carl

You finish suturing the last laceration on your patient. Your fingers move with practiced precision, muscle memory taking over while your mind drifts.

"Nice work, Doctor." The voice pulls you back. You glance up to find Jeremy, the new fourth-year med student on his ED rotation, standing closer than necessary. His smile is warm, interested. "Your technique is really impressive. I was hoping maybe you could show me some of your approach to more complex lacerations? Maybe over coffee sometime?"

You're about to respond when you feel it—that prickle of awareness that means Robby's nearby. You don't have to look to know he's standing at the nurses' station, probably pretending to review charts while his jaw does that thing it does when he's pissed.

"Sure, Jeremy. We can go over it during your next shift," you say, keeping your tone professional, friendly but not too friendly.

Jeremy's hand lands on your arm, just above your elbow. Light. Casual. Completely appropriate. "That would be amazing. You're really great at teaching. Not everyone takes the time, you know?"

You do know. You remember your own rotations, the attendings who treated students like inconveniences rather than future colleagues. You smile at Jeremy because he's a good kid, eager to learn, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with being encouraging.

But you also feel the weight of Robby's stare like a physical thing.

"McKay needs you in Trauma 2," Robby's voice cuts across the space, sharp and clipped. You turn to find him standing with his arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral in that way that means he's anything but. "Now."

Jeremy's hand drops from your arm. "I'll catch you later," he says, that easy smile still in place.

You nod and head toward Trauma 2, very aware of Robby's presence as he falls into step beside you. His shoulder nearly brushes yours—closer than colleagues usually walk, but not close enough to be obvious.

"McKay doesn't need me, does she?" you ask quietly.

"She does now." His voice is low, meant only for you. "I'll make sure of it."

You want to call him on his bullshit, but you're in the middle of the ED with nurses and residents and patients everywhere. So you bite your tongue and push through the trauma bay doors.

Cassie looks up from her patient, surprise flickering across her face. "Oh, hey. I didn't page you."

"Robby said you needed help," you reply, shooting him a look.

She glances between you both, and you can see the moment she decides not to ask questions. "Well, since you're here, want to help me with this chest tube?"

You scrub in, grateful for the distraction. The work is what matters—the medicine, the patients, the lives you save. Not whatever complicated mess you and Robby have created between you.

Except it is complicated. It's been three months since that first night when you both stayed late finishing day/night trade off, and he'd asked if you wanted to grab a drink. One drink became three, and three drinks became his hands in your hair in the parking lot, became frantic kisses and fumbling with keys at his apartment, became the best sex of your life on his couch because you couldn't even make it to the bedroom.

"Just physical," you'd both agreed the next morning. "No strings. No feelings. Just blowing off steam."

For the first month, it really was that simple. You'd text him after a bad shift—or he'd text you—and one of you would show up at the other's door. You never stayed the night. You never talked about anything real. The sex was intense and necessary and uncomplicated.

Then the patterns started. Small things. He began bringing you coffee during overnight shifts—your order exactly right, down to the extra shot of espresso. You started keeping a spare toothbrush at his place, and he never commented on it. After particularly brutal traumas, you'd find each other without even needing to text first, like you could sense when the other one needed the release.

Two months in, he started staying after. Not the whole night—just an hour or two, lying in your bed or on his couch, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your skin while you both stared at the ceiling in silence. You told yourself it was still just physical. That the comfort of another body nearby didn't mean anything.

But then last week, you'd shown up at his apartment after a pediatric code you couldn't save, and instead of pulling you toward the bedroom, he'd just held you. Wrapped his arms around you in the doorway and let you break apart against his chest. He didn't try to fix it or fuck it away. He just held you until you could breathe again, then made you tea and sat with you on the couch until dawn.

You didn't have sex that night. You fell asleep against his shoulder, and when you woke up, he'd covered you with a blanket and was still there, watching you with an expression you couldn't read.

That's when you knew the arrangement had shifted into something you couldn't control. Something that felt dangerously close to real.

And now Jeremy is smiling at you and Robby's acting like a jealous boyfriend, and you can't pretend anymore that this is just about blowing off steam.

The motorcycle accident is the worst—a twenty-three-year-old with internal bleeding. You're already reaching for the chest tube kit before Robby even asks for it, and he's got the ultrasound ready the second you need to confirm placement.

"Pressure's dropping," you say, watching the monitor.

"Two units O-neg, push one of epi," he finishes, already drawing up the syringe. His hands are steady, his voice calm. "On my count for the tube. Three, two—"

You insert it on one, because you know his rhythm, know he always goes early. The patient's oxygen saturation climbs. You exchange a look—brief, satisfied. This is what you're good at. This is where you make sense.

"Nice work," he says quietly, and there's something in his eyes that has nothing to do with the save.

Then Jeremy pokes his head in. "Need any help in here?"

"We're good," Robby says, too quickly, too sharp.

The rest of the shift, that tension builds. In the way Robby's eyes track you across the ED whenever Jeremy's nearby. In the way he snaps at Jesse for something minor—so unlike his usual demeanor that Jesse actually looks hurt.

Garcia notices too. "What's up with Rabbitbitch today?" she asks during a rare quiet moment. "He's been a bear all shift."

You shrug, aiming for casual. "Tough cases, maybe."

"Maybe." But Yolanda's look says she's not convinced.

By the time your shift ends, you're exhausted—physically, emotionally, all of it. You change out of your scrubs in the locker room, pulling on jeans and a soft sweater, and you're just grabbing your jacket when Jeremy appears.

"Hey! I was hoping I'd catch you." He's changed too, looking younger in normal clothes. "A few of us are grabbing food at that Thai place on Forbes. Want to come?"

It's innocent. Completely innocent. Just colleagues getting food after a shift.

But you see Robby over Jeremy's shoulder, coming out of the men's locker room, and the look on his face is anything but innocent.

"Thanks, but I'm pretty beat," you say. "Rain check?"

Jeremy's smile doesn't falter. "Sure, absolutely. See you next shift."

He leaves, and you're left standing there with Robby, the locker room emptying around you until it's just the two of you.

"You should have gone," Robby says finally. His voice is carefully neutral again, but there's an edge to it.

"I didn't want to."

"Right." He moves past you toward the exit, and you should let him go. You should go home, take a hot shower, fall into bed alone. You should let whatever this is burn itself out.

Instead, you follow him.

"What's your problem today?" you ask, catching up to him in the hallway.

"No problem." He doesn't slow down.

"Bullshit. You've been acting weird all shift."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

You grab his arm, forcing him to stop. The hallway is empty, but you lower your voice anyway. "The thing with Cassie. Snapping at Jesse. You've been watching me like—"

"Like what?" He turns to face you fully now, and there's something dangerous in his eyes.

"Like you're jealous."

The word hangs between you. You've said it out loud now, named the thing you've both been dancing around.

Robby's jaw tightens. "That's not—we're not—"

"I know what we're not," you cut him off. "You've made that very clear. No strings, remember? No feelings. Just sex."

"That's what you wanted too."

"I know." And you did want that. You do want that. Except somewhere along the way, it stopped being enough. Somewhere between the late-night calls and the way he brings you coffee exactly how you like it and the way he touches you like you're something precious even when he's fucking you hard enough to leave bruises—somewhere in all of that, the lines got blurred.

But you're not about to admit that. Not when he's looking at you like this, like he wants to argue and kiss you in equal measure.

"Jeremy's just a med student," you say. "He's friendly. That's all."

"He wants to fuck you."

The bluntness of it makes you blink. "So what if he does? We're not together, Robby. You don't get to—"

"I know." He steps closer. "I know I don't get to. That's the problem."

Your heart is pounding now. "What are you saying?"

But he's already pulling back, that neutral mask sliding into place. "Nothing. Forget it. I'm just tired."

"Robby—"

"I'll see you next shift." He turns and walks away, and this time you let him go.

You end up at Molly's because where else are you going to go? It's the bar where half the hospital staff drinks, a nice place with fairy lights hanging over head and a jukebox that only plays songs from the '80s. But the whiskey is cheap, and the bartender doesn't ask questions, and right now that's exactly what you need.

You're two drinks in when Santos slides onto the stool next to you. "Rough shift?"

"Something like that."

Trinity orders a beer, and for a few minutes, you both just sit there in companionable silence. She's good at that—knowing when to talk and when to just be present.

"Saw Robby tear into Jesse today," she says eventually. "Not like him."

You take another sip of whiskey. "Everyone has bad days."

"True." Santos studies you with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "You two okay?"

"We're fine."

"Right." The way she says it makes it clear she knows there's more to the story, but she doesn't push. "Well, if you need to talk..."

"I'm good. Thanks, though."

Santos nods and takes her beer to a table where Whittaker, Princess, and Garcia are playing darts. You're grateful for the quietness, for the chance to sit with your thoughts and your whiskey and try to figure out what the hell you're doing.

The thing is, you knew this would happen eventually. You knew that "no strings" was a lie people tell themselves, that sex without feelings only works until it doesn't. You've seen it play out a dozen times with friends, with colleagues. You thought you'd be different. You thought you could keep it simple.

But nothing about Robby is simple.

He's brilliant and infuriating. He pushes you to be better, challenges you, and trusts you with his most critical patients. He's saved your ass more times than you can count, and you've saved his right back. You know how he takes his coffee and what cases keep him up at night and the exact sound he makes when he comes.

You know him. And he knows you. And that's the problem.

You're signaling the bartender for another drink when you feel it again—that awareness that prickles down your spine. You don't have to turn around to know Robby just walked in.

He spots you immediately. Of course he does. You watch in the mirror behind the bar as he hesitates, as he clearly debates whether to leave or stay. Then his jaw sets in that stubborn way you know too well, and he walks over.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he says, sliding onto the stool Santos vacated.

"Liar. You knew exactly where I'd be."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Yeah. I did."

The bartender comes over, and Robby orders his usual—bourbon, neat. You sit in tense silence until the drink arrives, until he's taken a sip and set the glass down carefully.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "About today. I was out of line."

"Yeah, you were."

"It won't happen again."

You turn to look at him fully. "Won't it?"

His fingers tighten around his glass. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to tell me the truth. I want you to tell me why you've been acting like this."

"I already told you—"

"Bullshit." You keep your voice low, but there's heat in it now. "You've been weird for weeks, Robby. Ever since Jeremy started his rotation. And don't tell me it's nothing, because I know you. I know when something's bothering you."

"You don't know everything."

"Then tell me."

He drains half his bourbon in one swallow. "You really want to do this here?"

"I want to do this somewhere. Because this—" you gesture between you both, "—whatever this is, it's not working anymore."

Something flashes in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Or fear. "So what, you want to end it?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying we need to talk about what's actually happening here instead of pretending it's still just casual sex."

"It is just casual sex." But his voice lacks conviction.

"Is it? Because the way you looked at Jeremy today, the way you've been looking at me—that's not casual, Robby. That's not 'no strings.'"

He sets his glass down hard enough that the bartender glances over. "You want me to apologize for giving a shit? Fine. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't just turn it off like you apparently can."

"Turn what off?"

"This." He gestures sharply between you. "Us. Whatever the fuck this is."

Your heart is racing now. "I never said I could turn it off."

"No? Because you seem pretty comfortable with Jeremy's hands all over you."

"He touched my arm, Robby. Once. And even if he did more than that, even if I wanted him to—which I don't—you don't get to be jealous. That's not part of our arrangement."

"Fuck the arrangement." His voice is rough, raw. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know I have no right to feel this way?"

"Then why do you?"

The question hangs between you. Around you, the bar continues its usual rhythm—laughter from the dart game, the clink of glasses, someone feeding quarters into the jukebox. But in your little bubble, there's only silence and tension and the weight of everything you've both been avoiding.

"Because I'm an idiot," Robby says finally. "Because I thought I could do this—thought I could have you like this and it would be enough. But it's not. It's not enough, and I hate that, and I hate that I'm the one breaking the rules we both agreed to."

Your breath catches. "Robby—"

"Forget it." He stands abruptly, throwing cash on the bar. "This was a mistake. I should go."

"Don't." You grab his wrist. "Don't run away from this."

"I'm not running. I'm giving you an out. You wanted casual, and I can't do casual anymore. So we end it, and we go back to being co-workers, and we both move on."

"And if I don't want to end it?"

His eyes search yours, "Then what do you want?"

It's the question you've been avoiding asking yourself. What do you want? The safe answer is to agree with him, to end this before it gets messier. To protect yourself, protect your working relationship, protect your heart.

But you're so tired of safe.

"I want you to stop pretending you don't care," you say. "I want you to stop acting like this is just about sex when we both know it stopped being just about sex weeks ago."

"And then what? We date? We try to make this into something real while working together, while the whole hospital watches and gossips? You know how that ends."

"No, I don't. Neither do you."

"I've seen it end badly enough times."

"So we don't try? We just walk away because it might be hard?"

He yanks his wrist from your grip, and this time there's real anger in the movement. "You don't get it. You think this is about being scared of hard? I can't fucking think straight when you're around. I can't do my job when I'm watching him put his hands on you."

"He touched my arm, Robby. Once."

"And you smiled at him like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump. "Fuck this. I'm not doing this with you."

"Not doing what? Actually talking about what's happening between us?"

"There's nothing happening between us. That was the whole fucking point." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, hands curled into fists, looking at you like he wants to either strangle you or kiss you.

Maybe both.

"You're such a liar," you say, and you can hear the anger creeping into your own voice now. "You've been acting like a jealous asshole all day, and now you want to pretend it doesn't mean anything?"

"What do you want me to say?" He steps closer, and there's nothing tender about it. "That I wanted to put my fist through his face when he touched you? That I've been thinking about fucking you in front of him just to make it clear who you belong to?"

"I don't belong to anyone."

"No?" His smile is sharp, cruel. "Then why are you still standing here? Why aren't you going home with him?"

"Fuck you, Robby."

"That's what I thought." He turns to leave again, and this time you don't just grab his wrist—you shove him. Hard.

He barely moves, but he turns back to you with something dangerous in his eyes. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't call you on your bullshit? Don't point out that you're the one who can't handle this?"

"You have no idea what I can handle."

"Then show me." You're in his space now, close enough to feel the heat coming off him. "Stop running away and show me."

For a moment, you think he might actually leave. Then his hand is in your hair, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, and he's kissing you like he wants to hurt you with it. It's all teeth and anger, nothing soft about it.

You kiss him back just as hard, biting his lip until you taste copper. He makes a sound that's half growl, half groan, and then he's walking you backward toward the hallway.

"Bathroom," he says against your mouth. "Now."

You don't argue. You let him push you through the bar, past the curious stares, into the dimly lit hallway. The moment you're out of sight, he has you against the wall, his body pinning yours, one hand still fisted in your hair.

"This what you want?" His voice is rough, angry. "Want me to lose control? Want me to show you exactly how not-fucking-casual this is?"

"Yes." You grab his shirt, pulling him closer even as you glare at him. "Stop talking and do it."

His laugh is dark. "Careful what you wish for."

Then his mouth is on your neck, and there's nothing gentle about it. He bites down hard enough to leave marks, sucks bruises into your skin like he's trying to brand you. His free hand grips your hip, fingers digging in with bruising force.

"Everyone's going to see these," he says against your throat. "Going to know someone fucked you up."

"Good." You rake your nails down his back through his shirt. "Maybe then you'll stop acting like you don't give a shit."

"I give too much of a shit. That's the fucking problem." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wild. "I can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop wanting you. And I hate it. I hate that you have this much power over me."

The door opens and he pushes you inside, slamming it behind you and flipping the lock. Before you can say anything else, he has you pressed against the door, his hands already working at your jeans with rough, impatient movements.

"This doesn't fix anything," he says, popping the button with more force than necessary. "This doesn't make us okay."

"I know."

"We're still fucked after this."

"I know." You're working at his belt now, just as rough, just as desperate. "I don't care."

He shoves your jeans and underwear down your thighs in one rough motion, not bothering to be careful. His hand slides between your legs, and he makes a sound of dark satisfaction when he finds you already wet.

"You're soaked," he says, his voice breaking on the words. "Even now. Even when we're tearing each other apart."

Then he drops to his knees, and the sight of him looking up at you from the filthy bathroom floor is devastating.

"I need—" His voice cracks. "I need to taste you. Need to remember this."

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you, and it's desperate rather than cruel. He knows exactly what you like, exactly how much pressure, exactly where to focus his attention. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, and the pleasure builds fast—too fast.

"Robby—" Your legs are shaking, your whole body trembling as the orgasm crashes over you with devastating force. You're dimly aware of crying out, of your fingers tightening in his hair.

He pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks up at you. There's something raw and broken in his expression.

"Look at you," he says, standing slowly. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing away a tear. "Completely wrecked. And we haven't even fucked yet." He leans in, inhaling deeply against your neck. "God, I'm never going to forget this. The way you smell when you come. I think about it during handoffs, during breaks. Drive myself crazy with it."

"You're cruel," you whisper.

"Yeah." He leans in close, his lips brushing your ear. "And you're still here. Still want me inside you even after I made you cry. What does that say about you?"

You don't have an answer. Can't form words when your body is still trembling with aftershocks.

Suddenly gaining a backbone and not wanting him to be calling all of the shots. You gain some confidence back. And instead of walking away like any normal right-minded person would, you instead grab his shirt and pull him closer, forcing him to look at you. "I want to see your face when you fuck me," you say, and there's steel in your voice now. "I want you to look at me and remember who's letting you do this."

Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You start working at his belt, your hands steadier now despite everything. "And I want to make sure everyone knows what we did. So they can see the marks I leave on you."

"Possessive," he says, but his breathing has quickened.

"You started it." You shove his pants down, then reach for the condom wrapper he's already pulled from his pocket. "Now shut up and fuck me."

You tear it open, rolling it onto him with deliberate slowness, watching his jaw clench with impatience. Then you hop up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he pins you against the door.

"Last chance to tell me to stop," he says, and there's something almost desperate in his voice now.

"Don't stop. Don't you dare fucking stop."

He pushes in hard, one brutal thrust that makes you cry out. There's no tenderness, no careful working up to it. Just him filling you completely, stretching you, claiming you in the most primal way possible.

"Fuck," he breathes, and you can see every emotion flickering across his face—anger, need, something that might be pain.

"That's right," you say, leaning in to bite down hard on his neck. "Feel that? That's going to bruise. Everyone's going to see it."

He groans, his hips snapping forward with punishing force. "You're insane."

"And you love it." You bite him again, lower this time, right where his collar won't cover it. You can taste salt and feel his pulse racing under your teeth.

"Jesus Christ." His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so he can look at you. "You're going to be the death of me. I'm too old for this shit—fucking you in a bar bathroom like I'm twenty-five again."

"Good." You dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging them down his back hard enough to leave scratches. "Maybe then you'll stop pretending you don't care."

"I never said I didn't care." He slams into you harder, the angle deep and devastating. "I said we should end this. That I should know better than to corrupt someone your age."

"Corrupt me?" You bite his collarbone, his shoulder, anywhere you can reach. "You think you're corrupting me? I'm the one marking you up like I own you."

"Yeah, you are." His voice drops lower, rougher. "And I'm sick enough to love it. To want everyone to see what you do to me. To know that someone half my age has me this fucked up." He thrusts harder. "I should walk away. Should let you find someone appropriate. But I can't stop thinking about you—about this—about how you feel, how you sound when you come."

"Then stop fucking me in bar bathrooms." You bite his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss. "Stop looking at me like you want to murder anyone who touches me. Stop—"

He cuts you off with a brutal kiss, all teeth and anger and desperation. When he pulls back, you immediately lean in to bite his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss.

"Fuck, you're vicious."

Your nails rake down his back again, and you feel him shudder. "You like that I fight back. That I'm not some sweet little thing who'll just take whatever you give."

"Yeah, I do." His hand slides between you, finding your oversensitive clit, and you gasp. "I like that you're as fucked up as I am. That you want this just as much."

"Maybe I do." You bite his neck again, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. "Maybe I want Jeremy to see what I did to you."

"Thought you didn't care about him."

"I don't." Another bite, this time on his jaw. "But you do. You care that he looks at me. That he makes me laugh. That he might touch me the way you do."

"Shut up." But his rhythm is faltering, his breathing ragged.

"Make me." You dig your nails in deeper, feeling him thrust harder in response. "Or admit that you're jealous. That you want me to be yours even though we're not supposed to be anything."

"You want me to admit it?" He angles his hips differently, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Fine. I'm jealous. I'm fucking jealous of every person who gets to touch you, talk to you, make you smile. Happy now?"

"No." You bite down on his shoulder hard enough to make him groan. "Because you're still going to walk away after this."

"What do you want from me?" His fingers press harder against your clit, and you can feel your orgasm building again despite the oversensitivity. "You want me to tell you I'm losing my fucking mind? That I can't do this anymore—can't pretend it's just physical when I want to murder anyone who looks at you?"

Your breath catches. "Robby—"

"I can't let you go." His voice breaks on the words, raw and desperate. "I've tried. I can't."

You clench around him deliberately, watching his eyes go dark. "Then stop trying."

His fingers work faster, his thrusts becoming erratic, and when your orgasm hits it's with his name on your lips and your teeth in his skin. You feel him follow seconds later, his grip on you bruising, his face buried in your neck.

For a long moment, there's nothing but harsh breathing and the muffled sound of the bar beyond the door. Then Robby pulls out, and the loss of contact feels like abandonment.

You both clean up in tense silence. He disposes of the condom while you pull your jeans back up with shaking hands. When you finally turn to face him, his expression is carefully blank.

"So," you say, and you hate how uncertain your voice sounds. "What now?"

He's already tucking his shirt back in, but when he looks at you, there's something decisive in his eyes. "Now you're coming home with me."

It's not a question. Not even close.

"Excuse me?" You cross your arms, even though your legs are still shaky. "You don't get to just—"

"I'm not leaving you here." He steps closer, crowding you against the sink. "Not after that."

"Maybe I want another drink."

"Bullshit." His hand comes up to your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. "You want to go back out there and pretend this didn't happen? Fine. But you're doing it from my place, not here where every resident in the hospital can watch you."

"Possessive much?" But your pulse is racing, and you know he can feel it under his thumb.

"You literally just marked me up like I'm your property," he says, and there's dark amusement in his voice now. "Don't act surprised that I'm returning the favor."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because—" You falter, because you don't actually have a good answer. "Because you're being an asshole about it."

"And you weren't?" He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "You bit me hard enough to draw blood. Told me you wanted everyone to see what you did to me. That's not exactly subtle."

"You started it," you say, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

"Yeah, I did." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "And I'm finishing it. Get your coat. We're leaving."

"What if I say no?"

"Then I'll wait." His thumb traces your lower lip. "I'll go back out there, sit at that bar, and watch you try to have a normal conversation with your friends while you're still shaking from what we just did. Watch you squirm every time you move and feel how sore you are. All while you're thinking about me."

"You're unbelievable."

"And you're coming home with me." It's not a question this time either. "Because we both know you're not done with me yet. And I'm sure as hell not done with you."

You should tell him to go to hell. Should walk out of this bathroom, go back to your friends just to prove a point.

But Robby's looking at you like he'll burn the whole bar down if anyone else touches you tonight, and something in you responds to that with a heat that should probably concern you.

"Fine," you say, and you make sure it sounds like a concession rather than the surrender it actually is. "But I'm not staying over."

"We'll see." He unlocks the door, then pauses.

You should be angry. Should tell him he doesn't own you, doesn't get to dictate where you go or who you talk to.

Instead, you grab your coat from the hook by the door. "You're paying for the Uber."

"Done." His hand finds the small of your back, possessive and warm. "Anything else?"

"Yeah." You look up at him, making sure he sees the challenge in your eyes. "This doesn't mean anything. We're still ending this."

"Sure we are." But his smile is sharp, knowing. "Keep telling yourself that."

He guides you out of the bathroom, his hand never leaving your back. You catch a glimpse of the bar—McKay talking to Santos, Pincess laughing at something Whittaker said. Robby steers you toward the side exit before anyone can notice.

The Pittsburgh night hits you like a slap, cold and sharp. You pull your coat tighter while Robby pulls out his phone to call a car.

"Five minutes," he says, pocketing it.

You stand there in tense silence, breath fogging in the air between you. The adrenaline from the bathroom is fading, leaving behind something rawer. More uncertain.

The Uber pulls up—a silver Camry with a tired-looking driver who doesn't even glance at you. Robby opens the door, waiting.

You could still walk away. Go back inside, finish your drink, let this be what it was—angry bathroom sex that doesn't mean anything.

But you slide into the car, and Robby follows, his thigh pressing against yours in the cramped backseat, and then you're moving, the bar disappearing behind you.

The silence stretches. You stare out the window at the passing streetlights, hyperaware of every point where your body touches his.

"I meant what I said in there." Robby's voice is quiet, almost lost under the hum of the engine. "I can't do casual anymore."

Your heart stutters. You keep your eyes on the window. "Robby—"

"I need to know what you want." He shifts to face you, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. "Not what you think you should want. Not what's safe or smart or whatever bullshit excuse you're going to give me. What do you actually want?"

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair." His hand finds yours in the dark, fingers threading through yours with devastating gentleness. "But I'm done pretending I don't care. Done acting like this is just stress relief or whatever the fuck we've been calling it."

You finally turn to look at him. In the dim light from passing cars, his face is open in a way you've never seen—no walls, no defenses. Just Robby, looking at you like you're the only thing that matters.

"You're going to break my heart," you whisper.

"Maybe." His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. "Or maybe we'll break each other's. But I'd rather have that than keep doing this—pretending I don't want to wake up next to you. Pretending I don't think about you every second we're not together."

Your throat tightens. "We work together. If this goes bad—"

"It might." He doesn't look away. "But it's already bad. We're already a disaster. At least this way we're honest about it."

The car turns onto his street. You're running out of time to decide.

"I don't know how to do this," you admit, and your voice cracks on the words. "I don't know how to be with someone like this—someone who makes me feel like I'm losing my mind."

"Then we'll figure it out together." He squeezes your hand. "But I need to hear you say it. What do you want?"

The car pulls up to his building. The driver's already reaching for his phone, pointedly ignoring you both.

You look at Robby—at this man who's seen you at your worst and somehow still wants you. Who knows exactly how fucked up you both are and isn't running.

"I want you," you say, and it comes out steadier than you expected. "Not just tonight. Not just when we're angry or scared or trying to forget. I want to try this for real, even though it terrifies me."

Something in his expression breaks open—relief and joy and fear all tangled together. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You lean in, pressing your forehead to his. "But if you ever pull that jealous bullshit with Jeremy again, I'm going to kill you."

He laughs, soft and surprised. "Fair enough."

"And we're telling people. No more sneaking around like we're ashamed of this."

His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, and his eyes are so soft it makes your chest ache. "I want that. I want everyone to know you're mine."

"You're so fucking dramatic."

"You love it." But his smile falters slightly, and he catches your hand against his face, holding it there. "I do mean it, though. All of it. I know I'm a mess, and I know I'll probably fuck this up in a hundred different ways, but—"

"Robby." You press your thumb against his lips, silencing him. "I'm a mess too. We'll fuck it up together."

The driver clears his throat. "You folks getting out, or...?"

You both scramble out of the car, and Robby tips him extra—probably out of guilt for making him witness that. Then you're standing on the sidewalk, the night air cold against your flushed skin, and suddenly everything feels different. Real in a way it never has before.

Robby's still holding your hand. He hasn't let go since the bar.

"So," he says, and there's something almost nervous in his expression now—vulnerable in a way you've never seen him. "Come upstairs? We could just... talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need."

It's such a departure from every other time—from the urgency and the desperation and the unspoken agreement that you'd both leave before morning. This is him offering you space to stay. To be present. To build something that lasts beyond a single night.

"Hey," he says, and his free hand comes up to cup your jaw. "Thank you. For giving this a chance. For giving us a chance."

"Yeah," you say softly. "I'd like that."

His smile is brilliant and relieved, and he tugs you toward the entrance. But before you reach the door, he stops, turning back to face you fully.

Your throat tightens. "Don't make me regret it."

"I'll try my best not to." He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead—gentle and reverent, nothing like the frantic desperation in the bathroom. "I promise I'll try."

And somehow, you believe him.

Because this is messy and complicated and probably a terrible idea and you're both disasters and this could blow up spectacularly. But his hand is warm in yours, and when you look at him, he's looking back like you're something precious. Something worth fighting for.

And maybe that's enough.