents.”

Robby exhales, shaking his head faintly—like he’s already second-guessing it.

Then his eyes land on you and linger.

Just long enough to register— you’re still here. Still pushing through like nothing happened.

“Hey,” he says, voice a touch softer now, grounding back into the moment. “Have you seen Dana?”

You shift your attention back to the chart, flipping the page like it matters more than it does. “I think she went out for a smoke.”

AMBULANCE BAY — DAY

The air outside feels different.

Not calmer—sirens still wail somewhere in the distance, the low hum of engines idling, stretcher wheels rattling over concrete—but it’s wider. Less contained. Like everything inside the ED spills out here and lingers.

Robby steps out, pushing through the sliding doors, eyes already searching.

He finds Dana near the wall, arms crossed, posture tight.

“You ever gonna tell me what really happened in there?”

Dana doesn’t look at him right away. “In where?”

Robby doesn’t let it slide. “You could lose your nursing license.” His voice sharpens, controlled but edged. “Let me guess—that vial of Versed in your pocket, you drew that up for Doug Driscoll in case he ever came back, and now you’ve just been carrying it around ever since.”

Dana turns then, meeting him head-on. “I did exactly what I needed to,” she says, steady, unflinching. “And now two young nurses get to go home in one piece because of me. McKay can sign the Versed order for me if you won’t.”

“I will sign the order!” Robby snaps, frustration breaking through. “I will sign an extra order so you can have one when I’m gone. That’s hardly the point.”

His hands come up, gesturing, pacing a half-step forward.

“It’s not exactly like I’m against nurse safety. I’m trying to advocate for your caution—because you’re the person who’s supposed to be here keeping this running while I’m gone, not roaming the halls like a vigilante with a loaded syringe and a vendetta!”

You push through the doors just then.

You’d come out to find Dana—night shift is ready, reports need to start—but the sound of raised voices stops you short.

You don’t step forward.

You don’t step back.

You just… stay.

Close enough to hear and enough to feel it.

“It’s always ‘do as I say, not as I do’ with you, isn’t it?” Dana fires back. “What is wrong with you today?”

Robby exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, words spilling faster now. “Samira missed a triple-A. Mel and Ellis had a deposition. McKay’s treating people in the park. Ducky isn’t talking to me like we used to. Fucking Langdon—”

Your name—

It hits, quiet but sharp.

“—At some point, you and Langdon got to work this out,” Dana cuts in.

“I don’t want him here!” Robby snaps, the words louder than he probably meant.

“He made a mistake, and he paid for it.”

“Did he?” Robby shoots back. “Did he go to jail? Because I let him get away with a crime. So what does that make me?”

“Human!” Dana says, without hesitation. “Are you angry at him, or are you angry at you?”

“Somebody could have died.”

“Oh, it’s the ED,” Dana says dryly. “Somebody’s always dying.”

“Go ahead and make jokes,” Robby snaps. “Make jokes instead of acknowledging that—”

“Langdon didn’t kill anybody.”

“That we know of.”

“And he saved a lot of lives that we do know of. Our kids disappoint us sometimes.”

Robby drags both hands through his thinning hair, pacing once, like he’s trying to outrun something in his own head. “Langdon is not a kid.”

“No,” Dana agrees. “But he’s your guy, and you’re taking it personally. Langdon fucked up, and you think that makes you look bad—but it’s on him.”

Robby shakes his head, frustration bleeding into something heavier. “How am I supposed to leave this place when it’s a shit show?”

Dana scoffs. “First, you can’t stay. Now you can’t go. What is it, Robinavitch?”

“No, I’m going,” he says, quieter now—but no less strained. “I just thought I could leave it a little better when I did.”

Dana exhales, shaking her head. “Oh, don’t be such a martyr. This place is always teetering on the brink of disaster, with or without you. We do it every night, every day off.”

She steps closer—just enough to make it stick, “This place is bigger than one person. It survived without Adamson, it survived without me, and it’ll survive without you.”

Then she turns and walks back inside.

You move then, enough to make it look like you weren’t standing there the whole time.

“The night shift nurses are all here,” you say, voice steadier than it feels.

Dana pauses, her expression softening just slightly as she reaches out, patting your arm. “Thank you, Ducky.”

You nod, offering a small, almost-there smile as she disappears back into the ED.

The bay feels different now. Quieter and heavier.

Dana’s right about a lot of things. But you know that’s not what he needed to hear.

You can see it.

In the way Robby doesn’t move right away.

In the way his shoulders sit just a little lower than usual. In the way he stands there, staring at his motorcycle like it might have an answer for him.

His back is to you.

Broad. Familiar.

But something about it feels… distant. Like he’s already halfway gone—or not gone at all.

Just stuck.

You linger, longer than you should. Because this is the most human you’ve ever seen him.

Not the attending or the one everyone looks to.

Just—

Him.

Unsteady. Frayed at the edges. Trying to hold everything together and realizing he can’t. And you don’t know what to do with that.

Who are you to step in? Who are you to just… watch?

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides as you think about calling his name.

You don’t.

Because some distances aren’t crossed that easily. Because whatever this is between you— It’s still something neither of you has figured out how to hold.

So you stand there, caught between staying and walking away.

Between reaching out and letting him be.

Between—

Almost.

And not quite.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The floor is shifting again.

Not calmer—just different. The kind of transition that happens when one wave of people hands off to the next without ever really stopping.

Dana stands in front of the incoming night shift nurses, voice sharp, efficient, cutting through the noise.

“Make sure discharge charts are bundled and placed in the ‘to be scanned’ bin with nursing notes, order sheets, lab, and X-ray results,” she says, already pointing toward the stacks. “Day shift needs completed T sheets on every patient and to write on the board what tests are pending so nothing falls through the cracks while we wait to come back online.”

Clipboards move, pens scratch, and people nod.

You’re still at the counter, organizing a stack of lab slips into their respective charts, double-checking patient IDs before sliding them into place.

Al-Hashimi approaches Robby, “Westbridge and Good Dominion have settled their cyber dispute.”

Robby looks up. “They paid the ransom?”

“Yeah. Our IT department is confident in our defenses, so they will be rebooting everything soon… slowly but surely.”

“Okay.” Robby nods, already thinking ahead. “So when everything comes back on, all the residents have to do is scan all the completed paper charts and digitize them into the patient’s EHRs before they go?”

Santos passes by, muttering under her breath as she peels off toward another station. “I’m never getting out of this place.”

Al-Hashimi gives Robby a small, reassuring nod. “This means you’re clear for takeoff. Nothing here we can’t handle with night shift coming in.”

Robby lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah, right. Free to go.”

It doesn’t sound like freedom.

It sounds like something he’s not sure he wants.

Movement catches his eye.

Duke.

Being wheeled toward CT.

Robby doesn’t hesitate—he steps in beside him, walking alongside the chair.

“Uh, hey,” he says, slightly out of breath from catching up. “I told you I would get you up there, and I promise I’m not leaving until you’re back and sent packing.”

Duke waves him off with a grin. “Robby, buddy, you got me to come in, got me to take my tests. You don’t got to babysit me. That’s why I have a nurse.” He glances up. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Nurse Vivi, sir.”

“That’s what I have the lovely Nurse Vivi here for.”

Robby shakes his head lightly. “This will not take very long.”

Duke snorts. “Where have I heard that before?”

They round the corner toward the elevator.

Gone.

“Hey.”

McKay steps in, catching Robby just before he disappears completely.

“So, uh… this is it, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” Robby answers. “Don’t let the place burn down.”

McKay huffs a quiet laugh, then sobers. “You know… in a previous life, I had a lot of friends who liked to see how close the edge was… as if it was a challenge they were called to meet.”

Robby listens—but there’s a distance in his eyes now.

“Trouble is,” McKay continues, “they all inevitably found it.”

“Okay,” Robby says.

“I’m just picking up on a weird vibe from you today is all.”

“Yeah,” Robby exhales. “Well, it’s been a weird day.”

That’s one way to say it.

Across the department—

Langdon catches Joy heading toward the ambulance bay doors, her bag slung over her shoulder.

“You leaving?”

Joy pulls her stethoscope from around her neck, tucking it into her bag. “Uh, yeah. My shift is over, and I ain’t getting paid to be here. Quite literally the opposite, in fact.”

Langdon gestures around. “Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re sort of, uh, in disaster mode here still. We put in the extra time if we’re needed.”

Joy hums. “You know 62% of ED docs report suffering from burnout?”

“Painfully aware.”

She shrugs. “Mm. So maybe all you lunatics need to learn how to set some boundaries, like me.” A small wave over her shoulder. “Well, see you tomorrow, Doc.”

The doors slide open.

She’s gone.

Shen steps in at the same moment, iced coffee in hand, pausing mid-step.

“Good luck in there,” Joy tosses over her shoulder. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Mess?” Shen echoes.

Then he looks, really looks at the department. At the overflowing charts, the constant movement, and tension hanging in the air like something you can almost touch.

“…Yup.”

You catch his eye and lift a hand in a small wave.

He smiles—then freezes as his gaze drops to your neck.

The bruising.

Darkening now, and impossible to miss.

His grip on the iced coffee falters, tilting dangerously before he catches it.

“What the—”

“Incoming!” someone calls.

Everything snaps back into motion.

“Head trauma,” Medic Nguyen reports as they wheel the patient in. “Unwitnessed fall from the warehouse catwalk where he works as a security guard.”

Samira steps forward—then stops dead.

“Oh, my God,” she breathes. “Orlando.”

Her voice cracks just slightly, “He left five hours ago.”

The room shifts again.

From busy to something sharper, more personal. Because no matter what just happened, there’s always another patient.

End Notes:

:D

YAY! ABBOT COMES BACK. MY SOLDIER HAS RETURNED FROM HIS NAP YAYYYYYYYY!!!

SORRY FOR THE CHAPTER DELAY! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

YIPPE PAIN AND SUFFERING YIPPEEE :D

Okay, anyways, blacked out again while writing this. I’m catching up with the new episode and ABBOT PLS GIV ME A CHANCE

Good heavens, everything is falling apart. Oh deer.

Hope this chapter wasn’t too bad… 

Taglist: @orodaeh @karleyyjaee @allenajade-ite @glitterspark @bumbl3-b33z @sarahhxx03 @mirandarockin @sourmooonlight @sunflower911 @tedmustache @wastingspaces @princessesareforsuckers @anykent-grayson @brucewaynegfreal @katethedilfhunter @barnes70stark @kneelforloki @imonmykneessir @emneedshelp @darlingimafangirl @silas-aeiou @rei-scorpio @redhooduwu @thesnugglingduck @blondedlvfe @blackwidownat2814 @pagesaftermidnight @soyelfleureon @battyvonkreep @mscreativity @ravyn94 @jeshomie @follows-the-life-ahead @sommywithluv @whatupbuttercup2019

CENTRAL 11 — DAY

Duke is sitting up in bed, hospital gown half untied at the back, flipping through one of the patient education pamphlets like it’s a magazine.

Whitaker is sitting on a stool, while you stand at the bedside, checking Duke’s vitals again, then jotting something down on the clipboard balanced against your forearm.

“You comfortable?” you ask.

Duke shrugs, “As comfortable as a man can be in a paper dress.”

You give a small, tired smile.

“That’s the spirit.”

He watches you for a bit, then tilts his head, “You know… Robby talks about you.”

Your pen pauses for the smallest fraction of a second before you keep writing.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Duke says, grinning. 

“All the time. Not in the way you think, either. Not like ‘oh she’s a good nurse’ or whatever.” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to remember the exact way Robby said it.

“More like… you’re the one person around here who doesn’t let him turn into a complete asshole. Says you’re too damn kind for this place. That you actually care about people when the rest of them are just trying to survive the shift.”

You keep writing, but slower now.

Duke keeps going, voice a little more thoughtful. “He told me once you make the whole ER feel less… miserable. Like when you’re around, everybody calms down, works better. Said you’ve got this way of making people want to do the right thing without even realizing it.”

Your grip tightens slightly on the pen.

Duke smirks.

“And this is me paraphrasing, but… he said you make him wanna be better at this job. As if he forgets why he started doing it in the first place, and then you walk in and suddenly he remembers.”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, still looking down at the chart.

“That’s generous of him.”

Duke smirks, unconvinced. “Yeah. Didn’t sound generous when he said it. Sounded like a guy who doesn’t know what the hell he’d do without you.”

Duke keeps going, clearly entertained.

“You two got history or something?”

You flip the page on the chart as you say, “We work together.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

You don’t answer.

Duke smirks and keeps talking anyway. “First time I met him, he kept calling me ‘Doc.’ Didn’t even tell me he was the real doc till months later. Guy’s got a whole secret life.”

You let out a short breath through your nose, shaking your head as you write.

“Yeah,” you mutter, dry. “Join the club. He’s got a talent for not telling people things.”

The door opens behind you.

You don’t notice at first.

Robby steps in just in time to hear the end of that.

He huffs quietly, almost amused despite himself.

“Hm.”

You look up then, just for a second, and your eyes meet his before you look back down at the chart like nothing happened.

Robby turns to Whitaker, “Where are we with his chest X-ray?”

Whitaker looks up as he replies, “Uh… X-rays are still six or seven behind.”

“When’s the last time you checked?”

“Maybe ten minutes ago, but I—”

Robby jerks his thumb toward the door, “Stay on them.”

Whitaker nods and heads out fast, “Yeah.”

Duke lifts the pamphlet, “Come on, give the kid a break. It says here it takes an hour to get an X-ray.”

Robby snatches the pamphlet out of his hand, “You’re the first person who read this fucking thing all day.”

Duke laughs.

Robby shakes his head, “Don’t get me started on those.”

You close the chart and step back, “Excuse me.”

You slip past Robby without touching him, without looking at him, and head for the door.

He watches you go; he doesn’t even try to hide it.

Duke notices immediately. He nods toward the doorway after you leave, “What’d you do to get on her bad side?”

Robby runs a hand over his face, tired, frustrated, “Said some shit I shouldn’t have. She overheard it and—”

Duke raises an eyebrow, “There’s gotta be more to it than that, man.”

Robby doesn’t answer.

Just stares at the door a second longer than he means to.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The service bell dings sharply as another nurse drops a finished chart onto the discharge rack, the metal sound cutting through the constant noise of Central. Papers shuffle, the red phone rings somewhere down the counter, and the whiteboard is already filling up again.

You’re sitting at one of the desks now, finally off your feet for a minute, a clipboard balanced on your knee while you work through another chart. Your handwriting is still neat, still precise, even though the rest of you feels like it’s running on fumes.

You flip a page, double-check the medication orders, then reach for the next sheet.

Makedah suddenly rushes in from the hallway, slightly out of breath, a lab printout in her hand.

She jogs straight to Dana and hands it over.

“Fresh from the lab. They said one’s critical.”

Dana looks up immediately. “They’re supposed to call those up.”

Makedah nods, already backing away. “I know. Every time they try, the red phone’s been busy.”

She’s already running again before Dana can answer.

Dana slides her reading glasses on and scans the paper.

Her face drops.

“Jesus Christ… this was resulted twenty-five minutes ago.” She looks up, raising her voice. “Sodium one-twelve.”

She turns, spotting Samira nearby.

“Mohan!” she calls, holding the paper out. “Sprinkle some salt on your patient before he seizes.”

Samira walks over, calm but moving fast, takes the paper without a word, and heads off toward the rooms.

Dana pulls her glasses off as Al-Hashimi comes up to the counter, placing a chart on the rack.

“Where are we?” Al-Hashimi asks.

Dana sighs, running through it from memory.

“Kidney stone patient’s not obstructed. Just waiting on meds. Ortho’s still working on the replantation on our water-slide trauma. Our perforated diverticulitis patient, Howard, made it through surgery.” She grabs another slip. “And I’m calling the CYF resource navigator to see if we’re getting anywhere with emergency foster care for Baby Jane Doe.”

She gestures toward the hallway.

“Other than that, labs and X-rays are way behind… but our Golden Girls are getting their steps in.”

Al-Hashimi nods, then glances around Central. “Does Robby usually leave as soon as his shift ends, or does he like to stick around for all the handoffs to night shift?”

Dana hums, “Depends. But he’s usually pretty good about getting out of here.”

Nearby, Javadi drops a clipboard onto the discharge rack, taps the service bell, then heads for the whiteboard.

Ogilvie is already there, marker in hand.

“Shortness of breath in South 16,” he says. “He could totally decompensate. I’m hoping to catch another intubation before seven. One more gets me to three in my first week. Probably a record.”

Joy decides to side eye him and sighs, tired. “I’m looking for an easy one. Shift ends in two hours.”

Javadi writes on the board without looking at either of them. “You’re supposed to pick up the stable patients in order.”

Ogilvie tilts his head, “Do you need a… second opinion on that?”

Javadi stops writing, narrows her eyes at him, “No.” She caps the marker and walks off.