evie

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evie .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ 21. she/her. minors dni !

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

## ukyt lover ## fanfic fanatic ## girly girl ## writer ## nerd

## the pitt ## er

## looking for new friends !

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

YOU KNOW JUST HOW TO GET TO ME !

The worst part wasn’t that Michael could be cruel.

It was that he could be kind. Just enough. Always just enough to keep you breathing through another day, another week, another month of this half-life you’d built around him. You loved him so much it felt like a chronic condition—something that lived in your blood, flaring up at the sound of his voice, the set of his shoulders, the rare moments when his eyes actually focused on you.

You felt trapped inside your own life with him. The apartment you kept too clean hoping he’d stay longer. The shifts you picked to match his schedule. The friends you’d slowly drifted from because explaining the ache was too exhausting. You’d lost your sparkle somewhere along the way. The easy laugh that used to fill the break room, the little jokes you’d make during codes, the way you used to light up a room just by walking into it. Now you were quieter. Dimmer. A shadow orbiting a sun that barely noticed the pull.

If he’d been awful all the time, you could have left. But he wasn’t. He gave you glimpses—warmth, attention, softness—and you clung to them like lifelines, even as they slowly drowned you.

The ER on a weekend was a familiar kind of hell. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry insects. The trauma that had rolled in fifteen minutes earlier still had the whole team wired: car versus guardrail, multiple fractures, internal bleeding. The air smelled of blood, sweat, and the sharp bite of antiseptic. Monitors beeped in discordant rhythm. Nurses shouted vitals. A resident fumbled with IV tubing.

Michael stood at the center of the storm, as always. Gown splattered dark across the chest, hair damp under the scrub cap he’d shoved back, jaw clenched in that focused way that made everyone else feel smaller. He stripped off bloody gloves and reached for fresh ones without pausing.

“Pressure’s dropping,” Mel called, voice cracking with stress.

“I know,” Michael answered, flat and certain.

“Dr. Robinavitch, maybe we should—”

“I said I know.” The words sliced through the room. The resident flinched. You watched from the periphery, pretending to update a chart you’d already finished, and felt that familiar twist in your chest. You hated the sharpness in his voice. Not because it was unjustified—he was almost never wrong—but because it worked. People forgave him. You forgave him. Because when that same focus turned toward you, even briefly, it felt like being seen for the first time in weeks.

An hour later the patient stabilized. The tension bled out of the department in stages. Charts were signed. Lights were dimmed. Someone cracked a weak joke about coffee. You found Michael in the supply room, restocking shelves with sharp, irritated movements. His shoulders were tight, the line of his back rigid under the scrubs.

“Hey,” you said softly from the doorway. The fluorescent light made everything look sickly pale. Your own scrubs still carried the faint metallic tang of someone else’s blood.

Robby didn’t look up immediately. “Hey.”

You lingered, fingers twisting the hem of your top. The silence pressed against your ribs like an old bruise. You waited. You always waited.

Finally, his eyes lifted. Tired. Distant. “What?”

You attempted a smile. “I was thinking… after shift, if you’re not completely wrecked, maybe we could get out of here for a bit? Even just the diner down the block. Pancakes, bad coffee, something normal. You’ve barely eaten, and I know these shifts hollow you out. I just, I miss you. Not the doctor version. The you version.”

Robby shoved a box of gauze onto the shelf with more force than necessary. “No.”

The single word landed before you’d finished speaking. Your stomach dropped, familiar and sickening.

“Oh. Okay.” You swallowed hard. “I understand. Tonight was rough.”

“I’m exhausted,” he added after a beat, closing the cabinet door. The metal clang echoed. “You were there. You saw what it was like.”

“I was.” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “I just thought… maybe it would help. Even twenty minutes. We haven’t really talked in days that weren’t about work or this.” You gestured vaguely between you.

Silence stretched again. He kept organizing supplies, but his movements slowed. Michael sighed. “You do this thing, you know.”

“What thing?” You already knew the script, but you asked anyway. Maybe this time it would be different.

“You act like every time I say no, it’s some personal attack. Like I’m deliberately trying to hurt you.” He turned toward you, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m not. I’m just trying to get through the day without falling apart. You know what this job does to people,”

Your face burned. You looked at the scuffed linoleum floor, at the faint blood smear someone hadn’t cleaned. “I don’t mean to make it about me. I just miss you, Michael. We’re in the same building for twelve, fourteen hours some days, and it still feels like I have to fight for space in your head. I’m not asking for a vacation or flowers or any of that. I just want to feel like I’m not invisible when we’re not in trauma bay three.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, the gesture so familiar it ached. “You build things up in your head. You always expect more than what this is.”

The words hit exactly where they always did. You’d heard them before—months ago, when the calls stopped coming. When he disappeared for two weeks and returned acting surprised you were upset. When you learned from a coworker that he’d gone to that rooftop concert after telling you he was too drained to leave his apartment.

“And what is this, exactly?” Your voice cracked. You hated how desperate you sounded. “Because I thought we were at least trying to be something real. I lie awake some nights staring at the ceiling, replaying every small thing you do or don’t do, and I feel so stupid for caring this much. All I want is to know I’m not just convenient. That when you go home, sometimes you think about me the way I think about you.”

Michael leaned against the counter. The pause was long. “I care about you. You know that. But I don’t know what else to say. Work is eating me alive. I’m not good at this… balancing thing.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I know. But knowing it doesn’t make the nights any shorter.”

The first time he kissed you, it had been after one of those endless sixteen-hour shifts. He looked wrecked—dark circles carved under his eyes, scrubs wrinkled and stained with old coffee, hair a mess. You were sitting on the cold concrete bench outside the hospital entrance, the city lights smearing orange and white against the night sky, a chill wind cutting through your jacket.

He dropped down beside you without a word. Five minutes passed in silence.

“You’re the only person here who doesn’t treat me like I’m an asshole.”

You’d laughed softly, surprised by the admission. “That’s because you’re not one. Not really.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not,” you’d insisted, heart pounding.

A small, fleeting smile touched Michael’s lips. “You don’t know me very well yet.”

Then he leaned in and kissed you. Slow, tired, tasting like hospital coffee and something warmer underneath. For months afterward, you replayed that night like evidence in a trial only you cared about. See? He chose you. He sees you. It kept you going through the withdrawals.

Three months after that kiss, Robby forgot your birthday.

You spent the entire day making excuses while you worked: He’s in back-to-back cases. He’s catching up on sleep. He’ll remember later. Your phone stayed dark. The little gifts you’d bought yourself felt pathetic. At 11:38 p.m, sitting on the edge of your bed in the dark, you called.

He picked up on the third ring. “What?”

Not hello. Just that.

You swallowed. “Do you… know what today was?”

A long pause. You could picture him rubbing his face, eyes closed. “Shit. Oh god.”

“Yeah.”

“I forgot. I’m really sorry. Work has been insane, and my head’s been all over the place. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you lied, voice thick with tears you refused to let him hear. “I get it.”

The apology sounded genuine. That made it worse. Genuine wasn’t the same as enough. You cried quietly after hanging up, the kind of tears that left you hollow and exhausted. You’d begged in small ways—reminders, hints, patience—and still come up empty.

Everyone at work noticed the change, even if they didn’t know the full story. Michael kept the relationship locked down so tightly that sometimes you wondered if he was ashamed of you. You knew he was, at least partly. You were the one whose eyes followed him to the ambulance bay. The one whose mood swung wildly with his attention. The one who used to sparkle, quick with a joke during downtime, the first to volunteer for tough cases, the one who brought in donuts on rough mornings. Now you were quieter. Paler. You smiled less. Laughed less. Your friends in the department pulled you aside more than once.

“You okay?” Dana asked one afternoon in the break room, voice gentle. “You seem… dimmed lately. Like someone turned the volume down.”

You forced a laugh. “Just tired. Long shifts.”

She didn’t look convinced. “If it’s him… you deserve better than whatever this is.”

You changed the subject. What could you say? That you loved him so much it felt like drowning? That leaving seemed impossible because your life had reshaped itself around his gravity?

One night after another muted argument in an empty hallway, the kind where voices stayed low but the words cut deep, Michael leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“You know what your problem is?” His voice was calm. Infuriatingly calm.

You gave a bitter laugh that tasted like ash. “Only one?”

“You hand me responsibility for your happiness. You make everything about me.” He watched you steadily. “I didn’t ask for that.”

The words landed like a slap. You stared at the scuffed floor. “I make everything about you?” Your voice rose, then dropped again, embarrassed by its own volume. “Michael, I barely ask you for anything anymore. I just want to feel like I matter on a regular day. Not just when it’s convenient or when you’re coming down from a high-adrenaline case. I feel trapped inside this version of my life—like I’ve built a cage out of love and routine and I can’t find the door anymore. But I stay. God, I stay because I love you. So much it terrifies me. I’m patient. I’m forgiving. I take the scraps and tell myself they’re feasts.”

He didn’t flinch. “I never promised more than this. I’m not built for the kind of relationship you seem to want.”

“No. You just accepted what I gave. And when it gets too heavy, you pull back. But then you come back with a late-night text, or your hand brushing mine in the supply room, or that rare look like I’m the only one who really sees you. Just enough to keep me here.” Your throat tightened. “I’m losing myself in this. My friends barely recognize me. I barely recognize me.”

Robby was quiet for a long time. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Sorry. The word echoed. Not enough. Never enough.

The nights were the worst. You’d lie in your bed alone, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the relationship pressing down on your chest. I feel trapped inside my life. The thought looped endlessly. You were cool on the outside, forgiving, understanding. Inside, you were fraying. You’d replay good moments like old videos: the way he’d kissed you that first night, the rare mornings he’d make coffee without being asked, the way he’d look at you after a successful save like you were part of his team. Proof that he cared. Proof that you weren’t crazy.

But the bad moments piled higher. The forgotten birthday. The canceled plans. The way he’d disappear emotionally for days after a hard case, leaving you to wonder what you’d done wrong.

Another evening at his apartment, the TV flickered low on some documentary neither of you watched. Michael sat on the couch with patient notes spread across his lap. You sat across from him, knees drawn up, watching the way the blue light played across his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the exhaustion etched around his eyes. You loved him so much it hurt physically.

He glanced up eventually. “What?”

You almost laughed at how familiar the question felt. It was his default. “Do you love me?”

For once, surprise flickered across his face. His eyes met yours, then drifted to the floor. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

You nodded before he could speak. “Okay.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Michael murmured.

“You didn’t have to.” Your throat ached. “All I want is to know, without doubt, that I’m not just filling a space until something easier comes along. That when you’re gone for days, you miss me the way I miss you. That I’m not quietly begging for something that should come naturally.”

Michael set the chart aside slowly. “It’s not that simple. You know how complicated things are with work, with my head, with everything.”

You smiled, tired and cracked open. “That’s the thing, Michael. It actually is simple. I love you. I’m here. I’ve always been here. But I’m so embarrassed by how much I’ve given. By how long I’ve stayed, convincing myself that this is enough when it’s slowly erasing me.”

He stood up. “You don’t mean that. You’ll call tomorrow. You always do.”

The confidence in his voice nearly broke you, because he was right. You always had. You loved him like a disease—chronic, consuming, impossible to excise.

You grabbed your coat anyway, legs unsteady. For one horrible, endless second, you waited by the door. Hoping he’d stop you. Hoping he’d finally say the words unprompted. Reach for you. Beg you to stay the way you’d begged him in a thousand silent ways.

He didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind you. Halfway down the hallway, the tears came—hot, silent, blurring the ugly fluorescent lights. Not because you’d stopped loving him. That would have been a mercy.