Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.

Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time. 

Tonight changes that.

It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.

But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.

The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.

“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”

The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”

Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”

Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”

Brendon rolls his shoulders.

The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.

In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fit knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.

Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrows into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.

But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much there.

So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.

As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.

Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”

With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”

Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”

Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.

You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”

“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”

“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”

“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”

“It’s eighty degrees out.”

“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”

With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”

“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”

“That’s hot.”

Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.

“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”

He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”

“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”

“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”

With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”

“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”

Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”

“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”

Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”

Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”

With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.

The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.

Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”

“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”

The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”

Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”

With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”

Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”

“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”

Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”

Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”

“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”

Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”

“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”

“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”

“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”

“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”

You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”

He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”

Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”

Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”

Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”

“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”

You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”

Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”

“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a roadtrip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”

“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”

“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook work. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”

You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”

Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.

Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”

“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”

Brendon nearly growls.

Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”

You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”

As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”

“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”

Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”

“It’s America.”

“The bill’s over four grand.”

“Like I said. And?”

“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”

“I barely know her.”

“Whatever you say, Shark.”

You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.

Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md

You have to suppress a squeal.

Game, set, match.

It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.

With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”

“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”

“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”

“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”

“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”

You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him want to vomit. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”

He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”

“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being all stupid about it.”

“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”

Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”

“My friend, huh?”

“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in a long-forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge him and insist, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”

With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”

Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”

Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”

“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”

You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”

“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer to-”

A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”

“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I didn’t expect you to have four grand easily lying around.”

With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”

“How?”

“I have my secrets.”

“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”

“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinkie with yours. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”

“I’d do it for anyone.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.

It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”

Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”

He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”

You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking around as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.

On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.

As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the damn finally breaks.

Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot stick in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-

“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”

He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”

“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”

“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”

“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”

“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”

You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”

He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”

“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”

He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”

But he can’t resist how damn determined and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.

When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. That was a really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”

You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”

He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”

God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”

Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”

“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”

As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”

Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”

He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.

“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”

He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”

You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”

“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says,“Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”

You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”

He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”

You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”

“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”

He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”

You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”

Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.

As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”

Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”

“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”

You’re about due for a cold shower.

you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇 you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences. brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests. you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on. brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual. you: yeah? brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me. you: never. brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are. you: thank you!! i will 💕💕 you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late brendon (hot gym guy): I never am. you: that’s hot.

Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve wracking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup for you – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.

Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.

Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.

you: which shoes do you like better? brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck. brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language. you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇  brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t. brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow. you: you really do like my girly stuff huh? brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast. you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake? brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄 brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that. you: omg did you just use an emoji you: im already making progress on you brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight. you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑 brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass? you: oh my god. yes grandpa you: you’re so lucky you have me brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually. brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.

Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.

Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.

Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.

“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in his strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in that sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.

By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.

Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.

Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you here again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”

Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”

“Perfect; go right ahead.”

“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pino grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22.  Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”

The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”

The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”

After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.

“What face?”

“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”

You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.

Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.

Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him,“You’re staring at me.”

Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”

“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”

“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”

You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”

He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”

You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”

Brendon glances over it, tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”

“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”

Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”

Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”

That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”

You cut into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”

“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”

He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.

Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”

Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”

He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”

After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”

“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”

You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.

When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”

Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”

The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.

Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet for every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”

You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”

She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”

“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display, “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”

“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”

“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”

She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get their bouquets, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”

“On it, boss.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.

you: most people would’ve texted bren: Did you want ‘most people’? you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!! bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very roman-tic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess? you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!! bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them. you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕 bren: Me too, beautiful. bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside. you: that a promise? bren: Yes. you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!! bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day. you: yes sir bren: Careful. you: rarely 😘

Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky highrise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.

“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”

“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”

Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”

“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”

“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”

Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.

The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and woods and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.

You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”

Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.

Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.

Deep breaths.

In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.

Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you find a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.

Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.

In the en suite bathroom, across from the massive walk-in closet, there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.

Comfortable, indeed.

One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk back into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.

While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.

When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”

“Too late.”

Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.

And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”

Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.

You’re in the shark’s den now.

Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper. 

“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”

Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”

Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”

You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”

“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”

“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”

“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – an expression you didn’t fully understand until now. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”

You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”

And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”

Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.

When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”

You whimper.

He laughs.

Again.

Bastard.

“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”

You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”

Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”

So he gets to work.

First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.

Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unphased by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”

“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to notice your armpits.”

As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”

It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it grows.”

Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”

After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”

And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a sharp breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”

Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”

He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tight.

Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”

And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”

Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.

Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act. “You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”

Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between your legs, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.

Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”

You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”

“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of laying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”

“Just for you.”

“That so?”

“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”

He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”

You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”

“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”

Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.

Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.

Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”

“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”

Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”

“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”

Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”

He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”

You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “N-No. I don’t think so.”

“And does it still feel good?”

You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.

“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”

You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”

Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly little smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”

“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his encouragement, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”

You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”

“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”

Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”

“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”

When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.

“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”

“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”

“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”

“I- I’ll try.”

“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”

He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”

That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.

“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the bring of supernova, he commands like a servant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”

You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.

His voice.

The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.

“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”

You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.

When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gasping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.

Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.

Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”

With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”

Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”

“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can you fuck me now?”

“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”

“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”

“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”

“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”

Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”

Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.

He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”

“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and late you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”

His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”

You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”

Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”

You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”

“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”

Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.

His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.

He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”

Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.

But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breath, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.

He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.

So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.

Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”

You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.

“If the very first words out of  your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”

You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.

Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”

Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.

In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something long-forgotten in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.

Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysiam. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.

Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”

You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.

“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one large hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”

You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”

“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”

You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”

“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up, princess.”

You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”

“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”

Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”

That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”

A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”

You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”

Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”

He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”

“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”

“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”

You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”

After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.

“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”

“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”

“And I meant it.”

When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.

That had been six months ago. Since then, you’d seen enough of him to know that everyone in the hospital had him wrong. Was he intimidating? Absolutely. Could he cut through a trauma room with one look and make an intern rethink every decision they’d made in their life? Also yes.

But he wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t cold. He was guarded. There was a difference.

You saw it in the way he pulled blankets over sleeping patients. The way he stayed with frightened families a few extra minutes. The way he always thanked you and every other tech that came through the Pitt, even when the department was drowning. There was a depth to him that most people missed.

You had started noticing it years ago. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, you’d also started noticing his dark eyes, his broad shoulders, and the little streaks of gray appearing in his beard. That part was considerably less professional.

“You are staring again.”

You nearly dropped your container of hummus. Your friend and fellow radiology tech, Jen, grinned from across the cafeteria table.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I was people watching.”

“You were Dr. Robinavich watching.”

Heat crept into your cheeks.

“I don’t even know him.”

“You know enough to know he takes his coffee black and prefers blueberry muffins.”

You blinked.

“I hate that you know that.”

Jen snorted.

“I hate that you know that.”

You laughed despite yourself and scooped up another piece of pita. As if summoned by your embarrassment, the emergency department doors opened. Robby walked into the cafeteria. You immediately looked down. Jen gasped.

“Oh, my God. There he is.”

“I can see him.”

“He’s coming this way.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“He absolutely is.”

You looked up. Unfortunately, he was. He stopped at your table. You forgot how breathing worked.

“Afternoon.”

You and Jen both stared at him.

“Hi?” you finally managed.

His eyes dropped briefly to your lunch. A little smile tugged at his mouth.

“Hummus again.”

You blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

“You eat that a lot.”

Now it was your turn to stare.

“You know that?”

He looked faintly amused.

“We share a lunch break more often than you’d think.”

“Oh.”

Excellent response. Very articulate. Jen looked ready to pass out. Robby shifted his weight.

“We’ve got a trauma coming in. They’re probably going to need a scan.”

“I’ll head down.”

“Thanks.”

He gave you a small nod before walking away. The second he disappeared, Jen smacked your arm.

“He knows what you eat.”

“Please be quiet.”

“He knows your lunch schedule.”

“Please stop talking.”

“He likes you.”

You laughed.

“Dr. Michael Robinavich does not like me.”

Jen’s grin only widened.

“Sure.”

Three weeks later, you were standing in CT when your pager went off.

TRAUMA ALERT. ED REQUESTING RADIOLOGY.

You sighed. “So much for leaving on time.”

Twenty minutes later, you rolled your machine into the Pitt. Chaos. Absolute chaos. A multi-car pileup had the entire department running. Residents darted between rooms. Nurses shouted for supplies. And in the middle of it all stood Robby.

Calm. Focused. Completely in command. His eyes found yours immediately.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I need scans on Bed Four and Bed Six.”

“You got it.”

You worked beside the emergency department for the next forty-five minutes. By the end of it, your feet hurt and your scrub top was sticking to your back. The last patient was finally wheeled upstairs. You packed your machine and headed toward the ambulance bay doors.

“Hey.”

You turned. Robby was jogging after you.

“You got a second?”

Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip.

“Sure.”

He stopped in front of you. For a moment, he looked oddly uncertain. It was so unlike him that you nearly smiled.

Then he said, “Do you like Mediterranean food?”

You blinked.

“What?”

He rubbed a hand over his beard.

“Mediterranean food.”

“Oh,” you huffed. “Yes?”

“That sounded uncertain.”

A laugh slipped out.

“No, I like Mediterranean food. I just wasn’t expecting a food survey.”

He nodded once.

“Fair.”

Silence settled between you.

Then he said, “I passed this new restaurant in Shadyside last week.”

“Okay.”

“They apparently have excellent hummus.”

You stared.

“Okay…”

He looked at you for another long second.

“You eat hummus three times a week.”

You laughed softly.

“You’ve really been keeping track.”

He looked almost embarrassed.

“Apparently.”

Something warm fluttered in your chest.

“You notice things.”

His eyes met yours.

“I do.”

The words hung between you. Then he cleared his throat.

“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go with me.”

You frowned.

“To the restaurant?”

“That would generally be where dinner happens.”

You smiled.

“As colleagues?”

His eyebrows lifted.

“No.”

“As friends?”

A small huff of laughter escaped him.

“Also no.”

Your heart suddenly started beating much too fast.

“Then what exactly are you asking me, Dr. Robinavich?”

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then he said quietly, “A date.”

Silence. The ambulance bay suddenly seemed very, very quiet.

“You want to take me on a date?”

“I feel like I was pretty clear.”

You laughed nervously.

“I just… wasn’t expecting this.”

“That’s fair.”

“You’ve never…” You gestured vaguely toward him. “Done anything that suggested…”

He looked amused.

“That I was interested?”

You nodded. He considered that.

“I got you coffee that one time.”

“You did.”

“I remembered your favorite yogurt flavor.”

“You did.”

“I ask for you every time I need radiology.”

“You do.” A small smile appeared.

“I thought I was being fairly obvious.”

You laughed.

“No, you really weren’t.”

He looked genuinely offended.

“I’ve been flirting with you for months.”

That made you laugh even harder.

“You have not.”

“I absolutely have.”

“Oh, this is fascinating.”

A smile finally broke across his face. It changed him completely.

“So, now that we’ve established I’m apparently terrible at flirting…” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

You looked at him.nReally looked at him. The kind eyes. The guarded smile. The man everyone in this hospital thought was terrifying. And the man who had noticed your turquoise earrings, your favorite tea, and the fact that you ate hummus three times a week. You couldn’t stop smiling.

“I’d love to.”

For a brief second, relief flashed across his face. Then he smiled back.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Very good.”

You laughed.

“I didn’t know you got nervous.”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

He sighed.

“Fine. Maybe a little.”

You grinned.

“I kind of like that.”

His eyes softened.

“I kind of like that you said yes.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. Then he opened the ambulance bay door for you.

“I’ll pick you up Friday at seven.”

“You already assumed I’d say yes?”

A slow grin appeared.

“I was hopeful.”

You started walking away. Then you stopped.

“Robby?”

He looked up.

“Yeah?”

You smiled.

“I like that you noticed the hummus.”

Something changed in his expression. It softened completely.

And then, very quietly, he said, “I notice a lot of things about you.”

You stood there for another second, your heart somewhere near your throat. Then you smiled again and headed toward the elevators. By the time the doors closed, you were grinning like an idiot.

You never saw Dana Evans walk up beside Robby. She folded her arms and smirked.

“Took you long enough.”

Robby looked at her.

“You knew?”

Dana laughed.

“Michael, everyone knew.”

It was the only time you had to get to the bank that morning and there was a line nearly out the door, like everyone got the same dumbfuck idea as you.

You knew your bank had laid off a bunch of people lately and were closing branches, making wait times all the worse, but you actually couldn’t do this online. An elderly patient had written a check and you said you’d cash it for them, they were a semi-regular fixture at the Pitt, unfortunately.

You and your big mouth trying to make peoples’ lives easier. You kept your arms folded as the line moved maybe an inch, and you zoned out, thinking of your shift tonight. You still needed to get home and pack everything, get yourself ready. 

As your mind drifted, the line moved again, and you shuffled forward with a short sigh.

What came next wasn’t the grumble of the man behind you, but a yell that cut through the overlapping murmurs and taps of computer keys.

“EVERYBODY GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND!”

You spun around and saw several men in dark clothes, wearing ski masks, armed with duffel bags at their sides.

The adrenaline spike was a familiar one to you; you drew in a breath, scanning the crowd. Some people shrieked, but everyone ducked to the ground, you included.

You put your hands behind your head as instructed. The man kept yelling over the sudden silence of the bank, brushing past you:

“This, ladies and gentlemen, can go one of two ways. You do as you’re told or you die.”

People were already crying, but you tried to think. Were there any children there? You didn’t recall any in front of you in the queue. You dared a glance behind you.

“Don’t move,” came a voice, with a boot on your shoulder pressing you back down. 

You went still, obeying. 

The ringleader kept talking. 

“No doubt the police have been called already. But I want phones now. Right fucking now!” 

You took out your phone from your jacket pocket, putting it beside you. Men came by with their bags, snatching phones. 

All those photos on there you didn’t have copies of… you tried not to think about that. 

“How long would it take cops to get here?” someone whispered close by, and you heard murmured back:

“Three minutes maybe?”

“I want the manager out here,” yelled the ringleader, throwing his rifle over his shoulder. 

This would all be over soon. You just needed to stay calm, make sure no-one did anything stupid. 

Like the manager, who decided it was a great idea to come out with his own weapon, making you and many others gasp at the sight of his pistol.

“Very brave, very stupid,” the ringleader said. 

All his men were trained on the manager. The manager whose face was dripping with sweat, wet patches on his blazer and shirt, shook as he moved forward with his gun still raised.

“I am tired of people like you,” he said, and you closed your eyes. “You want nothing but destruction. You’re entitled to whatever you want. You’re filth-”

A gunshot rang out and someone screamed. You saw the manager clutch at his chest and topple over, losing his weapon.

You had never seen someone shot before. You only ever saw the after effects, at the hospital…

It all happened so fast. The men seemed unbothered by the violence, the ringleader turning to the crowd.

“Anyone else feeling brave today?” 

“Please let us go!” wailed someone.

“We’ll let you go once a line of communication is established with authorities, of course,” the ringleader said, shrugging. “Would any other staff like to be an acting manager?”

The silence that followed was the deafening kind that left your ears ringing. It took a minute before someone came forward, a younger woman whose face was streaked with tears. 

“I can do it,” she breathed. 

From your space on the ground, you could see the branch had been barricaded, the men stationed at each exit, each door that left the main floor. You scanned their faces, none of them familiar to you. 

You looked back at the manager on the ground, at the blood spreading across his chest. He was still breathing. You needed to find a way to get to him, to help him. You only had minutes, give or take. Time worked differently now, both simultaneously dragging and speeding up. Each movement was sickening.

“Up,” someone said, and you shot up from the floor, hands up.

You backed away, rounded up to sit on the floor with your back to one another. The circle consisted of around forty people, not including the staff they had lined up against a wall.

“Is he alive?” you asked, loud enough for one of the masked men to hear you.

“Shut her up,” the ringleader snapped, before you could be answered by his associate nearest to you. “Or I will.”

“I’m a nurse!” you added hastily.

A phone began to ring and their leader was momentarily distracted, rounding on the acting manager. She scrambled for the phone, placing it to her ear.

“H-hello?” 

Everyone waited. The woman carefully took the receiver away and looked at the ringleader. 

“It’s for you.”

He took it and pushed her away, the woman stumbling backwards. You hated him more than ever for being so rough with someone half his size. You looked over at the bleeding man on the floor, watching his chest rise and fall. 

You tuned out the demands you heard made from this end of the phone call. It felt like these men had seen one too many heist movies. 

You knew it was only a matter of time before the SWAT team arrived, and then there’d be bullets flying every which way. 

The bleeding man was wheezing. 

He was dying.

The sound finally filled your ears once more. Someone was crying softly close to you, and you drew in a breath. 

“He needs medical assistance now,” you said, a little louder than before. 

The ringleader spun around, eyes wide with outrage. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“You’re on the phone to the police, right? They’d have med guys on their team. Get me someone to save him, or you’re being tried for murder on top of everything else.”

Though his mask obscured his face, you could see he understood the gravity of the situation, as if his own adrenaline had begun to wear off.

“Okay.”

You got up, stalking towards the phone. You were on borrowed time, everyone there was. You weren’t dying before trying to help, though. You would not go gentle into that good night.

“Hello?” you said, phone to your ear. “Someone’s been shot, I need help.”

“Is anyone else firing right now? What’s your name?” 

You said your last name reflexively, feeling eyes on you. 

“No, we’re… kind of just waiting right now.”

“One moment.”

You couldn’t make out what was being said, like someone had muffled the phone. You swallowed, looking at the rifle that the ringleader leaned on. He’d tracked mud everywhere, you noted.

“This is Dr. Abbot. What’s the situation?”

“Abbot?” You repeated, and for a second you floated. “Jack?”

He said your name, and you sucked in a breath. 

“It’s me.”

“What the fuck are you doing there, sweetheart?” 

You couldn’t decipher what he was feeling by his tone, but it was all bad. You trembled as you glanced over at the bleeding man. 

“I’ve got a gunshot wound, mid-forties… gunshot wound to upper chest.”

You took the phone with you, ignoring everyone else. Jack managed to do that to you. Once you reached the bleeding man, you settled next to him, hands checking.

“Pale, tachycardic. His… trachea is shifting.” 

Jack’s tone changed to focused, sharp.

“Listen carefully. He’s developing a tension pneumothorax.”

Your stomach dropped. You knew what that meant. The air was trapped in the chest cavity, the pressure building. Lung collapsing, the heart compressing. 

“Jack…”

“You need to decompress the chest.”

You’d never done that procedure before. Not on a person, not outside of a simulation. You weren’t a doctor, either, but refrained from reminding him.

“I…”

“Stay with me,” he said. 

“I don’t have a kit,” you retorted. “I…”

You looked around at the desks, the people staring at you from the circle on the floor. You wondered who else was listening in on this conversation. 

“What do you have?”

“Maybe… a first aid box? Tape?” 

“That’ll work,” he said, which was just like him. “Get a catheter from a kit. They’d have one.”

You looked at the acting manager, clicking your fingers.

“Hey! First aid.”

She raced off. It seemed the men could no longer control her in this situation. She raced over to you, wide-eyed and panting when she reached your side. 

All the while, Jack remained steady in your ear.

“You need to find the second intercostal space.”

“The-”

“Top of the ribs,” he said calmly. “Count down from the collarbone.” 

You pressed shaking fingers against the man’s chest.

“One… two…”

The injured man wheezed painfully.

“You’re okay,” you whispered automatically, though you weren’t sure who you were talking to anymore.

“Midclavicular line,” Jack continued. “Just above the rib. Not below. You go below, you hit vessels.”

Your breathing turned shallow.

“I found it.”

“Good girl,” he said instantly, instinctively.

The words hit like a spark straight through your chest.

Then professional again:

“Needle perpendicular to the chest. Firm push.”

Your hand shook violently.

“I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.”

The sharpness in his voice startled you still.

“You hesitate now, he dies.”

Everything narrowed. The blood.

The hostage gasping beneath your hands.

Jack breathing quietly through the radio.

You steadied yourself and positioned the catheter.

You pushed.

There was resistance. Then -

POP.

A violent hiss of escaping air burst from the needle. The hostage jerked beneath your hands.

“Oh, my God…”

“There you go,” Jack said immediately, relief bleeding into his voice for the first time. “There you go. Advance the catheter.”

Your hands obeyed automatically now.

The man’s breathing eased. Still ragged, but better.

Color slowly returned to his face.

The room around you seemed to exhale collectively.

You realized your entire body was shaking.

“Jack…”

“You did it.”

The praise in his voice nearly undid you.

Then his tone shifted again to cold, alert. 

“They're going in.” 

You glanced up, your eyes meeting the ringleader. 

What came next was a cacophony of voices, first from the phone and then beyond the bank foyer. 

Whatever plan there was in place for a rescue, it felt to you like all that was pushed aside. The masked men also left behind whatever restraint they had. Everyone panicked. 

You didn't know how, but you promised you wouldn't let your patient die there. Once the ringleader heard the SWAT team advance, he barked orders to his men, to hold their own. 

He glanced your way, bolting. You automatically dropped, laying on top of your patient, wet heat of his blood pressing against you. 

You may have screamed. The overlapping gunfire and yelling drowned it all out anyway. The ringleader fell to the ground. The lights went out. 

“Please, God-” 

Who was that? You flinched when a hand found yours in the dark. 

“Jack?”

The bank once again flooded with fluorescent light, harsh and unforgiving. 

Jack Abbot shoved his night vision goggles off, eyes wild as he scanned you. His gloved hands pulled you up. He cupped your face. 

“I'm okay,” you whispered. “Hey, I'm-I'm okay…” 

Your ears were ringing but the gunshots had stopped. Jack kept staring at you. 

“Stop it, I'm fine. It's not my blood.” 

He gave your face one last brush with his thumb and then let go, glancing down at your patient. He set to work, admiring your job. 

“What bank has a catheter in their first aid kit?” your murmured, and he smirked. 

“Most metropolitan banks have these kinds of situations.” 

You sat beside him, glancing about. Men were on the ground. The SWAT guys were fastening zip-ties. You were suddenly exhausted, scrubbing your face. 

Paramedics came in. The bank manager was taken away. You fell into a silence only ever broken if you were spoken to. 

“You'll get a medal for this,” Jack said.

You were outside, media having arrived. Someone was bound to see you on TV. 

“Not why I did it,” you muttered, eyeing a camera aimed at the building behind you. 

“I know,” he murmured. “I'm just forewarning you. You might actually have to take a compliment one of these days.” 

You chose not to roll your eyes. He'd gone softer, quieter as if to mirror you. 

“Will you go with them?” you asked, meaning the patients sent to the hospital.

“Nah, I'll stay with you,” he said. “Where'd you park?”

You watched him as he looked around, and you remembered. Driving there that morning - mere hours ago - felt like days. You sighed.

“If you got a ticket, they'd understand...” 

His eyes swung back over to yours, assessing. 

“Are you okay?”

“Not really,” you admitted in a rush. 

Your chest hurt. He only nodded, and you nodded back. 

You had to wait a little longer, until you were cleared to leave. Jack remained beside you the entire time, hands behind his back. 

There'd be no shift tonight. Advised you were in no fit state to work, you wanted to argue. Helping other people would keep the morning's incident off your mind. 

“C'mon,” Jack said, soft and patient. “I'll walk you back to your car.” 

You fell into step, silently weaving through people milling around. People openly stared at you - you hadn't changed out of your bloodied clothes yet. You avoided their gawking, bumping into Jack by accident. 

His hand was on your lower back, guiding you. The steady assurance warmed you when you were otherwise numb. 

When you finally reached your car, taking out your keys took longer. You sighed. 

“Lemme drive.” 

This was the most time he'd spent with you alone, you realized. It didn't feel out of place. That alone made you hyper aware of his proximity to you. 

You climbed in beside him, pulling your seatbelt on.

“Don't touch the radio,” you warned, and he smirked. 

It dawned on you that he remembered the street you lived on. You must have mentioned your apartment block enough during work. He didn't need directions, knowing the streets like the back of his hand. 

He drove in silence, as if understanding that you needed this relative peace. 

“Thanks,” you said, as he pulled up on the curb. “For… this. For everything.” 

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, as the car idled. 

You looked down the street, at the life unreached by the morning's shock and horror. Everything was coming back to you again. You'd woken up in such an ordinary way only hours ago.

“Can you stay?” you asked. “I know you're busy-”

“It's a good excuse,” he interjected. He wasn't letting you apologize for asking for help, thank fuck. 

Again - more surprises. He knew you too well, and you hadn't known that yourself. 

“Okay.” 

He followed you up, and you fumbled the keys, dropping them. He scooped them up, helping you once again. 

“I'm hopeless,” you said, unable to stop yourself. 

“You're exhausted,” he retorted, letting you in. 

It felt too right, your chest tightening. You ducked under his arm. 

“I meant before,” you amended. “I couldn't have saved him without you.” 

“It's what we do,” he said, shrugging.

We. 

You nodded. You gestured to the hallway to your bedroom. 

“I need to lie down. You don't have to stay long… I have coffee pods-” 

“It's fine,” he said. “I might… snoop and stuff.” 

You smirked, nodding.

“Go,” he added for good measure. 

You left him in the living room, trudging back to bed. It took barely a minute after you flopped down on your bed for you to fall asleep. 

-

You startled awake, a figure in the doorway. You fought your way back to full consciousness, feeling a tension, a neediness between your legs. 

It was as if thoughts of Jack summoned him to your room. He looked sheepish. 

“I was just checking on you. It's been… an hour and a bit.” 

You blinked, sitting up. Your shoes were still on. You scrubbed your face. 

“I…” 

You looked at him, his sentence falling away. He started again. 

“I think I should go.” 

He didn't look like he wanted to. He leaned against the doorframe, watching you take in your surroundings. A ghost of a smile formed. 

“I… don't know what to do now,” you admitted. Your routine was off. 

“Go back to sleep.” 

“Don't want to,” you retorted. At least you didn't want to cry or scream.

You were pretty sure you had a sex dream about Jack. You pressed your thighs together. 

“I don't want to leave you here,” he admitted. 

“I'm okay,” you said automatically. You weren't exactly lying. “I'll be okay.” 

“I know you will,” he said. 

It wasn't an argument. He folded his arms. 

“Tell me what to do,” you said. Your eyes were trained on his skin, then slid up to his warm gaze. “Like before.” 

He only stared at you for a minute, and you thought maybe you crossed a line. He drove you home and he'd come to your apartment, but that was a favor. This was something more. 

He drew in a deep breath, then said on exhale: 

“Let me into your bed.” 

You shuffled onto your knees, and he moved to meet you, hands taking hold of your face when you reached the end of your bed. 

He leaned down and kissed you and you gasped at the promise in his touch, how easily you melted underneath him. 

His tongue was in your mouth, tangling with yours and you both moaned, your hands deep in his greying curls. 

“Jack-” 

He kissed your cheek, your throat. He pulled you up into his arms and held you tightly. 

He'd been scared. You kissed his cheek, rubbed his back. You wanted to dote on him, too. It was in your nature. He made it easier than most. 

“Wanna take these clothes off you,” he mumbled. “Wash away the blood…”

He kissed you again. You yanked off your sweater. 

“I liked that one,” you lamented.

“Shower?” he said, and you shook your head. 

“After,” you said. “I need you…”

Moments later, bare to one another, you threw your leg over him and settled in his lap. 

His cock teased you, leaking at the tip as he stared up at you.

“I'm okay,” you whispered. “I'm still here.” 

You let out a little cry when he pushed inside. He was so deep, thick enough to make you shiver, the stretch perfect. 

Your cunt fluttered around him, greedy. 

“Oh, God,” you gasped, as you shifted, testing the waters. 

Your noses brushed, tongues teasing as you didn't quite close your mouths. You gasped again, when he pushed up, fucking you back. 

You'd learn how to do this every way you possibly could, you vowed. Have him bend you over, throw you around. You'd crawl to him if he asked you to. 

The last thought must have slipped out of your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips. 

“Yeah?” he panted. He lifted you up, slamming you down on him. “You’d do that for me?” 

He worked you up and down. You revelled at his strength, as he never slowed, watching as you climbed higher and higher. 

His thumb pressed against your clit and you lost all control of your voice, whimpering as you clamped down on him, vision darkening at the edges. 

You came with a hoarse cry by his ear, feeling a warm trickle down your thigh. He'd made you come so hard, you slurred, when you managed to come back down to Earth. 

He kissed your face again and again, nearing his own end. You watched, a little delirious, as his eyes went to your face, then your bare chest, then down to where your bodies met. 

“Shit, sweetheart,” he hissed, and his eyes slammed shut, his forehead pressing to yours. 

It was a sweaty, beautiful mess. He twitched as he came inside you, long pulses that felt right. 

Safe and warm.

Neither of you moved for a long time, his hand trailing down your bare back, settling on the top of your ass. 

“You're okay,” he whispered, either to himself or both of you. 

He didn't leave your apartment for a long, long time after that. 

“You have patients.”

“They’ll understand.”

“I don’t think they will.”

He’d sigh theatrically before finally rolling onto his back, rubbing both hands over his face. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side. My side just also likes having electricity.”

That would earn you one sleepy glare before he reached over, caught your wrist, and tugged you back against him for one more minute.

“Five,” he’d negotiate.

“One.”

“Four.”

“Two.”

He kissed you.

“Deal.”

Those two extra minutes always turned into ten. By six-thirty the house smelled like coffee instead of sleep. You stood barefoot in the kitchen wearing one of Robby’s old Pitt Medical Center hoodies while scrambling eggs, your hair twisted into a messy clip that never survived the morning. Robby wandered in freshly showered, smoothing his black scrub top over a blue undershirt.

“You stealing my clothes again?” he asked.

“I married you. They’re community property.”

“I don’t think that’s how marriage works.”

“It is in Pennsylvania.”

He snorted, pouring himself coffee before leaning against the counter to watch you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’re about to ask me to do something.”

You smiled innocently. “The museum’s getting a Roman exhibit delivered today.”

“Mhm.”

“And the shipping company insists everything has to be unloaded before eight.”

“Mhm.”

“And I might’ve volunteered to help move a two-thousand-year-old marble bust.”

“…Absolutely not.”

“It only weighs—”

“I don’t care if it weighs two pounds.”

“It weighs…” You hesitated.

His eyebrow rose.

“…One hundred and forty.”

He stared at you.

“Sweetheart.”

“I wasn’t going to carry it by myself.”

“You weren’t going to touch it.”

“I am literally the curator.”

“You’re literally five-foot-seven.”

“I am capable.”

He stepped forward until he was standing directly in front of you, one hand wrapping around your waist while the other brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I know you are.” His voice softened. “But I also know you throw your back out reaching for cereal on the top shelf.”

“I did that once.”

“It was last month.”

“It was embarrassing enough the first time.”

“I carried you downstairs.”

“You laughed.”

“I absolutely did.”

You smacked his chest. He kissed you anyway. It was easy. That was your favorite thing about loving Michael Robinavich. Nothing between the two of you ever felt forced. Not after five years together. Not after nearly three years of marriage.

Life wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t some grand romance full of extravagant gestures. It was grocery lists on the refrigerator. It was him bringing home the good sourdough because he’d remembered you’d mentioned it three weeks earlier. It was you texting him reminders to eat something besides coffee and vending machine pretzels. It was ordinary. Beautifully ordinary. Except…

For the calendar hidden inside the junk drawer. After Robby left for work, you stood in the kitchen for a long moment before quietly opening it. A small planner. Nothing fancy. Just dates. Tiny circles. Little hearts. Doctor’s notes. Ovulation windows. Expected periods. Pregnancy tests.

Six months. Six months of timing dinners around fertile windows. Six months of joking about how unromantic phone reminders could be. Six months of buying tests in bulk because somehow that hurt less than buying one. You’d promised each other you weren’t going to obsess. You were failing spectacularly.

******

The museum was quieter than usual that afternoon. Children wandered through the dinosaur exhibit while a retired couple asked thoughtful questions about an upcoming Impressionist collection. Normally, the work grounded you. You loved watching people discover something they’d never noticed before. History had a way of reminding everyone that time kept moving. Today, though your phone buzzed.

Michael ❤️

How’s Caesar?

You smiled despite yourself.

Roman exhibit survived. Curator still alive.

His reply came almost immediately.

Good. I would’ve hated explaining to your parents that you lost a fight with Julius Caesar.

It was Augustus.

History nerd.

Trauma nerd.

Three bouncing dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came one final message.

Don’t make plans tonight.

Your stomach fluttered.

Why?

Because I’m taking my wife to dinner.

Special occasion?

There was a pause before his answer came through.

No. Just miss you.

Your eyes stung unexpectedly. Not because anything was wrong. Because everything was still so right. Even with the quiet disappointment that arrived every month, he had never let this become about obligation. He still flirted. He still stole kisses in the kitchen. He still reached for your hand whenever the two of you crossed a street.

He never made you feel like your marriage was becoming a checklist. And somehow that almost made the ache worse.

******

Dinner ended with the two of you sharing cheesecake because Robby insisted ordering two desserts was “financially irresponsible.”

“You make more than enough money to buy two slices.”

“That’s exactly how rich people become poor.”

You laughed.

“You have absolutely no evidence to support that.”

“I have vibes.”

“You have anxiety.”

“I have both.”

When you got home, the evening settled into its familiar rhythm. You changed into pajamas. He stretched out beside you on the couch. Some terrible reality competition played in the background that neither of you was actually watching. Eventually your head found his shoulder. His fingers absentmindedly traced circles across the back of your hand.

“Hey?” he said quietly.

“Mhm?”

“When does your period start?”

You looked down at your intertwined fingers.

“Tomorrow.”

Silence. Not awkward. Just…heavy. He squeezed your hand once.

“Maybe this month it won’t?”

You smiled. Not because you believed it anymore. But because he still did.

“…Maybe this month.”

Neither of you noticed that neither answer sounded quite as hopeful as it had six months before.

******

The pregnancy test sat face down on the bathroom counter. Neither of you had touched it in nearly twenty minutes. There wasn’t any reason to. You already knew what it said. You had known before you’d even taken it.

Negative. Again.

You leaned against the vanity with your arms folded tightly across your stomach, staring at the white subway tile on the opposite wall as though if you looked long enough, it would somehow rearrange itself into different news. Behind you, the bedroom remained quiet. Robby hadn’t come in. He never did. Not unless you asked. It wasn’t avoidance. It was respect.

The bathroom had become your space every month. Your place to breathe, to process, to cry if you needed to without feeling like someone was trying to make the disappointment disappear before you were ready. A soft knock came against the door.

“You okay?”

His voice was gentle. You closed your eyes.

“…No.”

The door opened just enough for him to peek inside. He didn’t ask about the test. He didn’t have to. His eyes found yours before they drifted briefly toward the counter. One glance. That was enough.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

He crossed the room slowly, giving you every opportunity to tell him to stop. Instead, you stepped into him. His arms wrapped around you automatically, one hand settling against the back of your head while the other rested low against your back.

Neither of you spoke. There wasn’t anything left to say that hadn’t already been said during the last six months.

“I’m tired,” you whispered into his T-shirt.

“I know.”

“I’m so tired of hoping.”

“I know.”

“It feels stupid now.”

“It isn’t.”

“It does.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“No,” he murmured. “It feels human.”

Your breathing hitched.

“I keep thinking…” You swallowed hard. “Maybe I did something wrong years ago. Maybe I waited too long. Maybe—”

“No.”

His answer came immediately. Firm. Certain. You pulled back enough to look at him.

“No,” he repeated. “We’re not doing that.”

“But—”

“We’re not.” His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes. “You don’t get to blame yourself for biology.”

“I just don’t understand.”

“I know.”

“I’ve done everything.”

“I know.”

“I track everything.”

“I know.”

“I stopped drinking wine.”

“I noticed.”

“I even switched shampoo because some woman online said—”

His mouth twitched despite himself.

“You switched shampoo?”

“It had three million views.”

“You let TikTok make medical decisions?”

“It was a vulnerable moment.”

That earned the smallest laugh from both of you. Tiny. Fragile. But real. Robby rested his forehead against yours.

“We’re making an appointment.”

You nodded.

“I think…” you whispered. “I think it’s time.”

******

The fertility clinic didn’t smell like a hospital. It smelled like lavender. Someone had clearly decided soft lighting and watercolor paintings would somehow make difficult conversations easier. You weren’t convinced.

Robby sat beside you in the waiting room, one knee bouncing almost imperceptibly. Most people assumed he was unshakable. You knew better. His tells were microscopic. The bouncing knee. The way he rolled his wedding band around his finger. The fact that he’d read the same magazine page three times without turning it. He looked over.

“You want to leave?”

You almost laughed.

“You think we’d make it to the parking garage?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

He reached across the armrest, quietly intertwining your fingers. When the nurse finally called your names, he didn’t let go.

The appointment lasted just under an hour. There were questions. Medical history. Blood work. Imaging. Follow-up testing over the next several weeks. Life carried on around those appointments.

You curated exhibits. Robby worked shifts. You still laughed. Still made dinner together. Still argued over whose turn it was to fold laundry. But beneath everything…There was waiting. Until one rainy Thursday afternoon. The doctor’s office overlooked downtown Pittsburgh. Gray clouds pressed against the windows while traffic crawled several stories below. The physician sat across from both of you with a folder resting on her lap. She wasn’t rushed. You appreciated that.

“We have your results.”

Your stomach dropped. She explained everything carefully. The findings. The diagnosis. The statistics. The possibilities. She talked about specialists. IVF. Egg donation. Embryo adoption. Surrogacy. Future conversations. Words continued filling the room.nYou heard them. You just couldn’t seem to hold onto them. Because one sentence kept echoing louder than the rest.

“The likelihood of conceiving naturally is extremely low.”

The office became impossibly quiet. You looked down at your hands.

“…Okay.”

It came out barely above a whisper. The doctor nodded sympathetically.

“I’m very sorry.”

You smiled automatically. The same polite smile you’d perfected through years of museum galas and donor dinners.

“Thank you.”

Beside you, Robby asked thoughtful questions. The kind he always asked. Clarifying. Respectful. Professional. You barely registered the conversation.

The drive home was silent. Not uncomfortable. Rain tapped softly against the windshield while Pittsburgh blurred past in streaks of gray. Robby kept one hand on the steering wheel. The other rested quietly between the seats. Palm up.

Waiting.

You slipped your hand into his halfway across one of the bridges. He squeezed once. Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t make dinner. Neither of you was hungry. The takeout containers sat unopened on the kitchen counter while evening slowly settled over the house. You changed into one of Robby’s old sweatshirts before wandering into the living room.

He found you sitting on the floor. Your back leaned against the couch.nYour knees hugged tightly against your chest.nHe didn’t ask permission. He simply sat beside you. Close enough that your shoulders touched. For several minutes…

Nothing. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked steadily. Cars passed outside. Rain continued falling.

“I feel broken.”

His eyes closed.

“…Don’t say that.”

“I do.”

“You aren’t broken.”

“I can’t do the one thing my body’s supposed to—”

“Baby, stop.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It was pleading. You looked over. His eyes were already wet.

“I need you to listen to me for a minute.”

You nodded silently. He turned toward you completely.

“I married you because you make me laugh when I’ve had the worst day of my life.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“I married you because you can spend forty-five minutes explaining why one painting belongs in a different room, and somehow I end up caring.”

Another tear followed.

“I married you because you dance in this kitchen while you’re making grilled cheese.”

You laughed through your tears.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I sway.”

“You choreograph.” His own voice cracked. “I didn’t marry you because I thought you’d give me children.”

He reached up, brushing away another tear with the pad of his thumb.

“I married you because you’re my favorite person.”

Your lip trembled.

“If our family ends up being just us…” He shrugged gently. “Then I won.”

You broke. Not quietly. Not gracefully. The sob tore out of your chest before you could stop it. You buried your face against his shoulder while he wrapped both arms around you, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you cried.

“So am I.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head immediately

“For everything.”

He gently cupped your face until you had no choice but to look at him.

“There is nothing—” his voice caught before he steadied it, “—nothing for you to apologize to me for. We lost something today. We did. You’re not alone in this.”

Your tears kept falling.

“I don’t know what happens next.”

He smiled sadly.

“…Neither do I.”

The honesty of it settled between you. No promises. No false hope. Just truth. After a long silence, he rested his forehead against yours.

“We don’t have to decide anything tonight.”

You nodded.

“Not IVF.”

Another nod.

“Not adoption.”

You closed your eyes.

“Not fostering.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“We’re allowed to just…be sad for a while.”

You reached for his hand, weaving your fingers through his.

“…Okay.”

He kissed your forehead. Then your temple. Then your cheek. Finally, he whispered the only promise he knew he could keep.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Outside, the rain continued to fall against the windows. Inside, two people sat on the living room floor grieving the future they had imagined, completely unaware that, months from now, a tiny little baby with no name, no family, and nowhere else to go would quietly change both of their lives forever.

******

The museum had closed nearly two hours ago. You’d spent the evening cataloging a recent donation—a collection of handwritten Civil War letters that had somehow survived more than a century tucked inside an attic trunk. Usually, work like that settled your mind. It required patience. Precision. Quiet.

Tonight, though, you couldn’t focus. Your eyes kept drifting toward the clock hanging above your office door.

9:17 p.m.

Robby should’ve been home an hour ago. You knew better than to worry immediately. The emergency department didn’t run on schedules, and Michael Robinavich certainly didn’t leave simply because the clock told him he could.

Still…You sent a text.

You: Alive?

No response. You sighed, slipping your phone back into your purse before locking your office and making your way through the empty museum. Outside, the July air was warm, the city humming softly around you. By the time you reached home, the sun had disappeared completely.

The house was dark. You kicked off your shoes, changed into leggings and one of Robby’s old T-shirts, and started making grilled cheese sandwiches. One for you. One for him. You’d learned long ago that after difficult shifts, he almost never admitted he was hungry.

He’d simply wander into the kitchen and steal yours. You smiled to yourself. Some habits never changed.

******

It was nearly midnight when headlights finally swept across the living room wall. You looked up from the couch.

“…Jesus.”

You hurried to the front door before he’d even reached it. When it opened, the first thing you noticed wasn’t the infant carrier sitting beside his feet. It was him.

His shoulders sagged beneath his jacket. His hair was flattened in odd directions from repeatedly dragging his hands through it. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked…

Empty. Not physically. Emotionally. Like someone had quietly taken pieces of him throughout the day and forgotten to give them back.

“Michael…”

His eyes found yours. For a second…you saw them soften with relief.

“Hey.”

His voice was hoarse.

“You okay?”

He gave a tired shrug.

“I don’t know.”

Your heart cracked. Then your eyes drifted downward.

“…Honey?”

He followed your gaze.

“Oh.”

As though he’d forgotten.

“There…there’s a baby.” You blinked. “…Michael.”

“I know.”

“…Michael.”

“I know.”

You stared at the infant carrier. Then back at your husband.

“…Whose baby is that?”

He scrubbed both hands over his exhausted face.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“…What?”

He stepped inside, carefully lifting the carrier before nudging the front door closed with his foot. The little girl inside couldn’t have been more than a few months old. She was asleep. One tiny fist tucked beneath her cheek. Dark eyelashes resting against impossibly round little cheeks. Your entire body instinctively softened.

“Oh…”

Robby carefully set the carrier on the living room rug before crouching beside it. He didn’t look at the baby. He looked at the floor.

“It was a hell of a shift.”

You quietly sat beside him. He took a long breath.

“They found her.” You waited. “Wrapped in a blanket.”

Another silence.

“No identification. No diaper bag. No note.” His jaw tightened. “Nothing.”

You reached for his hand. He accepted it immediately.

“CPS has been trying to locate family all day.” He swallowed. “Nobody’s come.”

Your eyes drifted back toward the sleeping infant.

“So…”

“So hospital policy allows temporary emergency placement with qualified caregivers when…” He rubbed a hand over his eyes again. “When there isn’t an immediate placement available.”

He laughed once. It wasn’t amused.

“They asked if I’d take her overnight.”

“You said yes.”

“I didn’t even think.”

His voice sounded almost apologetic.

“I just…” He looked at the baby. “…I couldn’t leave her there.”

You smiled sadly. His shoulders slumped even further.

“I know that’s insane. I have absolutely no business bringing an infant home after today.”

“You brought her somewhere safe.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“You keep premature babies alive for a living.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“They leave. They go home.”

The words escaped before he could stop them. Silence settled between you. He immediately regretted saying it.

“I’m sorry.”

You shook your head.

“No.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” You scooted closer until your shoulder rested against his. “I know what you meant.”

He nodded once. Barely. After another long silence, he finally whispered…

“I lost three people today.”

Your breath caught.

“I had to tell an old friend he’s got cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And then…” His eyes landed on the baby’s again. “…There she was.”

The tiny baby stretched in her sleep, making the smallest little sigh.

“I kept walking past her room all day.” His voice cracked. “Every time I walked by…”

He laughed bitterly.

“She’d just…look at me.”

You listened.

“I don’t know why.” He shook his head. “I’d stop for thirty seconds. Talk to her. Make a bottle. Rock her. Then I’d get called away again.”

His fingers curled tightly together.

“I don’t even like pediatrics.”

That earned the tiniest smile from you.

“I know.”

“I barely tolerate healthy adults.”

“I definitely know.”

“But…” He stared at the sleeping infant. “…She didn’t have anyone.”

His voice broke completely on that sentence. You’d seen Michael cry exactly three times in your marriage. This wasn’t quite crying.nIt was something quieter. The exhaustion of a man whose heart had simply reached capacity.

Without saying a word, you wrapped both arms around him. He leaned into you immediately. His forehead rested against your shoulder. For several minutes neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was the baby’s tiny, steady breathing. Eventually, Robby exhaled shakily.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this forever.”

You knew he wasn’t talking about the baby. He was talking about the emergency department. About the endless losses.nThe impossible expectations. The depression he’d been carrying for months. You kissed the top of his head.

“You don’t have to figure that out tonight.”

“No?”

“Tonight…” You glanced toward the little girl sleeping peacefully between you. “…Tonight we just keep her safe.”

He looked over. Really looked. At the baby. A faint smile touched his lips for the first time all day.

“Yeah.”

He reached into the carrier, carefully sliding one finger into the baby’s tiny hand. She wrapped all five little fingers around it instinctively. Robby froze.

“…Well,” he whispered, sounding almost awestruck.

“I think she likes you.”

He let out the softest laugh.

“I’ve had tougher patients.”

You grinned.

“That’s a bold statement. She hasn’t even had dinner yet.”

Almost as if on cue, the baby’s face scrunched. One tiny whimper escaped. Then another. Robby looked at you. You looked at him. Neither of you moved.

“…Do you know how to make a bottle?” you asked.

He blinked.

“…Do you know how to make a bottle?”

“…No.”

“…Huh.”

The baby’s whimpers quickly escalated into full-fledged cries. You both sprang into motion at exactly the same time, bumping shoulders before staring at each other. Despite everything…Despite the grief. The infertility. The horrific shift. The depression weighing on his shoulders. You both started laughing.

It wasn’t because anything was funny. It was because for the first time in months…The two of you weren’t thinking about what your future might never be. You were simply trying to comfort a tiny little girl who, for one night at least, had somehow found her way home.

******

Three days.

It was only supposed to be one. You’d both known that from the beginning. One night. Then Child Protective Services would find an emergency foster placement, and Baby Jane Doe would continue whatever uncertain journey had begun before either of you ever met her. Except…the emergency placement had fallen through. Then another. Then another. Paperwork. Background checks. A family illness. A home that suddenly couldn’t accommodate an infant. Every morning someone called. Every afternoon they apologized. Every evening the baby was still there.

******

By the fourth morning, she had quietly become…

Jane.

Neither of you remembered when you’d stopped calling her Baby Jane Doe. It had simply happened. Like calling a stranger by their first name after enough conversations.

“You spoil her.”

You looked over from the kitchen. Robby stood in the living room with Jane tucked against his shoulder, slowly pacing barefoot across the hardwood floor while she chewed determinedly on the collar of his T-shirt.

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I’m preventing emotional distress.”

“She’s asleep.”

“I’m preventing future emotional distress.”

You laughed.

“I don’t think she understands your preventative medicine.”

“I don’t think you understand babies.”

“I have books.”

“I have a baby.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically.

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” He smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks. “…you married me anyway.”

The smile looked different now. Lighter. Not because everything in his life had suddenly become okay. The emergency department was still exhausting him. Some mornings he still sat in his car for several minutes before walking inside. Some nights he came home quieter than usual. The depression hadn’t disappeared. But…Jane seemed to interrupt it.

She gave him something that didn’t ask him to save the impossible. She only asked for a bottle. Or a diaper. Or someone to hold her. For the first time in months, you watched your husband care for someone without the weight of wondering whether they’d survive until morning.

Later that evening, Jane finally fell asleep after what felt like an hour of determinedly refusing to admit she was tired. You laughed quietly as Robby tiptoed out of the nursery you’d hastily assembled in the guest room.

“You know she weighs maybe twelve pounds.”

He nodded solemnly.

“And?”

“You walk like she’s made of glass.”

“I think she’s offended by your tone.”

“I think you’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve accepted that.”

He followed you into the living room. The television played softly in the background. Neither of you paid attention. The baby monitor rested on the coffee table between two mugs of tea. Robby stared at it. Longer than necessary. You noticed.

“What?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead…He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The silence stretched.

“I got a call today.”

Your stomach tightened.

“About Jane?”

He nodded.

“CPS.”

You instinctively looked toward the hallway. As though someone might already be there to take her.

“They’re still looking.”

You swallowed.

“Oh.”

“No family has come forward.”

You nodded once.

“They’re expanding the search.”

“Okay.”

“They’re beginning discussions about long-term placement if that doesn’t change.”

Your heart started pounding. You knew where this conversation was going. Or maybe…You hoped you didn’t. Robby rubbed both hands together.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“So have I.”

“I know.”

Silence settled again. He looked at you. Really looked at you.

“…Can I ask you something?”

“You never have to ask.”

He smiled faintly.

“I think I do.”

You reached across the couch, taking his hand.

“Ask.”

He took a slow breath.

“…What if we tried?”

Your eyes immediately filled.

“You mean…”

“I mean…” His voice softened. “…What if we asked if we could become her permanent placement?”

The room became impossibly quiet. You looked toward the hallway again. Toward the tiny little girl asleep in the next room.

“I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been telling myself she’s only here temporarily.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been telling myself not to get attached.”

“I know.”

Another tear slid down your cheek.

“I think I failed.”

His thumb brushed the back of your hand.

“I failed too.”

You laughed through your tears.

“I love her.”

“So do I.”

“I shouldn’t already.”

“I know.”

You wiped quickly at your face.

“But…” Your voice trembled. “I’m scared.”

His expression softened immediately.

“I know.”

“No…” You shook your head. “don’t mean scared of being a parent.”

“I know what you mean, baby.”

“I’m scared they’ll take her.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I’m scared her mother will come back.”

Another tear escaped.

“And if she’s healthy and safe and ready…” You swallowed hard. “…then they should.”

He nodded immediately.

“They should.”

“I’m scared we’ll fall completely in love with her…” Your voice cracked. “…and then we’ll have to hand her to someone else.”

He closed his eyes.

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I can survive losing another child.”

The words hung between you. Raw. Honest. He shifted closer until your knees touched.

“I’ve thought about that every single day.”

“You have?”

He nodded.

“Every day.” He looked toward the hallway. “I also think about the possibility that she doesn’t have anyone.”

You followed his gaze.

“What if…” His voice barely rose above a whisper. “…what if we’re supposed to be her someone?”

You covered your mouth. Immediately, tears spilled over.

“I can’t promise you this works.” He reached up, gently pulling your hand away so he could hold it. “I can’t promise CPS says yes.”

You nodded.

“I can’t promise her biological family won’t be found.”

Another nod.

“I can’t promise we won’t get hurt.”

You squeezed his hand so tightly your knuckles turned white.

“But…” He smiled sadly. “…I’d rather have my heart broken trying to love her than spend the rest of my life wondering if we should’ve.”

You stared at him. The man who had spent months reminding you that your worth had never depended on having children. The man who had quietly carried a little abandoned girl through your front door because he couldn’t bear the thought of her spending another night alone. The man who still came home haunted by the emergency department and somehow still found enough gentleness left inside himself to rock a baby to sleep. You leaned forward until your forehead rested against his.

“…I want to try.”

His breath caught.

“I know it might not happen.”

“Right.”

“I know we could lose her.”

“Right.”

“I know this could absolutely destroy us.”

He smiled through eyes that had begun to glisten.

“It could.”

You laughed softly.

“You’re supposed to talk me out of this.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“No?”

He shook his head.

“I’ve been picturing teaching her how to ride a bike.”

Your heart shattered all over again.

“I’ve been picturing taking her to the museum.”

He chuckled quietly.

“She’ll probably hate museums.”

“She’ll pretend to like them because I love them.”

“And then she’ll beg me for ice cream afterward.”

“Which you’ll absolutely buy.”

“Obviously.”

You smiled through tears.

“So…”

He squeezed your hand.

“So…”

“We ask?”

He looked toward the hallway one last time before looking back at you.

“We ask.”

Neither of you realized it then, but that simple decision made on a quiet evening over cooling cups of tea while a baby monitor hummed softly between you, would become the moment your family truly began. Not because the paperwork had been signed. Not because the law had changed.

But because, for the first time, the future you were imagining had a little girl in it. And neither of you could imagine it any other way.

******

The courthouse was smaller than you’d imagined. After months of paperwork, home studies, interviews, fingerprinting, reference letters, background checks, meetings with social workers, sleepless nights, impossible waiting, and more than one phone call that had left both you and Robby convinced everything was about to fall apart, it somehow came down to an ordinary brick building tucked between a law office and a coffee shop in downtown Pittsburgh. It felt underwhelming.

The biggest day of your life had fluorescent lighting. You adjusted Jane’s little cream-colored cardigan for what had to be the tenth time that morning. She immediately tugged it crooked again.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

You laughed quietly, trying to smooth it back into place.

“You know I’m going to keep fixing that until we go inside.”

Jane looked up at you with the enormous brown eyes that had somehow become capable of melting every ounce of stress from your body. Then she grinned. Not a polite smile. Not a baby smile. One of those giant, uninhibited grins that showed every tiny tooth she’d managed to grow over the past year.

“Mama!”

Your chest tightened. Every single time. She’d started calling you Mama nearly four months ago. Not because anyone had taught her. Not because you’d encouraged it. One morning while you were making blueberry pancakes she’d simply crawled into the kitchen, wrapped both arms around your leg and announced—

“Mama.”

You’d cried so hard that Robby had nearly burned breakfast. Even now It still didn’t feel real. You scooped her into your arms, pressing a kiss against her soft curls.

“Hi, baby.”

Tiny fingers immediately found the necklace around your neck. Her favorite game. You let her play. Across the room, Robby emerged from the courthouse hallway with two cups of coffee balanced carefully in one hand.

He’d traded his scrubs for a navy suit that looked as though he’d forgotten how to wear anything besides scrubs. His tie sat ever so slightly crooked. You smiled.

“You know…”

He handed you one of the coffees.

“…you’re the only trauma attending in Pittsburgh who somehow still can’t tie a Windsor knot.”

“I can.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

“I choose not to.”

“You called Langdon this morning.”

“…I did.”

“To tie your tie.”

“He has surprisingly useful life skills.”

You laughed.

“He also showed up thirty minutes early just to make fun of you.”

“I regret asking.”

As though summoned by the conversation, Langdon appeared from farther down the hallway carrying a gift bag with cartoon dinosaurs printed across the side.

“I heard my name.”

“You usually do,” Robby muttered.

Langdon ignored him entirely, crouching down in front of Jane.

“And who is this beautiful little troublemaker?”

Jane immediately reached for him.

“Nope.” Langdon stood back up. “I changed my mind.”

Robby smirked.

“Smartest thing you’ve said all year.”

“You’ve been changing diapers for six months.”

“I have.”

“And you’re judging me?”

“I absolutely am.”

“You’ve become unbearable.”

“I’ve become a father.”

The words slipped out so naturally that none of you reacted at first. Not Langdon. Not you. Not even Robby. It wasn’t until several seconds later that his own expression changed. His eyes blinked once. Then twice.

“…Huh.”

You looked at him. He looked back.

“I guess I have.”

The smile that spread across his face wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t accompanied by tears. It was simply…Peace. A kind of quiet peace you hadn’t seen in him for a very long time. The emergency department still exhausted him. Some shifts still left him sitting in the driveway with both hands on the steering wheel before he found the energy to come inside. There were still difficult days. Still nights where the weight of everything he’d seen settled heavily across his shoulders. But there was something different now.

He came home. And Jane came babbling down the hallway mumbling, “Dada!”

Every. Single. Time. No matter what kind of shift he’d had. No matter how broken he felt. There was always one tiny human being who believed he had just hung the moon.

It hadn’t cured his depression. It hadn’t erased the hospital. But it had reminded him that life existed outside those walls.

******

The courtroom itself was intimate. No jury. No spectators. Just a judge, your attorney, the county representative, your social worker, and a handful of people who loved the three of you enough to take time away from their own lives.

Dana sat in the second row with tissues already in her lap. Jack was openly crying before anyone had even spoken. Langdon leaned over.

“I’ve got twenty bucks that Robinavich cries first.”

“You don’t have twenty dollars.”

“I could.”

“Your broke ass would never.”

The judge looked over her glasses.

“Gentlemen.”

Langdon immediately straightened.

“Sorry, Your Honor.”

Robby didn’t even pretend he’d been participating. The hearing wasn’t long. Questions. Confirmations. Paperwork. The social worker smiled as she spoke about your home. About Jane. About the stability she’d found. About the way she’d blossomed over the previous time with you and Robby.

The judge asked you both why you wanted to adopt. You answered first. Your voice trembled.

“I spent a long time grieving the family I thought we’d have.”

You looked toward Jane, happily stacking blocks on the courtroom floor while Dana helped her.

“And then she walked into our lives.” A tear slipped free. “I don’t believe she’s replacing anything.”

You smiled.

“I think she’s simply become something completely her own.”

The judge nodded before looking toward Robby.

“And you, Doctor Robinavich?”

He sat quietly for a moment. Anyone who knew Michael knew that silence. It meant he was searching for exactly the right words.

“I’ve spent most of my career meeting people on the worst day of their lives.”

The room grew still.

“I fix what I can.” His fingers found yours beneath the table. “And I carry what I can’t.”

His thumb brushed across your wedding ring.

“The day Jane came into the emergency department…” He glanced toward the little girl laughing with Dana. “…she needed someone.”

His voice grew quieter.

“I thought I was saying yes for one night.” He smiled. “Turns out…”

He looked at you.

“…I was saying yes to the rest of my life.”

There wasn’t a dry eye left in the courtroom. Not even the judge’s.

The final signature looked…ordinary. Ink on paper. Nothing more. The judge smiled warmly before sliding the documents across the desk.

“Congratulations.”

She looked toward Jane.

“As of this moment…” She tapped the paperwork once. “…she is officially your daughter.”

Silence. For one suspended heartbeat…No one moved. Then you heard tiny slaps pattering across the hardwood floor. Jane had abandoned her blocks. She crawled straight toward the two of you with complete confidence.

“Dada!”

Robby bent instinctively, scooping her into his arms before she could even come to a stop herself. She laughed. One of those loud baby laughs that filled every corner of the courtroom. Then she looked over at you. Tiny hands reached.

“Mama.”

You stepped beside them, wrapping one arm around Robby’s waist while the other settled gently against Jane’s little back. She fit there so perfectly. As though she’d always belonged between you. Robby looked down at her. His jaw tightened. You recognized it immediately. The tears.bHe was fighting them. Hard. You smiled softly.

“You don’t have to hold it together.”

“I know.”

“You’ve earned this.”

“I know.” His voice cracked anyway. “I just…”

He swallowed.

“I kept thinking someone was going to tell us no.”

Your own tears spilled freely now.

“So did I.”

He rested his forehead against yours, Jane giggling happily because she was suddenly trapped in the middle of a hug. Neither of you cared.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too.”

He looked down at Jane.

“And I love you.”

Jane’s response was immediate.

“Dada!”

Robby laughed. A real laugh. Not the tired chuckle he’d forced through difficult shifts. Not the dry sarcasm everyone at the hospital knew. A full, genuine laugh that reached his eyes. Langdon clapped dramatically from behind you.

“Well…” He sniffed loudly. “This is disgusting.”

Dana elbowed him.

“You’ve cried through the entire hearing.”

“I have allergies.”

“In February?”

“Very aggressive allergies.”

Everyone laughed. Even the judge.

******

Outside, Pittsburgh greeted you with one of those perfect spring afternoons that made the city glow. Someone suggested lunch. Someone else suggested pictures. Jane decided she’d rather scream at pigeons across the courthouse steps. You watched as Robby carry her, hands half-outstretched. Not because he thought he’d drop her, but because that was simply what fathers did.

She squealed with delight as birds scattered into the air. He laughed again. You stood there for a long moment, committing the image to memory.bA year ago, you’d sat on your living room floor believing your family might never grow. A year ago, Robby had walked through your front door carrying an exhausted little girl in an infant carrier after the hardest shift of his life. Neither of you had understood that hope sometimes arrived quietly.nNot with grand announcements. Not with certainty. Sometimes it arrived wrapped in a faded hospital blanket, sleeping peacefully through the chaos around her.

Robby turned back toward you, Jane balanced securely on his hip. She stretched one tiny arm toward you.

“Mama!”

He smiled.

“Think she’s looking for you.”

You walked over, slipping your hand into his. Jane immediately wrapped one tiny hand around your finger. The other closed around Robby’s. Satisfied, she sighed dramatically.

“Yesh.”

Robby chuckled.

“Yes?”

She nodded with absolute conviction.

“Yesh.”

You looked at your husband. At your daughter. At the little hand linking the two of you together. And for the first time in a very long time, the future didn’t feel like something to mourn. It felt like something waiting patiently to be lived. The three of you started down the courthouse steps together.

Not because every question had been answered. Not because life would suddenly become easy. But because, after everything you’d lost, everything you’d feared, and everything you’d survived…you were finally going home.

The thudding behind your temples was monumental, a heavy, sickening pulse that made you close your eyes again with a soft, miserable whimper. Almost immediately, a warm, calloused hand slipped into yours, squeezing gently. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know who it was; Jack’s touch was instantly recognisable.

"Hey, easy now. Don't try to sit up just yet," Jack murmured, his voice incredibly quiet and gentle. He leaned closer to the bed, his free hand reaching up to carefully brush a stray lock of hair away from your damp forehead, mindful of the heavy, throbbing bruise forming near your hairline.

"Jack..." you whispered, your throat feeling dry and scratchy as you struggled to focus on his face. "What happened? Everything hurts."

"You took a really nasty hit, sweetheart," Jack explained softly, his thumb tracing soothing circles over the back of your hand. "A patient clipped you, and you hit your head on the crash cart. Javadi checked you over, and you've got a pretty significant concussion."

You groaned, trying to shift your weight, but a wave of nausea washed over you. "I need to get up. My shift—"

"Your shift is over, nurse," Jack interrupted with a warm, teasing smile, though his eyes remained deeply concerned. "Robby wants you to stay here for observation for at least twelve hours, just to be absolutely sure there's no delayed swelling. You're strictly off-duty."

The word observation hit you like a bucket of ice water, instantly slicing through the thick, pain-filled fog of your brain. Your heart rate spiked, the monitor beside the bed letting out a series of rapid, high-pitched beeps that made Jack's brow furrow in concern.

You tried to push yourself up on your elbows, panic rising in your chest. "No, no, I can't stay! Jack, I have to go. Juliet finishes at the after-school club in less than an hour. I need to pick her up. Jack, I can't just leave her there!"

"Hey, look at me. Breathe, sweetheart, just breathe," Jack coaxed, his hand moving to your shoulder, applying a firm but incredibly tender pressure to keep you still. "Don't work yourself up. You're going to make your head hurt worse."

"You don't understand, she'll be so scared if I'm not the one at the gates," you pleaded, tears of frustration and pain leaking from the corners of your eyes. "I don't have anyone else to call. Maybe the neighbour, but she works late, and—"

"Hey, stop. Take a breath for me," Jack cut in softly, squeezing your hand tight. He leaned in close, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, avoiding the bruise. "Do you really think I'd let Jules sit there worrying? Or let you stress yourself into a migraine?"

You stared up at him, your vision slightly blurry. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to go pick her up," Jack said, his voice steady, carrying an absolute certainty that immediately made the tight knot in your chest loosen. "I'll drive over right now, collect her from the club, and bring her back here."

"But... your shift tonight?" you whispered, looking at him in confusion. "You can't just leave, Jack. It's chaos out there."

"I've already spoken to the Chief, and I'm taking the night off. My leg's been giving me a bit of grief anyway, so they were happy to let me off," Jack lied smoothly, giving you a reassuring wink. "Besides, looking after my girl and our little Jules is much more important than this ER."

The words ‘our little Jules’ made your heart swell with a warmth that completely eclipsed the dull ache in your head. For the past few weeks, the two of you had been tentatively discussing the idea of trial sleepovers, taking the slow, careful steps toward moving in together and truly becoming a family.

"Are you sure?" you asked, your voice cracking with emotion. "She can be a bit of a handful when she's tired, Jack. And she might be confused seeing you instead of me."

"I'm absolutely sure," Jack promised, offering you a bright, confident smile. "Jules and I are best friends, remember? She loves my stories. I'll explain to her that you had a little bump at work and need to rest your eyes for a bit."

"You're too good to us," you murmured, letting your head sink back into the pillows as a wave of relief washed over you.

"Don’t be silly. I'm just looking after you," Jack whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He lingered there for a moment, letting you feel his warmth and stability. "Now, I want you to close those eyes and try to get some sleep. No worrying. I've got everything covered."

"Okay," you breathed, already feeling the heavy pull of exhaustion now that the panic had subsided. "Be safe. Tell her I love her."

"I will, sweetheart. I'll be back before you know it," Jack said softly. He gave your hand one final, reassuring squeeze before quietly slipping out of the room, leaving you to finally let the darkness take you over.

By the time the heavy doors of the ER family room swung open, Juliet was perched high on Jack’s shoulders, her tiny hands gripped firmly in his thick, curly hair as she giggled. She was a bright, energetic five-year-old, and the moment Jack had picked her up from her after-school club, her initial confusion about seeing him instead of you had vanished into pure, unadulterated excitement. To her, Jack was the tall, gentle giant who told the best stories, and getting a piggyback ride through the hospital corridors was the ultimate adventure.

"Look, Robby! I'm taller than the ceiling! I'm taller than Jack!" Jules chirped, pointing a finger triumphantly toward the ceiling tiles as Jack carefully navigated the doorframe, lowering his head slightly to make sure she didn't actually bump into anything.

"Whoa, easy there, giant," Robby said, immediately abandoning a stack of charts on the table with a wide, welcoming grin. He knelt down on the linoleum floor so he was at eye level with her as Jack gently slid her down his front. "You might be taller than the ceiling, Jules, but are you talented enough to beat me in a colouring contest?”

Within minutes, the sterile family room was transformed into a chaotic, makeshift sanctuary of warmth and crayon wax. The Pitt staff, fiercely protective of you and incredibly fond of your little girl, took it in shifts to slip away from the bustling department just to keep her entertained and distracted from the medical equipment hums outside. Samira popped in between treating patients, carrying a plastic tray from the staff room containing a tiny cup of apple juice and a packet of chocolate biscuits she had raided from someone’s snack stash.

"She has her mother's eyes, Jack," Dana murmured softly, standing near the doorway and watching Jules furiously colour the tail of a dinosaur while Dennis dramatically pretended to struggle with his own drawing. She turned her gaze to Jack, her voice dropping to a quiet, professional register. "How is she doing? Our patient, I mean."

"She's resting. The head CT was completely clear, thank god, but the concussion is still making her groggy and nauseous," Jack replied, resting his hand on his hip. "I want to get her home the very second you clear her. Jules is going to want to be right by her side, and I need to make sure we handle that transition gently."

"We'll keep the little helper thoroughly occupied here until the final discharge papers are printed and signed," Dana promised, offering a warm, reassuring squeeze to his shoulder. "Go sit with her for a bit, Jack. Don't worry about Jules for a single second. We've got her covered."

True to her word, the Pitt crew kept Jules thoroughly entertained, turning the observation wing's quiet corner into a revolving door of affection. When Dennis had to run off to assist with a trauma incoming from the ambulance bay, Trinity slid seamlessly into his spot. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her usual sarcastic edge melting away entirely as she let Jules paint her fingernails with a washable, neon-pink felt-tip marker.

"You have to stay very still, or it goes outside the lines," Jules instructed with immense gravity, holding Trinity’s hand with her tiny fingers.

"My hands are like steel. They will not move," Trinity replied, her tone dry but her eyes sparkling with rare tenderness as she let the little girl scribble over her cuticles. "But if you get this on my scrubs, I'm telling your mom you did it."

Jack watched the scene from the doorway for a long moment, a quiet, profound sense of gratitude washing over him. This hospital could be a brutal, exhausting place, but the people in it were a family, and they were protecting his. When Dana finally walked down the corridor with the signed discharge papers in hand, Jack quietly thanked the staff, scooped up Jules in one strong arm, and went to retrieve you.

Supporting you was a delicate process. You were still incredibly drained, your balance thoroughly compromised by the vertigo. You leaned heavily against his side, your head tucked against his shoulder to shield your eyes from the corridor lights as he guided you out to his car. Jules walked right beside him, holding onto Jack's trousers with a sudden, quiet solemnity, sensing that something wasn't quite right with you.

The drive back to your apartment was blissfully quiet, the rhythmic, low hum of the engine and the gentle rain pattering against the windscreen soothing your pounding head. When Jack finally unlocked the front door, the familiar, comforting scent of lavender and clean laundry made you let out a long, shaky breath of relief.

Jack led you straight to the bedroom, his arm securely around your waist as he helped you sit on the edge of the mattress. He was incredibly gentle, kneeling down to slide your shoes off and pulling back the heavy duvet so you could finally rest.

"I want to stay with Mommy!" Jules's voice suddenly cut through the quiet room, trembling and fragile. She stood in the doorway, her little face crumpling as big, silent tears began to spill down her cheeks. "I want to look after her! I don't want to go to my room, Jack. Please, let me stay!"

"Oh, sweetheart, come here," you whispered weakly, your heart breaking at the sight of her tears. You reached out a trembling arm, though the sudden movement made your head spin.

Jules didn't hesitate as she scrambled onto the mattress, throwing her little arms around your neck and burying her face in your chest, crying quietly. You wrapped your arms around her, kissing the top of her soft hair, whispering quiet reassurances that you were okay, just a little tired. Jack stood by the bed, his chest tightening at the sheer vulnerability of the two people who had completely rewritten his universe.

"Tell you what, Jules," Jack said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed so he was close to both of you. He reached out, his large hand gently stroking the back of Jules's head. "How about we have a sleepover tonight? Right here. We can all stay together, and we can keep a very close eye on mommy to make sure she gets better."

Jules sniffled, lifting her tear-streaked face from your shoulder to look at him. "A real sleepover? Like we talked about?"

"Exactly like we talked about," Jack murmured, his voice dripping with absolute affection. "But to do that, we need to make sure mommy has plenty of room to rest her head. If I tuck you in right on this side, will you promise to be very quiet and gentle?"

The little girl nodded eagerly, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her jumper. "I promise. I'll be quiet, Jack."

"That's my girl," Jack whispered.

With practiced, gentle care, Jack helped tuck the two of you in, ensuring you had enough pillows to keep your head slightly elevated to ease the throbbing pressure, and making sure Jules was nestled safely and snugly against your side. The bedroom was dark and quiet, the only light coming from the amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the curtains.

Before climbing into the bed himself, Jack sat down on the small wooden chair in the corner of the room. He reached down, unlatching his prosthetic with a quiet, metallic click. He set it carefully against the wall, stretching with a faint sigh of relief as the pressure of the day was finally released.

Using the bedpost for balance, he hopped the short distance over to the empty side of the double bed, sliding beneath the heavy covers. The mattress shifted slightly under his weight, and almost instantly, you drifted closer to his warmth.

Jack reached out, his strong, protective arm draping over both of you, drawing you and Jules secure against his chest. Your head found the familiar, comfortable hollow of his collarbone, and Jules let out a soft, sleepy sigh, her little hand resting on Jack's forearm.

"I've got you both," Jack whispered into the quiet dark, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, and then another to the top of Jules’s head. "Robby and the day shift guys looked after us today, but I've got the night shift now. Go to sleep. I'm right here."

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You're back in the ER tonight. Even though it's a new city, it's the same routine. Libbie is next to you, leaning on you as her injured arm is being held in your lap. Judging by the way her wrist is looking, something is definitely broken or dislocated. This is the third broken bone in the past 2 years. In your head, you're starting to wonder if CPS will get involved again or if this will fly under the radar. Outwardly, you have a smile on your face as you try to keep your little sister calm.

"How much longer before we can go to John's?" Libbie asks with a slight whine in her voice. John's — or John's Pizza Palace — has become the Friday night staple after a week of work and school. But tonight, instead of eating pizza, you are at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center at 8:30 p.m. waiting to be seen.

You respond, "I don't know if we will be able to get John's tonight Lib, but I will take you tomorrow, how about that? Have you thought of what color cast you want in case you get one?"

This is not Libbie's first cast and likely not the last. Hopefully, this time she doesn't choose white again.

Right as you were shuttering, remembering the way the white ankle cast of last year turned a distant urine color with "princesses" drawn all up the sides of it, someone comes to the ER doors.

"Elizabeth?" The staff member shouts.

"That's us," you say to Libbie as you start collecting your purse filled with documents and ID cards. Libbie grabs her blanket and makes a sad whine as she holds her arm to start walking. The staff member leads you to a room, and Libbie hops up onto the bed as if this is a normal routine for her.

"Hello, I'm Emily. I'll be the nurse checking you guys in." She says as she starts hooking Libby up to the monitor to get a set of vitals.

She continues, “This one is going to give you-"

"-a big hug!" Libbie finishes her sentence as the blood pressure cuff starts going.

"Exactly. Aren't you a smart one?" the nurse responds while also glancing up at you with a question behind her eyes.

“Okay, I am going to leave this gown. She will likely need X-rays, so have her get dressed, and when she is done, open the curtain, and the doctor will come see you." With that, the nurse leaves the room.

Libbie, working quickly, already has her shoes and socks off by the time you get to her bed with the gown.

"Do you think this doctor will give me a sticker like the last one?" Libbie looks at you excitedly. You swear this child would do anything and go anywhere as long as there was a promise of a sticker. Currently, as you are taking off her shirt, you can count 3 stickers already, likely from the neighbor who babysits her after daycare while you finish your work shift.

"Maybe if you ask super nicely," you respond while tying the little gown in the back. Frankly, the doctor could give her a blank label, and she will be happy, but you keep that to yourself.

Once dressed, you open the curtain, go back to Libbie, and turn on the TV. You know the drill; this will take a while before the doctor gets to you.

About an hour later, Libbie still intensely watching Bluey, you've been drifting in and out of sleep in the uncomfortable chair, and you see movement out of the corner of your eye.

A handsome older gentleman with grey dusting his hair and a slight limp in his walk is opening the door with a small grin on his face.

"Good evening, my name is Dr. Abbot. I hear we have a potential broken arm in here." You nod affirmatively, a little nervous around doctors you do not know.

He walks until he reaches Libbie's bedside and speaks to her in a soft voice, "Hi honey, what's your name?"

Libbie, on the other hand, has no anxiety with people, exclaims, "My name is Elizabeth, but my friends call me Libbie. I'm five." She states with all the confidence in the world while holding up all five fingers.

"Can I be your friend and call you Libbie?" The doctor asks with a slight smile and a raised eyebrow.

"That depends. Do you have a sticker?"

With that said, Dr. Abbot looks towards you with a larger grin on his face. Meanwhile, you have a guilty expression and a hand on your forehead. This girl and her stickers.

Dr. Abbot reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen. "How about this? I give you the pen, and find a piece of paper, and you draw something pretty. But next time I come back, I will have a sticker."

That seems to placate Libbie, and she immediately gets drawing.

Dr. Abbot then turns to you, his face becoming a little more serious and setting off some anxiety inside of you.

"Hi Mom, we do not have any history in our charts of Libbie. She seems pretty healthy besides the obvious arm injury, but any important medical history?"

This makes you pause. It is not the first time you have been mistaken for Mom, definitely will not be the last. But that is not what makes you pause. It's that you know, if you explain how much Libbie is in the hospital, it will end in child protective services talking to you. It happened last time when the ER doctor at Mercy Hospital didn't believe that a small fall could cause a femur fracture. Hopefully, Dr. Abbot believes you.

“Um, I am actually her older sister. I legally adopted her two years ago. But she has a little bit of a history," you start listing "epilepsy, ADHD, asthma, anaphylactic allergies, and osteogenesis imperfecta." You pause as Dr. Abbot starts typing into her chart. You start to get anxious, and when that happens, you begin to start over explaining.

"We moved recently from South Carolina, and it takes forever to get a primary care doctor, and the wait lists are 6 months long. But I still follow up with her old doctor to stay on medications. Her epilepsy has been under control now since I have adopted her. She has broken bones before due to the OI, but we've been working on being gentle with our bodies, but she always wants to play with the neighbors. That's what happened today. I was at work, and our neighbor called saying she fell while playing soccer in the backyard. I came home as soon as I could and took her here. She has fragile bones, and we are working on supplements to help, but I heard it can take a long time before we see results. I can give you the number and name of her doctor from South Carolina that proved she has it. Wait here, let me pull it up on my phone.“

“Breathe." Dr. Abbot cuts you off.

You stutter to a stop and try to avoid looking at Dr. Abbot in the eyes, but they are calling to you like a beacon.

"She's okay. You did good bringing her here," he says in a gentle voice.

You take another breath before avoiding his eye contact once again by looking towards Libbie. She is still zoned in on the television, totally unaware of a conversation happening around her.

Most days are hard for you. Gaining custody at 22 years old meant dropping out of college months before graduating to take care of your 3-year-old sister. Your mom, finally succumbing to addiction, left you with a chronically ill sister, a mortgage debt, and a broken heart. Even if she was a drug addict and made your childhood absolute turmoil, she was still your mother. You had your grandmother still to help with selling all of your mom's things and to help raise Libbie. But around 6 months ago, she passed away. Leaving you once again alone. This time truly alone, but you had your sister. So you moved to Pittsburgh for an opportunity to finish college while working full time. Most days are hard, but there is a goal to be able to give Libbie a good life with opportunities. But due to your mother's addiction issues, she used while pregnant, leaving Libbie with chronic (and expensive) problems.

It started with the withdrawal as a baby. Which lead to seizures that seemed to never stop. At 19 years old, you were rushing Libbie to hospital after hospital to find someone to help with these seizures while your mother continued to abuse substances. Eventually, a doctor was able to figure out the right meds and doses to control the seizures. At that point, Libbie was walking, and then the first broken bone happened. You and the doctor did not think much of it until it happened again. And again. Eventually, gaining the diagnosis of OI. Then, finally, when things calmed down, grandma gave her peanut butter for the first time. We were back in the ER for anaphylaxis and sent home with Epi Pens and an instruction manual. Since then, we have added tree nuts, soy, and kiwi to Libbie's allergy list.

Noticing that you are staring at Libbie, Dr. Abbot turns his attention towards your sister.

"I am going to order an X-ray, and we will go from there." Dr. Abbot says offhandedly.

Libbie, taking the time to realize there was a conversation happening, asks, "And then can I get pizza?"

Once again, you are embarrassed, cheeks starting to redden as Dr. Abbot looks towards you again with a small grin.

"Sorry, we ran right to the ED. I didn't think about grabbing her a snack." You try to explain.

Abbot, looking back at Libbie, says, "As soon as I see the x-ray pictures, I will see if I can grab you a snack."

He gives you one last look as he stands from the chair and leaves the room. Even minutes after he has left, you still feel his presence and can't stop remembering the way his eyes seemed to stare into you.

__

X-ray came by eventually, and Libbie is getting antsy and starting to wiggle around more. Bluey is not holding her attention as it did when you first got here.

Just as she began to try and hop out of the bed, there is a knock at the door.

In walks Dr. Abbot. With a delicious aroma coming in with him.

"PIZZA!" Libbie shouts, practically jumping on the bed.

Abbot is holding a whole box of fresh cafeteria pizza.

"Good news. Libbie's arm will not need surgery, meaning it's pizza time." Dr abbot states as he sets the box on the bed. You notice he has a bunch of supplies hanging out of his pant pockets.

“Okay, honey. First things first, we are putting a cast on, and then you can eat the pizza. Just make sure to give your sister a piece. She’s earned it and looks famished." Abbot sends a wink your way, and you swear your heart jumped a beat.

"What color cast are you thinking, Miss Libbie?"

“PINK!" Libbie practically yells.

Internally, you are thanking the heavens she did not choose white again.

"How did I know?" Dr. Abbot replies, taking a pink fiberglass package out of his back pocket.

He makes quick work of the cast, and Libbie is mowing down her pizza in minutes.

As she's distracted and eating, you lean towards Dr. Abbot as he is cleaning his supplies up.

You speak in a hushed tone, "Thank you for helping her and calming her, and of course, the pizza. You really didn't have to do it. I appreciate it. You really made our night."

Once again, you lock eyes and you both are in a breath-holding trance. After a pause, he finally responds slightly out of breath, "No problem at all. I'm glad to help. She's a good kid."

He seems to shake his head a little, retreats his eyes, and begins to stand.

“Alright, Libbie, no more soccer until your arm is all better. We will see you guys in 6 weeks to take the cast off."

With that, Abbot hustles out of the room.

Huh.

And as you start packing up, you notice a roll of princess stickers left on the bed. It brings a smile to your face and a longing look towards the door.

The whole way home, you swear you can still smell his cologne. And every time you closed your eyes, you could still see intense eyes looking your way.

The next day, you end up at John's Pizza Palace as promised and couldn't help but remember the doctor's kindness. You couldn’t help but remember how handsome the doctor was too.

She asks a few more questions but you can barely remember enough to answer her, the pain becomes just too much.

Thankfully, Dr. King has a diagnosis for you almost right away. "Unfortunately, it seems like you have appendicitis. You'll need to have a surgery or it could burst and cause much bigger problems. Is there anybody who you would like for us to call?"

They are quickly wheeling you out of the room and that hurry sends your worry spiking a little. "Call Jack. My emergency contact."

You see her nod, and she hurries away, probably to make sure that somebody calls him. You just hope he'll be there by the time you wake up.

-

"Hey, Dana. Could you call the emergency contact of my patient please? Thank you." Mel hands your papers to Dana.

"Sure, kid. You got it." Dana reaches for the papers and stops short when she sees your name sprawled on top of it.

She reaches for her own phone, dialing Jack immediately. Jack's pretty, lovely girl is about to have a surgery and he's nowhere to be found? No way, Dana can't have that.

"What's wrong?" Robby clocks in Dana's distressed face almost instantly, too.

She only shake his head at him and pushes the papers towards him. He curses when he reads your name.

"Is she still here?" He asks as Dana starts explaining everything quickly to Jack. It's all quick and precise words, just to get him here as soon as possible.

"She wasn't with Jack?" Robby asks with a frown after Dana hangs up.

"No, she got here from work. Ambulance brought her in. Jack didn't even know and she looked pretty bad, Robby..."

"Jesus." Robby scrubs his beard. "Will she get a bed upstairs after the surgery?"

"Doubt it. But I'll see what I can do." Dana promises, already picking up her phone again. Recovering in the ER is not that ideal with all the noise.

"Thanks, Dana. Send Jack my way if you see him before me, yeah?" Robby gets a nod and gets back to work. A piece of his mind still on you though. You've become his very good friend ever since you met Jack. And he hates seeing the people he loves get hurt.

-

Jack doesn't go to the Pitt, he heads straight to the surgery floor. He almost convinces the nurses there to let him inside but they make him stay in the waiting room.

And by the time you get out, Jack's sick with worry. He immediately runs to your bed as they wheel you out. He only listens to the surgeon say that everything went perfect with one ear.

His sole focus is on assessing you with his own eyes and touch. He brushes some stray hair away from your pale face.

He blows out a breath of relief, finally able to function full, again. Jack hasn't felt this kind of panic in a long, long time. Not since his late wife.

"Is she staying here?" Jack asks the nurses, planting a soft kiss on your forehead.

One of the nurses shakes her head. "No, we don't have any open beds. We are taking her downstairs."

Jack nods, it's nothing unusual. He takes ahold of one side of the bed and helps push you. He's gonna stay with you until you wake up and until he can take you home and take care of you there.

Jack stays quiet the whole way down. Clutching your hand in one hand and the bed in the other. When you finally get inside the halls of the Pitt people Jack's colleagues, gawk at him.

Murmurs go around as they look with wide eyes. He didn't even realise that people didn't know that he had a girlfriend. But he finds that he doesn't particularly care about their interested gaze, not when you are there.

"Jack, room 4 is ready for her." Robby comes up to him, clasping him on his shoulder in comfort.

Jack gives him a curt nod. Words a little bit thick with emotions as he says. "Thank you, brother."

"Don't even mention it. Call for me if you need anything, yeah?" Robby squeezes his shoulder one more time before he leaves you two be, needed in trauma again.

Robby is replaced by Dana almost immediately. She helps Jack wheel you in and hook you up to all the monitors.

"What did the surgeon say?" She asks with soft eyes.

"She said that the surgery went well, and that if all tests are good, she can go home tomorrow." Jack doesn't even know how he managed to remember all of that when he was barely listening.

"That's great, Jack." Dana tucks the blanket higher up your chin. "How are you holding up though?" She gives him a look that says that he shouldn't try to lie.

"Better now that I'm with her. I was so worried, Dana." He shakes his head, it's not easy to talk about his emotions. "Thank you for calling me."

"Of course, Jack. She's a strong girl and she got here just in time. Just stay with her and you'll both be fine. And don't worry about work, Robby already talked to Gloria. You can take as much time off as you need."

Jack mouths 'thank you', afraid that his voice might betray him with all of the emotions he's feeling.

Dana leaves him with a warm smile, waving his gratitude off.

Jack waits for the anesthesia to wear off and to finally see your pretty eyes.

-

You find Jack leaning over you with a relieved smile when you wake up. The second thing you notice is the pain being gone, replaced by the floaty, painless state.

"You are here." You whisper with a hoarse voice. Hand reaching up to wipe away the lonely tear sliding down his rugged cheek.

"Of course, I'm here, angel. More of a surprise is that you are here." Jack tries to crack a light joke, just to see your smile.

"Sorry." You say sheepishly, giving him that damned smile he wanted to see. The last bit of worry slips away as the corners of your mouth go up.

"Don't be sorry, sweetheart. Good thing you came here. The surgery went well, they took it out so there shouldn't be any more pain like that." He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

"Good, the pain was so sudden. I didn't know it could feel like that. I thought I was gonna pass out from it." You explain. "I didn't even want to come here at first but I'm glad I did."

"Jesus, baby, next time call me if anything like this happens to you, please. And don't even try to say you didn't want to bother me, that's such a nonsense."

You give him a shy smile. "Okay, Jack. I promise to call next time." And then you ask. "Do you know when can I go home?"

"If the tests are good, then I'm taking you home tomorrow. And I'll be fussing around you until you are back to 100 percent." Jack grins at you. "You might even start getting sick of me by then."

"Sick of your handsome face? Never, Jackie."

"Is that all I am to you? Just a pretty face for you to look at?" Jack's heart is practically singing with happiness as he hears you banter back.

"Maybe." You smile teasingly at him, even forgetting that you are in a hospital when Jack is with you.

"Wow, okay, I'm going to call Dr. King, and let her keep you here forever." Your laughter dies down at his words, realisation striking you.

"Wait. Does...Does everyone know about us then?" You ask, a little wide eyed but excited. You've been itching to meet everyone. Especially Dr. J, her videos are so fun.

"Yes. Is that okay?" Jack questions, eyebrows raised up uncertainly.

"Are you kidding? I've been looking forward to meeting everybody."

Jack gives you a big smile at that answer, leaning in to softly brush his lips against yours.

"Okay, sweetheart, I'll let them know that they can come introduce themselves later. But you should try resting some more, okay?" He can't resist planting one more kiss onto your cracked lips. He should find you a lip balm, he pockets that thought for later.

"Okay, will you stay?"

A/N: first robby story and first fanfic after almost a month of inactivity, kinda nervous 🥹 hope you’ll enjoy! next chapter | series masterlist

Robby has been staring at the glow of his laptop for far longer than necessary. The cursor blinks patiently on an empty screen, indifferent to the quiet war unfolding in front of it.

At last, with the reluctant resolve of a man about to cross a bridge he can’t see the end of, he opens a private browser window. It’s an unnecessary precaution, he knows, there is no one here but him; his apartment is small, comfortably worn, and it only bears the evidence of long shifts and forgotten meals. No nosy friend is going to walk through the front door and go straight for his laptop, no partner is waiting up for him.

The website appears in the search bar before he’s even finished typing the first three letters, something that he indulges in only in nights like these, when exhaustion settles so deep into his bones that it should be enough to knock him unconscious, yet his mind refuses to surrender. Every flutter of his eyes brings back flashes of fluorescent lights and blood-stained gloves, as conversations he should have had differently resound in his mind like distant murmurs. Because the emergency department never really lets him leave when he clocks out, it just follows him quietly like a sad ghost, but no less relentless.

A familiar warmth creeps up the back of his neck as he presses enter. It feels indecent, like being caught hovering over a magazine he wasn’t supposed to read at fourteen, but the silence of the apartment stretches too wide some nights. After all, Pittsburgh can offer any kind of spectacle but little comfort.

After twelve hours deep in the chaos of monitors beeping left and right, the stillness should feel like a relief. But lately, it has begun to feel more like damnation. 

So he exhales slowly and rubs a hand over the salt-and-pepper beard shadowing his jaw, ready to look for a pretty face to jerk off to, which definitely sounds much more exciting in theory than in practice. When the page finally loads, though, his body stills as a subscription prompt blooms across the screen: a sleek black box, impossible to dismiss without making a choice.

Continue with Premium Access.

Monthly Membership.

For a second, Robby just stares. Right, the month-long free trial ended a few days ago, but he was too tired to do something about it and ultimately passed out on the couch, which his back made him pay for dearly the following day.

The language is all teasing confidence, because the site knows exactly why he’s here.

At the very bottom, in text so small it feels almost mocking, runs a single line: you must be over 18.

A dry scoff escapes him. Of course he is of age—embarrassingly, pathetically so, to be lurking on this side of the internet. Still, the cursor hovers uselessly over the button. 

A weary sigh echoes in the dim-lit room, filled with the discomfort of recognizing a routine he’d never intended to develop. Robby has spent enough years telling patients to pay attention to patterns and habits that become dependencies before they realize it. But this isn’t that, he keeps telling himself. No, it’s not. It’s just another way of quieting a mind that has forgotten how to rest on its own.

Sometimes, taking the edge off is enough to trick his body into sleep. 

But tonight, faced with the inescapable choice of creating an account or forgetting the existence of this website forever, Robby feels pathetic enough to hesitate.

The idea of getting himself off to a stranger on the internet has always felt like checking a box rather than satisfying a need: an efficient, predictable matter over in a few minutes—a little depressing when reduced to a chore, yes, but at least it does the trick. Which is probably why his mind keeps traitorously coming back to the same uncomfortable thought. 

It slips through the cracks when he’s tired enough to let his guard down, when a shift has run long, when he catches himself lingering in the hospital parking lot with nowhere in particular to be. 

Sex has never really been the problem, yet somewhere along the way the rest of his life narrowed into work and recovery from work. One shift bleeding into the next, one year folding into another, the hospital full of people who knew him well enough to trust him with their lives, but not to call on a day off just to ask how he was doing. And he makes a conscious effort to ignore the sting. Still, there are moments when the realization catches up to him in brief, unwelcome flashes of clarity. Watching colleagues leave at the end of a shift because someone is waiting at home, passing families in the grocery store… It all makes sitting alone at his kitchen table at three in the morning with nothing but the hum of the refrigerator for company feel like he has somehow failed at life.

Because the truth is that even meticulous, irascible Dr. Robby craves for a connection. 

A partner.

A presence that might soften the long evenings that have become dull routine. Someone to share the silence with after a grueling day in a place where desperation and hope blend together. Someone who wouldn’t mind waiting up when a shift runs late, or falling asleep on the couch while he reheats leftovers neither of them have the energy to eat.

There was a time when Robby assumed the rest would simply happen after finding a stable job, that somewhere between a chest tube insertion and a code gray, he’d stumble into the kind of life everyone else seemed to build without much effort: a marriage, a family, holidays that didn’t have to be traded away to younger colleagues because there was someone expecting him at home.

Instead, medicine kept asking for more, and Robby gave in all the time.

However, he never treated it like a sacrifice, the choice was made gladly at the thought of another patient walking out of the ER because he’d been there to help them. Then the years accumulated without him noticing, marked by new classes of residents, by colleagues retiring and children of coworkers growing old enough to apply to medical school themselves.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, life became something that happened to other people. The losses didn’t help, nor the failed relationships—if he could even call the handful of brief, half-hearted entanglements that followed that. Robby considered them patterns that ended before they had time to become anything real, leaving behind little more than a few shared nights and the uncomfortable irony of having once mistaken convenience for intimacy.

Grief, on the other hand, hollowed out spaces he didn’t even know could be emptied, then quietly settled into them as though it had always belonged there. Some mornings, Robby can almost convince himself he’s learned to live around it. Other days, it feels like thorny branches constricting around his lungs.

Now, when he catches his reflection in the darkened window after another sleepless night, the man looking back seems older than fifty-three: the lines around his eyes have settled too deeply to blame fatigue alone, his beard surrendering to more gray than brown. Proof of the time spent taking care of everyone else that the idea of someone choosing to take care of him feels almost risible.

Perhaps he has simply missed his moment, he finds himself thinking more often than he likes to admit while the city beyond glitters with other people’s lives.

It’s not as though he’s made himself particularly approachable, either. With a temperament that has only grown sharper with age and too many ghosts weighing on his conscience, letting people in has begun to feel like a risk not worth taking. It’s easier to be the brilliant, impatient attending than the man who is haunted by outcomes he couldn’t change. Even if beneath the wrinkles and the barked orders, lies a clear, painful truth: Robby is lonely.

His colleagues have friends, spouses, lovers, children… lives waiting beyond the doors of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center’s emergency room. But what does Robby have? An apartment big enough to fit a nursery that grows impossibly cold and quiet day by day, and a body too exhausted to even rest properly.

It’s a bleak conclusion, and not a particularly useful one. Dana would tell him to stop catastrophizing, Jack would probably remind him that he’s simply “vintage” and then jokingly suggest a cane with his coffee. Langdon, if he caught him in the right mood, would make some smart-ass remark just to get him to roll his eyes.

And maybe they’d all be right. But it doesn’t make the apartment any less empty.

He’s probably romanticizing this more than it deserves. It isn’t as though subscribing to a cam site is some quiet admission of defeat, nor is it a desperate attempt to fill the void in his chest with something they never promised to provide. Robby is grown enough to not expect companionship from a woman whose job is to make strangers feel wanted for an hour. That particular fantasy belongs to younger men, foolish enough to mistake attention for affection.

A humorless chuckle escapes under his breath, he’s really debating whether a monthly subscription to a pornography website is a worthwhile expense. It’s only a distraction.

The tightness in his shoulders eases a little, replaced by the brittle sort of resolve that comes with lowering one’s expectations. The box disappears almost instantly after he sets a quick profile and links his payment information, and the page refreshes again. What replaces it is a familiar mosaic of little squares competing for his attention all at once. Hands concealing intimate body parts, bare legs crossed, backs turned, coy smiles… and then there are more crude images that leave nothing to the imagination, yet Robby’s gaze drifts across them the way he might eye a dessert menu, already knowing he won’t order anything.

By now, the rhythm is always the same: he scrolls for a while, sometimes he sighs when he realizes he has been staring blankly at the same corner of the screen, only to resume scrolling a moment later, before eventually clicking into a room if someone catches his eye. He stays enough to come and then turns off his laptop, trying with varying degrees of success to sleep.

Names blur, faces too. He rarely returns to the same camgirl twice, because this works better when everyone remains a stranger. Coming back would invite the kind of attachment he has neither the time nor the right to indulge. 

His index finger idly rolls the mouse wheel as a faint grimace pulls at his mouth. Objectively, there is nothing wrong with any of them. He really shouldn’t be this picky with his unkempt stubble and wrinkly forehead. Robby should just settle on one, instead he keeps scrolling, until he mindlessly leads the cursor toward the red x, half-considering closing the site altogether.

But then his hand stills when his eyes mindlessly wander across the page. 

A beautiful woman appears in one of the smaller thumbnails, languidly leaning forward with a clear toy glinting in the light. Robby stares at the image for longer than he should, a warm sensation already coiling tight in his lower belly. It’s not just the pose, nor even the suggestive promise of the scene… it’s your eyes.

Even reduced to a thumbnail no larger than a postage stamp, they catch him off guard: bright, unmistakably alive. There is an ease to your expression that doesn’t look rehearsed, a flicker of amusement lingering at the corners of your mouth as though you’re sharing a joke with the people on the other side of the screen. Your eyes twinkle with playful determination, perhaps even a touch of recklessness, the sort that suggests you know exactly what you’re doing… and you’re enjoying it.

Robby has seen enough of this to know that a camera and a few whiny words can manufacture intimacy, making a smile feel personal and a glance deliberate.

This should be no different.

And yet, Robby doesn’t scroll past. 

His gaze inevitably drops to the title of your stream, and he almost chokes on his breath.

“Can Daddy fuck me better than my toy?”

Robby’s jaw tightens. 

The site is littered with titles like that, he’s scrolled past several of them over the past few weeks without a second thought, if not with the occasional roll of his eyes at those who didn’t sound even remotely sexy in this particular context. “Daddy” has been stripped of any real meaning by repetition until it feels almost cartoonish to him.

So why does it feel like he’s just been strapped into a rollercoaster? 

His eyes drift back to your face.

You look impossibly young—but not enough that the word feels like a mere gimmick. 

His first instinct is to scoff at himself. For God’s sake, you’re talking to thousands of anonymous viewers, the title wasn’t written for him any more than it was for anyone else. It’s marketing, a carefully chosen fantasy designated for horny losers like Robby to take the bait.

Yet for the first time, he doesn’t really mind playing that role.

Swallowing thickly, he clicks on the stream with an abrupt motion before he can think himself out of it.

The sound reaches him first, a breathy moan leaking from the speakers.

“Fuck—ah ’s too big.”

Robby immediately fumbles with the volume out of habit more than embarrassment. The quiet feels too fragile tonight and he isn’t in the mood to have it broken all at once.

His ears burn at the sight as his eyes betray him, lingering on the screen despite his hands clumsily looking for his glasses abandoned somewhere on the desk. Your naked form enthusiastically rides the clear dildo beneath you, your body shifting with an easy confidence that makes his breath hitch. Even if your face is drawn tight with pleasure, the warm glow of the ring light softens your features.

The sight sends a strange jolt of heat through him, quickly followed by a prickling sense of discomfort. Despite the entire performance being part of the principle that keeps the site running, for the first time ever the moment feels faintly exploitative to Robby.

And yet, his lips part in awe.

You are... gorgeous, yes. There is something captivating about the way you move, a rhythm that feels spontaneous, though guided by a cheeky familiarity. The sounds that slip past your lips are sweet and breathy, threaded with bliss in a way that sends an unexpected shiver down his spine. It’s a pleasant respite from the loud, tacky sounds that most camgirls put up for show, sometimes they are so irritating he needs to put them on mute. Yours are genuine enough to feel almost intimate, as though Robby has wandered into a moment not entirely meant for him.

Your body responds to pleasure with a fluid grace, from the slow roll of your hips, to the subtle tension that travels through your thigh with each movement. When your back arches, it’s instinctive, unguarded, and it pushes your breasts forward in a way that feels both vulnerable and mesmerizing. For a fleeting second, the pose appears nearly sculptural, the soft light catching along your delicious curves before you relax again with your breath uneven.

Robby shakes his head lightly, suddenly aware of how intently he has been watching you.

It’s not the obvious lewdness of the performance that holds his attention, but that spark of boldness that reveals itself across your expression, and your confident movements in front of the camera’s gaze.

Beautiful, certainly. But more than that, impossible to ignore.

Your giggle at some message in the chat melts into a gasp as you lower yourself until your folds graze the base of the toy. Your hazy eyes roll back in ecstasy as heat coils violently in your lower belly, prompting you to start bouncing up and down like a hopping bunny, your palms flat on the floor to help your hips roll more easily.

Robby didn’t know how much he needed this. Each gesture, each subtle provocation draws out something unfamiliar in him—shame at how much he’s enjoying this, laced with undeniable arousal. His hand tightens briefly at the edge of the desk, and a low, unbidden hum escapes his throat before he can stop it. His pulse hammers in a way that feels almost worrying. It’s disorienting, intoxicating, and entirely new.

And he’s only just begun.

“I wish you were here to feel how wet I am.” You sigh. “Can you hear it?” Your filthy words pull a sharp huff out of Robby as his focus automatically latches onto the subtle soppy noises complimenting your moans.

Your chest heaves, glossy lips opening in a perfect circle as you look up at the camera with an innocence that only heightens the intensity of the moment. “Are you close, Daddy?” 

Robby can’t even remember the last time his sweatpants have been this unbearably tight, so he unties them hastily, lowering them along with his boxers enough to expose his erection. He wants to touch himself, to lose himself in this perverted fantasy against the nagging thought at the back of his mind insisting that you are probably half his age. 

“That’s it, baby.” You cry out, circling your hips so the toy rubs against your walls. “Please, please wanna feel your cum leaking out of me all night.”

Your dirty mouth and sweet manners have him completely dizzy, and Robby can no longer resist the burning urge to grant his cock some sort of relief. Quiet groans fill the space as he gives his hard and throbbing girth a few experimental strokes. Fully erect, Robby’s cock is imposing, longer and thicker than the large dildo you are bouncing on. 

He can’t stop the memory from creeping in: his most recent, humiliating sexual experience. A woman he met at a bar took one look at his dick and promptly looked back into his eyes with disbelief, before climbing out of bed and inventing some poor excuse about not feeling well. The sting of that action lingered far longer than it should have—along with his erection, since his not-so-little friend had apparently decided to take a vacation that day, so Robby was forced to secretly swallow a little blue pill after the woman had expressed her interest to go back to his.

He reckons that you too would be horrified by his size, but for this fleeting moment, he will allow himself to pretend otherwise, wishing to bask into the fantasy of your gaze eyeing him approvingly, your small, teasing smirk meant for him alone. It’s absurd and delusional, and Robby would probably slap himself later, but it feeds a buried, rare warmth in his chest that he ignored for too long. It craves to be seen, for appreciation for the part of himself he is most ashamed of, because even if he had a fair share of good sexual experiences, the difficulties of making it fit and the backhanded compliments were always there.

“See how good I’m taking it? I told you it’d fit!” He almost chokes on his own saliva.

Maybe you could really take him just fine with a little careful preparation.

The tip alert has been going off this whole time, and the doctor thinks he understands now. There is something about you that pulls at his chest; he wants to shower you with everything he has to offer: his focus, his praise, his money, the small gestures that might make you notice him amongst the countless people competing for your attention.

It’s not just lust, or simple curiosity. The thought of being acknowledged and leaving a trace of himself in your world, however fleeting, claws at his chest with dangerous eagerness.

Anticipation churns violently in his belly, urging him closer to the screen. To you.

“Oh God! Daddy, I’m coming, come with me—please, please…” You whimper, your breasts perky and bouncing with every thrust of your hips.

“Shit.” Robby grits out as his orgasm takes him by surprise.

His legs shamelessly part as his cock spurts over the hand he has wrapped around it, lost in the sad illusion that it’s your pussy gripping him so tight. He milks every last drop, soiling part of his belly and pants as well, but his mind is too blinded by pleasure to acknowledge the mess.

Your moans grow louder and higher, and the sight of your cunt stretching so deliciously around the silicone stops Robby from leaving his cock alone. He keeps the strokes going, squirming at the twinge of overstimulation.

“Fuck.” Your hips jerk forward once, body sinking down on the whole length as you curl up on yourself. Your hips twitch and your chest heaves with each gasp while your climax washes over you. Your eyes roll back and Robby’s spent length jerks in interest, it has been far too long since he has felt this good after masturbating.

He should be ashamed of jerking off to a young woman calling him daddy and begging to be filled with his big cock, but frankly he couldn’t care less.

Your eyes squeeze shut at the way your sensitive walls clench around the toy once more, before you tiredly push yourself up on your knees to gently pull it out.

“Look what you’ve done to me.” You sit back on the beige towel you probably laid on the floor before the stream, your legs opening to allow your fingers to spread your folds for the camera. Then you reach for the dildo again, parting your lips enough for your tongue to peek out and give the length a teasing lick. 

“Fucking hell.” Robby mumbles, his eyes jumping back and forth between your stretched lips and your fingers lazily playing with your glistening pussy. You can’t be real.

He frowns at his cock. No, he’s too tired and sensitive for another round; it would require too much time, even if you keep stoking the fire inside him with every little lick.

“Hm, bet you’d love the taste.” Suckling on the tip, you stare directly at the lens, as if to challenge him. 

Robby rubs his stubble, a tired huff escaping his nostrils at the desperate need to wrap his hand back around his length just to come again at the sight of you tasting yourself. You hollow your cheeks one last time, letting the dildo out of your mouth with a resounding pop.

“I had so much fun tonight, guys.” You smile, and Robby swears his heart stutters a little. “I really needed it.”

“Oh!” You perk up. “Look what I got today…” You reach for something off-camera, coming back a few seconds later as you proudly dangle a nipple chain in front of you.

Your eyes flick to the side, presumably reading the chat as texts quickly pour one right after the other. The relentless speed at which they race across the screen is enough to make Robby look away before a headache has the chance to settle in.

You giggle—a refreshing melody that makes him lean back in his chair with a quiet sigh. “Not tonight, you perverts! Your baby girl can only take so much.”

Your baby girl, his mind repeats unhelpfully.

It’s almost impossible to reconcile the two images in his mind: the woman who was eagerly making herself feel good in front of an audience, and the adorable, radiant sweetheart chatting naked with five hundred viewers, as if it were just another Tuesday for you. 

It leaves Robby completely smitten.

“Well, have a good night.” You conclude, offering a casual wave. “See you on Thursday!” A playful blow of a kiss follows, and then the notice that the stream has ended covers the screen, leaving your lovely smile frozen behind it.

Silence abruptly engulfs the room with Robby sitting motionless before the screen where a handful of your recommended videos line the sidebar. He scarcely has time to register the fact that, until now, he has never stayed long enough to watch a stream until the end, before the cursor is already hovering over your username, clicking through to your profile almost on its own accord.

Details about private shows and video requests are listed, along with your regular schedule, so Robby promptly opens the calendar app on his phone and makes a note with careful precision. He perks up once he notices the photo gallery: images of you posing in colorful lingerie that compliments your skin tone, teasingly aware of the camera; a few shots of you naked and on your knees before a full-length mirror, body angled sideways and one arm shielding your chest; and then a picture of you lounging in bed, lips wrapped around a red heart-shaped lollipop.

But there are also videos, which his cardiologist would almost certainly advice against.

Some are very short, like the one where you stand in front of the camera, the only parts visible being your mouth and your torso as you pull your tight top up to let your tits bounce free. Some are a little longer, a taste of what to expect in your streams, like the one where you are in a car—presumably yours—giving a dildo a blowjob. The toy has a suction cup attached to the window on the driver side, and you are enthusiastically sucking it off in the middle of a dark underground parking garage, your chest bare and your hips thrusting desperately into the air to find a bit of stimulation for your pussy. If his breath hitches at the thought of you loving the possibility of getting caught, Robby almost has a heart attack at the next one. Because you are lying on your bed, gasping and writhing as you bully your clit with a pink vibrator, body covered by a long, flimsy cardigan left open, the color suspiciously close to the old Burgh zip-up hoodie he wears at work. 

He decides to close the tab once he realizes he has been looking for familiar signs in the background of the first video.

Without hesitation, Robby subscribes to your account, confirming the payment before his hands hover over the keyboard at the box asking if he wants to send a tip. Money is not something he has in abundance, but decades dedicated to medicine and no one else depending on his paycheck have afforded him a certain comfort. Enough, at least, that the occasional indulgence never requires much deliberation. 

His right palm rests on the desk, fidgeting nervously when his eyes catch the optional box to leave a message alongside the tip.

It would be nothing, just a sentence. But even that feels like a step too far. He could already see how it would unfold: he’d check back later, and then again, pretending not to care, measuring the hours by the absence of a reply. And if you do respond, even briefly, neutral, it would lodge somewhere deep and stubborn inside his chest. Another invisible weight he would carry alone. The thought makes him ache with a stinging, familiar recognition.

Wanting has always been the dangerous part: it turns fleeting moments into promises no one has made.

Shaking his head, Robby lets out a humorless chortle. He can’t believe himself. This is how it starts, isn’t it? Convincing yourself that a few words might change the shape of things, that you can step out of the misery you built your life around just by being sincere enough.

The cursor continues its patient blinking.

Not even an hour ago, you had been another fish in the sea. Another room to wander into before sleep for a quick orgasm. Another name destined to dissolve into the rest by morning. That has always been the appeal of this place: no history, no expectations.

Robby drags a hand down his face.

Christ, in the span of a single night, he’d managed to break every rule he had set for himself.

He stayed until the end. He subscribed. He caught himself searching the screen for scraps of a life that has nothing to do with him. He fucking put the reminder of your next streams in his calendar.

That’s enough.

Robby has spent too many years indulging impulses in the ED, where every instinct tells you to keep going and order one more test, ask one more question, chase one more possibility. Reality, on the other hand, teaches you that there comes a point when doing more isn’t helping anymore, but it’s only delaying the moment you have to let go.

This feels too familiar.

With his jaw clenched, Robby withdraws his hand from the keyboard. The message box disappears with a single click and soon his face is the only thing staring back at him through the black screen.

By Wednesday morning, the startling revelations of the night before have already begun to dissolve beneath the familiar rhythm of the hospital. Ambulances arrive in relentless succession, one of the residents spirals during a thoracotomy and Robby has neither the time nor the gentleness to pull them back together, and Gloria corners him again in the hallway with another quality report tucked beneath her arm, causing Robby to ask whether patient satisfaction might improve if they stopped expecting miracles from a skeleton crew.

He snaps more sharply than he intends to, but then forgets the entire exchange before the end of the shift.

His apartment keeps feeling less like a place to live and more like somewhere to leave his shoes between shifts. Sleep comes reluctantly in fractured stretches interrupted by dreams he never quite remembers and alarms that sound so cheerful it feels almost mocking.

He doesn’t really have the opportunity to think about his stupid slip-up. 

Although the thought of you surfaces once or twice during rare quiet rides in the elevator, the ED has a way of demanding every tiny crumb of his attention. There is always a patient to reassess, another family waiting for answers he can’t always give.

On Thursday night, he is halfway through a documentary about the deep-sea ecosystem—something slow enough that doesn’t require much thinking—when a soft chime causes him to startle.

His phone lights up on the coffee table, a groan rumbling in his ribcage when Robby stretches towards it and his lower back stings. He’s already slipping into the Chief mentality, before he freezes.

It’s not a text desperately asking for his presence at work, nor one of those useless spam emails from random websites he accidentally subscribed to. It’s a calendar alert.

For your stream.

He completely forgot he’d set a reminder.

His thumb hovers over the notification without touching it. 

Deleting it would be the sensible thing to do.

Instead, he lets the documentary continue in the background, the narrator calmly explaining with his British accent the migration patterns of creatures that spend their lives in perpetual darkness while Robby stares at the screen until it goes black again.

He was doing perfectly well. Better, even. The last forty-eight hours returned everything to its rightful order: work, home, sleep—when it came.

Opening that website again would accomplish exactly nothing.

He has spent years building his life around restraint to mistake a passing desire for a reason. Wanting is not the same as needing, curiosity is not permission, and whatever restless pull has taken hold of him tonight is only that, a disturbance. Still, it lingers tightly beneath his breastbone, refusing to ease no matter how deeply he breathes, or how firmly he reminds himself that he has already crossed enough lines as he briefly stood at the edge of something he had no business approaching. That should have been enough to shut down whatever foolish part of him wanted to see you again.

But the ache keeps asking for one more indulgence. He can feel the shape of temptation clearly enough to name it for what it is: pure humiliating desire to feel something other than the dull, disciplined exhaustion that has become part of who he is.

Maybe that’s all this is, of course. The week has been unforgiving: he’s slept poorly, eaten worse, his afternoon spent untangling problems that should have never reached his desk in the first place. For fuck’s sake, he’s over fifty years old, the Chief of one of the busiest emergency departments in the city... He is not the sort of man to be unmoored by a woman he has seen once in his life. You don’t even know of his existence beyond a subscription notification.

And this... well, it doesn’t have to mean anything. Or at least that’s the lie he settles on for tonight. 

Before he has fully decided otherwise, Robby is already reaching for the laptop resting at the other end of the couch.

This time you’re dressed in a snug top and a pair of shorts, looking all pretty and sinful at once as you sit cross-legged on the floor in front of your bed.

There’s a delicate warmth to your presence, that same teasing energy he witnessed two days ago reflecting in the slight tilt of your head. Your effortless grace makes it impossible for Robby to look at you with anything short of admiration dancing in his own eyes.

“Thank you for joining me today.” 

The chat is already alive, and you greet a few viewers whose usernames are marked with colorful emblems. They must be regular donors.

Robby wonders how much they must have spent to earn that kind of attention. For a dangerous moment he considers typing a greeting himself, but the words feel too heavy, still awkward, so he sets on quietly basking a little longer in your presence.

“As I wrote in my Instagram story, tonight I feel like doing a Q&A, nothing too tiring, if you’re all up for it. I’m exhausted.”

You have an Instagram account. Maybe he will follow Santos’ advice and set one too.

The messages slow just enough that Robby can finally make out actual words instead of random blurry spots.

You squint at the screen. “Okay, first of all, whoever keeps spamming the same question in all caps…” Your lips twitch. “I’m not answering it out of principle, just so you know.”

A row of laughing emojis floods the chat.

“See? Actions have consequences.” 

You silently observe the texts for a while.

“Do you actually read all of these messages? Absolutely not. Have you seen yourselves? You type faster than I can think.” You snort. “Which, to be fair, isn’t something I like to do after nine p.m.”

“How am I doing tonight? Thanks for asking, milf_fucker86.” Robby rolls his eyes at the username. “As I mentioned before, I’m drained. It’s one of those weeks where every single day feels like it should’ve been Friday.”

You frown, freezing as you are tucking one leg beneath yourself.

“Actually, tomorrow is Friday.” 

kneel4mommy

Same

real_tom_thanks

girl me too

softboiii69

LMAOOO

“Thank God it’s not just me.” You shake your head with a chuckle before leaning forward to look for more interesting messages.

“What do you do when you’re not streaming?” You sigh. “I recover from streaming.”

A few people protest.

“No, seriously.” You stretch your arms above your head, and Robby tries unsuccessfully to keep his eyes from wandering to your turgid nipples straining against the tight fabric.

“I work, I bother my friends with stupid reels, I spend an embarrassing amount of time convincing myself I’ll start going to the gym next Monday…” A forlorn sigh escapes your nostrils.

kneel4mommy

Which monday?

“Okay, that’s exactly the kind of negativity I don’t need.” You look gravely at the camera, before a small smile brightens your face.

“Favorite book? Oh, don’t do this to me.” You grimace. “I can’t just pick one, it depends on the day. I have, like… categories.” You keep your eyes on the chat as you hum pensively.

“Right now I’m halfway through this novel… It’s about this woman who keeps finding handwritten notes in library books from someone she never meets.” You put your hands in front of you, palms open and pointed at the camera. “Now, I know how that sounds.” Your voice is cautious, but the chat immediately starts teasing anyway.

“Oh my God, it’s not cheesy!” You scoff a laugh, squinting slightly. “Well, okay, no maybe it’s a little cheesy. But the writing is really good! It’s less about romance and more about… hm, I don’t know.”

You look sideways, pursing your lips in thought.

“The weird ways people leave pieces of themselves behind without meaning to.” You speak carefully. “Don’t know if that makes any sense, my brain is too fried to be this profound at this hour.”

“Okay, next question!” You perk up, clapping your hands once, and Robby feels his lips stretch into a smile of his own.

“Dumbest thing you’ve done recently? Oh, that’s easy. I tried baking cookies for my best friend’s birthday party.” The chat fills with hearts.

“Nah, don’t ‘aww’, it was a complete disaster.” You grimace. “I forgot baking soda.” An embarrassing silence fills the room as the chat fills with emojis ranging from confusion to resignation.

“Which apparently is important.”

touched_grass_once

apparently?????

“Listen, they looked fine!” You shrug. “They were just… a little flat.” 

The chat erupts with laughter.

“My apartment smelled like fucking smoke for two days.” You grin sheepishly. “BUT! My best friend still ate one.”

You suddenly burst out laughing. “Yes, froyo_baggings, that’s the same friend who called me crying two months ago because she thought someone had broken into her apartment. For anyone who doesn’t know this story, she rounded the corner, saw a figure standing in the hallway and immediately dialed my number. That person was her. Because she’d bought a full-length mirror that morning.”

You shake your head. “Yes, of course she loved the cookies! It’s the thought that counts after all.”

More questions race past about your job, but you are careful to keep it vague enough to not give out too many details. Though Robby must repeatedly remind himself this is only your online persona, he is hopelessly invested. So much that he completely ignores the small ding from his microwave, where a now cold lasagna sits forgotten. You are so entirely captivating that the impossible thought of meeting someone like you in real life presses against his chest, sharp and tender all at once.

“Where do you live? No.” 

“What’s your real name? Fuck no.”

“Can we see your apartment? The fuck?” Yet you still smile as you say it, enough that it never feels like a full rejection.

“I don’t mind sharing little things about my life, but some things get to stay mine.” Your smile turns tight as you continue, something you decide to hide by biting your bottom lip and focusing back on the questions.

“Dream vacation? You know what’s funny?” You change position, crossing your legs again. “Every time somebody asks me this, they expect me to say something like Greece or the Maldives.” You shake your head.

“Absolutely not.”

The chat explodes with question marks.

“Because if I’m on vacation I don’t want to come back more exhausted than when I left. I can’t stand the heat, and spending an entire week on the beach under the sun would put me directly underground. I prefer somewhere cold.”

byteme

you’re insane

“Am I?” One of your eyebrows lifts skeptically.

No, Robby thinks you are actually one of the sanest people he has ever met.

“You’ve never had tea by the window while it rains outside? You’ve never sat in one of those tiny cafés where you can’t understand a single thing about what everyone around you is saying but somehow that’s the most peaceful place in the world?” 

Your voice softens just a fraction.

“I think I’d like that.” You nod slowly, but the sentimentality does not last for long.

“What’s your favorite organ?” Recoiling, you stare at the camera in horror. “Who raised you people?”

Robby lets out a quiet laugh, an involuntary reaction that he kills on the spot by setting his lips into a thin line. The sound would be ordinary for any other person, but it catches him completely off guard, because he can’t remember the last time he laughed like that, particularly with one one else in the room. 

It’s in that moment that the doctor finally becomes aware of himself and the apartment that continues existing around him without asking anything in return. The clock in the corner of your stream says it’s been almost thirty minutes, and Robby frowns at it as if it has personally offended his whole family. 

It’s not possible. He had meant to stay for ten, fifteen minutes at the absolute most. Again, long enough to let the day loosen its grip from his shoulders, not watching you talk about books and fucking cookies. 

But somewhere along the way he stopped hoping for your clothes to come off. And while his body is no less tense than it was when he opened his laptop, and the stinging behind his eyes lingers as he decided to forgo his glasses this time, the urgency that has driven him here in the first place has receded silently. It’s embarrassing how, instead, Robby has been devouring every single word falling from your lips like a starved man: the detours, the way you gesticulate animatedly when the chat teases you, your soft smiles… 

And now he knows that the same woman whose real name still remains a mystery, whose face is illuminated by a ring light instead of the morning sun, can’t tell a story without accidentally collecting three others along the way. That she loses the thread when something makes her laugh, only to stumble upon it several minutes later. That her fingers play with the little moon-shaped pendant of her necklace whenever she needs to reprimand some of her rowdiest viewers, because there is something about confrontation that evidently makes her nervous—for a second Robby wonders whether anyone else noticed it, or whether it has now become a little secret shared between the two of you. That she wants to visit some cold, faraway place, and Robby realizes he has spent so many years leaving Pittsburgh only for conferences that he’s forgotten people sometimes travel simply because they want to. 

Which destination would you choose? Perhaps somewhere with narrow streets, surrounded by mountains and lush vegetation. The sort of place that holds no expectations.

As though the simple act of looking elsewhere might be enough to dispel the thought, Robby tears his eyes from the screen and looks at the untouched mug on the coffee table. 

His gaze lingers there for a moment too long, before drifting absently to the lone sock lying beneath it, abandoned there when Robby had stretched out on the couch after his shower. Outside, rain has begun tapping softly against the windows, and only when he turns curiously to look at the sky a dull stiffness catches at the base of his neck, making him wince. He rolls one shoulder experimentally, because he’d scarcely moved in the better part of an hour, save for the single time the armrest had begun digging sharply into the bone. 

Lastly, the television. It is now playing a crime documentary about stalkers and obsessions. 

Robby can’t help but feel his stomach churn uncomfortably, because he can’t remember a single thing from the creatures living thousands of feet beneath the ocean’s surface, but can picture with alarming clarity the way your face lights up when you laugh. Your eyes disappear first, then your head automatically ducks as though you’re trying to hide the shape of your mouth—sometimes it’s a hand that covers it—and Robby asks himself what made you so self-conscious about it. Was it a toxic ex? A middle-school bully? But then you always look back at the camera with the same irrepressible grin still lingering at the corners of your mouth.

“Ah!” Robby startles at your loud exclamation, his brown eyes immediately jumping back to the screen. “vibemike wants to know my favorite role play. Okay chat, let’s see how well you know me.”

“Professor and student? That’s hot but not my favorite.” You nod, before your eyebrows raise in surprise. “Repairman and homeowner? Hm, interesting. What do you think? Me opening the door in a sweater and no panties?” You giggle.

Leaning forward, you squint at the chat again as Robby shakes his head at how human beings can sexualize even the most innocent of interactions.

“Strangers at a bar!” You exclaim, straightening up. “That’s something I’ve always wanted to try but I’m pretty sure I’d end up ruining it. I’m sorry, it’s just so funny that I have to flirt with the other person as if I don’t know what they look like naked.”

“Okay, okay. You gave me a lot of good ideas but it’s something I’ve never actually mentioned before.” Your torso lean forward just a little bit, as if to share an important secret.

“Lately I’ve been really into the doctor kink.” You whisper.

Robby’s heart falls to his feet.

“I know.” You giggle. “I just want to be thrown on an examination table and have my handsome doctor force my legs open while reprimanding me about how important it is to have my pussy inspected once in a while.” A tiny sigh escapes your parted lips as you tuck your legs closer to your chest, resting your chin on top of your knees.

“Maybe I’d let him fuck my mouth, you know, for good luck before he goes off to save his other patients.” You wink, already laughing as Robby swallows dryly. 

You wet your lips, before glancing down between your legs. “Well, would you look at that.”

His gaze instinctively drops to the empty space between his knees, tiredly dragging a hand down his flushed face as his bulge is hot under his sweatpants.

“Jesus Christ.” He mumbles.

“No, I’m not wearing a bra, super_sp3rm.” Chuckling, you get up on your knees to give your viewers a nice close-up of your chest, your nipples erect and begging to be worshipped.

With a knowing grin, you keep chatting leisurely, both of your hands rubbing and squeezing your tits until your breath hitches faintly.

“I wasn’t planning on playing with you tonight.” You gasp as your manicured nails lightly tease your covered nubs. “But my panties are all wet now after thinking about some hot doctor playing with my pussy. What do you think? Should I take care of it?”

The tips have been quite slow... until now. Robby has a feeling this was your wicked plan all along.

A chuckle bursts out of you as you look at the chat. “God, you’re filthy.”

Your teeth chew on your bottom lip as your free hand sinks beneath the fabric of your shorts, starting little circular motions.

“This is all your fault. I just wanted to talk to you guys.” You whine softly. “So this is all you get for tonight.”

Robby is a little disappointed as your pussy stays hidden, but seeing you rubbing yourself under your shorts as your fingers leisurely pull and flick your covered nipples is enough for his heart to pick up its pace in anticipation.

You moan under your breath. “Fuck, ‘s so sensitive.” Your brows furrow in pleasure, before your eyes momentarily fly to the chat. 

“Are you going to come with me, hm?” With your head falling back, your fingers twist your left nipple hard enough for you to cry out. “Oh!” You gasp, back arching and eyes rolling back.

Robby stares in awe at your body shaking, before your hand languidly comes out of your shorts for you to slowly taste your glistening fingers, quietly sucking on each digit as you stare directly at the camera.

“Hm, so good.” Then, with a little impish grin, “Maybe that could be you cleaning me up next time.”

The messages grow increasingly dirtier, but from the way your eyes slowly blink at the camera, Robby knows you must be too tired to continue. A few viewers clearly expected more, so you assure them next week you’ll be back with your usual content.

Robby observes silently, not quite hard but still sated, the promise of more hanging in the air as a faint bitter taste in his mouth lingers at the thought of having to wait four days to see you again.

“Just a little reminder that this week I’ll be available on both Saturday and Sunday for private shows. So hurry up and book your slot!” You wink, completely unaware of how you just undid Robby with a few simple words.

“Just send me an inbox if you’re interested.”

After your stream ends, he quickly opens your profile and decides to type a short, respectful line, easy to ignore, and send a tip.

Thank you for the company.

The moment it’s gone, the action fully settles in. Your inbox must already be crowded with names and small attempts at catching your attention, all blurring together. He is just another stranger passing through, another line you’ll never have the time to read.

The couch creaks softly as he slumps back, wondering why the sole knowledge hadn’t stopped him—that despite knowing how insignificant he might be in a sea of faceless users, he still had let himself indulge in this little attempt at connecting with you.

But when Robby logs in the next day—totally not to check if you had replied—there is a small, red number one sitting at the top of his inbox. His fingers pause over the touchpad, brown eyes blinking once, twice, hardly believing it.

Hey DoctorR! Wow!! Thank you so much for the generous tip 🤍 Were you interested in a private show?

A small smile unconsciously tugs at the corners of his mouth. He is genuinely surprised you answered. Even from behind a screen, your acknowledgment makes his heartbeat flutter dangerously fast, leaving Robby both elated and unnervingly aware of how much he wants to matter to you, despite the stubborn conviction that he is doing this just to entertain himself—and of course to pay you back for the incredible orgasms.

His eyes then flick to the amount he sent, just to make sure he didn’t add too many zeros by mistake. But no, the number is exactly as intended: one hundred dollars. The amount hardly seems like a generous tip; after all, your time is surely worth far more.

His eyes slide over your words again and again, until the weight of your question finally prompts his hands to hastily move against the keyboard at the prospect of a call just between you and him. He sends a quick message confirming his interest in a private show, and caught up in the thrill of what’s to come, sends another twenty dollars.

Before he can log out for tonight, though, your reply appears: another cheerful omg thank you!! followed by another text to let him know your availability for Saturday night. He asks if it’s a problem for you to set the call at eleven—just a precaution since he never actually clocks out at nine—and you reassure him it’s completely fine with you.

Your exchange is straightforward and short, and Robby is oddly comforted by that. He will be paying for your lovely company, so even if he is as dull as the people around him have recently told him, you will at least be compensated.

Perhaps this weekend he won’t be as miserable as usual.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general robby taglist: @obsessed-oops @bikinibottomspeach @verss88 @macbaetwo @dugiioh @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf @eliza7up @kittymeowmeow17 @mimi-ro @mmb77 @lrosenblut26

jack’s hand slides down your back to cup your ass, you don’t jump away. robby wonders would you have jumped if he had been the one to touch you.

robby swallows thickly when jack points at him, directing your gaze over to robby. you wave coyly, soft smile playing at your lips as you nod along to something jack said.

before he knows what’s happening the two of you are coming over, you’re sliding in the booth next to robby, hand on his thigh as you settle in.

“h-hi..” robby stutters as you turn to face him with your whole body. he’s drinking you in with his eyes, you look even more perfect to him up close.

“hey.” you smile back, a soft, gentle smile that stirs up something crazy in robby’s belly.

“so, you ready to go?” jack asks, finishing the last dregs of his beer before getting up.

robby’s brows turn upwards, he’d only just got you next to him and of course jack was already taking you away.

“sure!” you quip, sliding out of the booth, practically skipping to jack’s side.

“oh…you guys have fun.” robby tries to fake a smile but he can’t help the disappointment that follows through in his tone.

“i thought…is he not coming?” you turn to jack, your brows furrowed and slight pout playing at your lips.

“of course he is, sweetheart. this whole thing was robby’s idea…wasn’t it, brother?” jack winks discreetly in robby’s direction and that’s when it clicks.

“oh-uh, yeah. of course.” robby laughs nervously as he gets himself up out of the booth, putting his own jacket on.

“hey, sweetheart. you go ahead, we need to pay our tab, we’ll meet you out there.” jack calls after you, giving your ass a playful slap as you skip away to the exit.

“look, man. when we get to your place i’m going to say the hospital called me in, okay. you two have fun.” jack leans over to whisper in robby’s ear.

“really? you did this for me?” robby can’t quite believe it, jack never just lets a girl go.

“yeah, of course. you’re my brother, man. i love you, you deserve a little fun. and hey, she’s really into you so don’t fuck it up, yeah?” jack grabs robby’s shoulder giving him a light jostle as they head for the exit. robby nods. don’t fuck it up. don’t fuck it up.

see, jack abbot can be a good friend sometimes and besides, what robby doesn’t know is he already got your number. he’ll have his fun with you some other time.

idek what this is, it was in my drafts and i didn’t have anything else to post sooo it’ll have to do :// in that stage of my cycle where i hate absolutely everything and nothing is going right so if i try to write something new i’ll cry.

want to be added to my regular robby taglist? reply to this post <3

"Dr. Robinavitch." The vaguely familiar woman greets Robby.

"Nurse Hastings." Robby greets back, his expression lifting in the presence of the woman, "You can call me Robby."

"You can call me Noelle." The woman smiles back at him.

You watch them in confusion. There was something clearly going on between them, that brief interaction they had put them in their own little bubble before they looked back at you. There was something you were explicitly missing —oh.

They were flirting.

It was subtle sure, if you weren't so close to overhear them then you probably wouldn't have noticed it but it wasn't just their voices. Noelle's cheeks flushed slightly and Robby's eyes crinkled in the way they do when people look at something they love and it felt like you were intruding on something intimate and private.

Your heart twists at the realisation. For the past five years, ever since you arrived at the PMTC to begin your residency, you had been in love with Robby. It had started as a mere crush like it always did and it wasn't a unique story in the slightest, you simply fell in love with your boss and when you spend twelve hours a day with them, it was easy to do so. You had debated on whether to tell him or not, and initially you had been scared of rejection and then the prospect of having to suffer working under someone who outright rejected you for next five years or go through the hassle of finding somewhere else in the country to complete your residency. 

Deep down you were looking for an excuse, a solid reason to not tell him that you loved him and you found it in the employee handbook. Relationships between senior members of staff were not permitted with junior ones. You were a first year resident and he was the chief of emergency medicine, it would never work and even if you attempted something and the hospital found out, it would be you getting the boot. You loved working as a doctor, you loved your colleagues and you loved Pittsburgh and you weren't willing to give any of it up just because you had a crush on your boss.

So you buried it deep and tried to forget about it. You dated around and even had a couple of short-term boyfriends over the years in an attempt to get over him and you thought it worked until right now. As you watched him flirt with Noelle, you realised you hadn't stopped loving him at all.

They turn back to your unimpressed face, your eyes flicking between the both of them, "Uh, you could just tell me what the hell’s going on here."

"This is Noelle." Robby motions towards the woman next to him, "She’s our, um…"

"Bed control manager." You cut in, "No, we met."

"Case manager." They both correct you before Noelle continues on, "And this guy won’t be staying."

"Oh, he needs surgery." You tell her, looking back over at the man just feet away.

"Which his insurance will pay for at Westbridge Memorial, not here." She tells you.

You look over at Robby in disbelief, "Wait, so we have to transfer?"

"If… if he’s stable." Noelle clarifies, prompting Robby for the answer she wants. 

"I believe that he is." Robby admits after a moment, "Look on the bright side. We’re gonna free up a bed, discharge a patient."

You raise your brows in surprise at his words. You had never heard him say that before. Sure getting a bed free was always a problem but whenever Gloria harped about it to him, Robby always fought back but maybe this new girlfriend of his is making him softer.

It sparks irritation and anger in you. You didn't take it personally, you knew it was Noelle's job but you hated all of it. Patients are brought in with traumatic injuries only to get transferred out because their insurance doesn't cover you.

"Until the next patient brought in by EMT's also has insurance that doesn't cover us and we have a carousel of patients we can't treat." You snark back, unable to help yourself.

"He will get great care at Westbridge." Noelle fiddles with her tablet before she turns to Robby, "Don’t you agree, Robby?"

Robby nods along, "I’m sure that he will."

"What am I missing?" You ask, watching them have another moment, speaking before you think. You quickly added another question to save yourself, "Is there something else happening with Allen Billings that I don’t know about?

"Not medically." Robby shakes his head.

"This is just a simple insurance transfer." Noelle adds.

"Mm, yeah, okay." You scoff, turning to Robby, "In that case, you can tell him. I have other patients to treat."

Robby eyebrows raise to his hairline, "Excuse me?"

You know you're pushing your luck now. You may be a good doctor but you were still a resident and he was still the chief of the department and your boss.

"Well it's just a simple insurance transfer," You parrot their words back at them, "I'm sure he'll understand. Especially if you tell him to look at the brightside and see how it frees a bed for a new patient."

With that your spin around and disappear around the corner, leaving them to watch you leave in stunned silence.

"What’s that about?" Noelle asks, slightly shocked at your behaviour.

"Nothing." Robby dismisses her question as they begin to walk towards the charge station.

"Didn’t feel like nothing." Noelle doesn't let the topic drop, "She's got a…personality."

"She's young, passionate, not yet broken by the politics of healthcare." Robby spills, "She has a very heightened sense of empathy."

"Meaning?" Noelle prods.

"Meaning she’s good at picking up on stuff."

Noelle's voice drops in volume as she picks up on what Robby was saying, "You didn’t say anything, did you?"

"Nope." Robby shakes his head, "I subscribe to the Falstaff advice. Discretion is the better part of valor."

You were meant to be catching up on your reports, taking advantage of the brief spare time you had between patients when your attention was pulled away by the sight of Robby and Noelle together. Robby was just with Dana moments ago, getting updates when Noelle walked in and now he was kneeling by her side, under the guise of doing up his shoelace as he spoke to her.

A wave of jealousy washed over you at the sight of them. Watching them interact during the morning had sent you into a foul mood and your attempts to pull yourself out of it were flushed away whenever they flirted with each other.

Thankfully you were given an out when a new patient popped up on the board with your name attached to it. You brush past them as head to the patient, paying them no mind and not realising they're both watching you as you leave.

"I've got a question," Noelle begins, "Do you know if she's dating anyone?"

Robby's head whips around so fast, it leaves an ache in his neck, "Excuse me?"

"From what you were telling me earlier about her being passionate and feisty, I know someone who would be great for her," Noelle shrugs.

"Who?" Robby begins to frown and for a reason unknown to him, he didn't like the prospect of you going on a date with someone. Most people keep their loved ones away from the hospital in general and for good reason but over the years Robby has seen peoples partners picking them up from the hospital or even occasionally dropping off lunch for them, but he had never seen that with you. If it wasn't for the fact that the young doctors always spoke loudly whenever they gossiped about their love lives causing Robby to overhear, he would have never known about the people you date.

"Someone from upstairs."

"Someone from upstairs." Robby echoes.

"A lawyer."

"A lawyer." Robby echoes once more causing Noelle to huff at him.

 "Is there an echo in here? Why are you repeating everything I say?"

"Sorry, sorry. So a lawyer?"

"His name is Jonathan. Nice guy."

That makes Robby bark out a laugh, "Well you know how she is. Maybe you should tell him what he would be getting into."

Noelle shakes her head, "I think he could handle her."

Robby frowns and swallows harshly at that, something deep inside of him flickering in discomfort. You had been a constant by his side ever since you arrived five years ago and you were also probably his favourite resident, his protege that he brought in on every major case because he knew and trusted in your skills. He never considered you more than a resident doctor whom he should mentor until you attended a conference together in New Jersey. During the trip, you bonded over shared interests and aligned beliefs and that was where Robby first fell for you. He sought advice from Dana and Jack when he returned only to be taken back at their objection to his suggestion of officially asking you out on a date. Jack reminded him of the rules while Dana cautioned him of the repercussions that would land solely on you; you would be the one kicked from the hospital and out of your program, your career would be the one ruined and not to mention the chance of rumors spreading that you slept your way to the top. So Robby decided to step back and not do anything that would interfere with your career, just waiting for the day when you would finish your residency. He had overheard you talking to Langdon, Shen and Ellis about how much you loved Pittsburgh, so Robby hoped that even if you left PMTC, you'd stay close enough so he could formally ask you out on a date.

"So, is she single?" Noelle repeats her first question.

"Uh, I don't know," Robby rubs his hand over his jaw, "You're better off asking one of the nurses or other residents, they'd know."

Noelle nods as Perlah calls for him, requesting his help on behalf of a med student. He quickly disappears leaving Noelle with Dana who didn't hide the fact she had clearly overheard their conversation.

You hadn't had even a moment's break since then, constantly swept off your feet with patients and helping the med students whenever they called for help. It was the afternoon now and the lack of food and even water was catching up on you.

You crumple into a chair at the nurses station, head tilted back and eyes closed as you try to regulate yourself. Your stomach was so empty that it was making you feel sick and your hands were shaking as well. You doubted you even had enough energy to drag yourself upstairs to the cafeteria.

You don't open your eyes but you can still hear the noise of  the pitt around you. You're left undisturbed for a while, until someone nudges your foot with a soft, "Hey,"

You slowly open your eyes to find Robby standing over you, a concerned look on his face that you don't clock immediately.

"Sorry," You shift to stand, "I'll get back to work."

"No, you won't." Robby holds his hand out, stopping you in your tracks, "You haven't eaten all day. I got you something, go take lunch."

Now you see the bag in his hand, something that he quickly passes over to you.

"Go sit outside. Eat and get your energy back up and then come back to us." Robby orders, helping you up from the chair before he turns and disappears in the blink of an eye.

You catch the eye of Perlah who had been watching the whole thing and you know that at least six more nurses will know what happened by the time you get back.

The park opposite the hospital is empty at this time, the lunch crowd had returned to work leaving the park peaceful and quiet. Once you've settled on a bench, you dig into the bag to see what Robby bought you. He got you both a sandwich and a pasta salad, which would both cure your hunger and also provide you with enough energy to get through the rest of your shift and he also got you a fruit cup and a sugary drink, things to help you get your blood sugar levels up after they had dipped from not eating all day.

You eat in peace with nothing but the sounds of the birds chirping and the occasional person walking by. You keep an eye on the time, not wanting to leave your colleagues shorthanded for too long but you make sure to not rush yourself.

You had just finished dumping your trash in the bin when you were suddenly grabbed and pulled into a small pocket of trees, just off the path. The area was not large but the trees were big enough to obstruct the view of passerbys.

"What the fuck!" You yelp as your ankle twists at the sudden action.

"Give me your money!" A voice growls at you.

You blink in surprise, taken off guard by everything that happened over the last thirty seconds. The man in front of you has a large hood on, hiding most of his face but you could still the bottom half of it.

"Give me your purse and phone!" The man threatens again, arm reaching out as if to grab what he wanted straight from your pockets.

"I don't have my purse or phone on me!" You tell him, patting your empty pockets as proof. You were scared but you hoped you could get out of this situation without harm.

"You're a doctor! You're wearing those hospital clothes and doctors have money, so give me it!" The man suddenly pulls out a knife, brandishing it at you as his anger increases.

"I just came out here to eat," You reply calmly, trying your hardest not to aggravate him any more, "My phone and stuff are still in the hospital. I promise you I don't have anything on me."

The man finally realises you're telling the truth and his posture drops in frustration. You watch him grumble to himself before he knocks his hood off to run his hands through his hair in annoyance, giving you a full view on his face. He realises what he's done too late and you can see the moment he makes the decision that would change your life forever.

"I'm sorry. You can't tell them what happened. I can't go back to prison." He murmurs before he lunges at you, knocking flat on the ground. The wind is knocked out of you, not even giving you a moment to yell out and he is quick to slip his knife back out. His movements are quick, stabbing you multiple times in quick succession before he's jumping off you, leaving you there in a rapidly growing pool of blood, hidden within the trees.

"No victim, no crime." Is the last thing you hear from him before he disappears. 

You lie there in numbness at first, staring up at the trees, resigned to your fate of dying there, hidden away for months until some unfortunate soul stumbles upon your skeletal remains. You can feel the ache of your injuries but it feels numb, far away almost and you realise that's the adrenaline still running through you. It will fade soon and then you'll have to die alone, in pain. 

Robby flashes in your mind. You don't want to die, you want to live and finally tell Robby the truth. Even if he didn't reciprocate your feelings, you no longer want them to weigh on you anymore.

With a sudden boost of energy and motivation, you flip yourself over so you're on your front, letting out a pain groan as you did so. Your body burns and aches as you push yourself up on your hands and knees before slowly crawling out from the trees and back to the main park. It's still empty, in that annoying sweet spot between the adult lunch crowd and the kids being released from school for the day but still you powered through. Maybe you could reach the road. Maybe.

You don't reach the road. You don't get more than a couple of feet before your arms give up and you collapse on the ground. You can't go any further, you're bleeding out too much too fast and you had used the last of your energy to crawl. 

As you pass out from the blood loss, you can hear the sounds of cars and ambulances just on the other side of the park, reminding you of how close you were.

"Hey!" Dana waves Robby over to where she was at the charge station, a frown on her face.

"What's wrong this time?' Robby asks when he reaches her.

Dana says your name as she waves around a tablet, "Have you seen her? No one else has and I've got a list of people she has to see."

"I sent her to lunch," Robby frowns as he checks his watch, it was unusual for you to disappear completely, "...Which was fourty-five minutes ago. Where the hell is she?"

They're interrupted by a frantic teen running through the ambulance bay, yelling for help and covered in blood. He is surrounded by doctors and nurses immediately with Robby pushing his way to the front as he snaps on gloves.

Langdon is trying to get the boy to calm down, checking his body for injuries as someone brings a bed over but the boy keeps batting Langdon's hands away, shaking his head as he tries to explain what was happening but unable to as everyone kept speaking over him.

"Hey!" Robby finally shouts causing everyone to fall silent before he lowers his voice to speak to the man, "What's happened?"

"There's a woman across the street in the park that's been attacked! She's covered in blood and unconscious," The boy explains, twisting around to leave the hospital and lead them to the woman in the park, "She's been stabbed. A lot. My friend is with her but there's so much blood."

Robby is halfway out the doors with him, calling out over his shoulder, "Frank—"

"Got it!" Langdon stays behind collecting items that they would need with Donnie joining him.

Baran, McKay and Mohan join Robby as they rush out of the hospital with Perlah and Jesse right behind them with a stretcher. Princess is calling surgery, telling them to prep an OR while Dana is calling the police, telling them to get down and lock the scene down now.

"I think she's one of you guys!" The teen yells as they run across the street, "She's wearing those scrubs things."

"Oh no," McKay catches on before Robby does.

Robby soon realises when they head deeper into the park and find another teen boy, but this one is leaning over a body, your body, trying their hardest to apply pressure. The boy looks up at them with frantic eyes, blood soaking his clothes and spread across his face from brushing his hands across his face in distress.

"I'm trying to stop the blood but there's so much," The teen sobs, "I checked her pulse but it's barely there."

Mohan sweeps in, gently tugging the boy away as the rest of them swarm in on you. Langdon and Donnie are by their side seconds later, not missing a beat and passing them the medical supplies needed.

Robby's heart dropped to his stomach at the sight of you laying there lifeless in a pool of your blood, assuming the worst. He didn't believe the teenager about your pulse until he felt for it himself and he hated the way he was relieved at the faint pulses beneath his finger, already believing you were long gone. 

He moves automatically, trying not to think about the biggest fear he never knew he had, working with the others to stabilise you enough to transport you back to the hospital. Perlah and Mohan returned to the hospital, Perlah to update everyone on what was actually happening while Mohan treated the poor boys who discovered you.

Noelle arrives in the emergency department just as you're being transported up to surgery, taken back at the mania that surrounds you. She makes her way to Dana who has an upset expression on her face as she's hanging up the phone.

"Was that who I thought it was? What the hell happened?"

Dana sadly nods, "Some poor kids found her in the park. Stabbed on her lunch break. We don't know what the whole story is. I just got off the phone with her parents, they're going to try to book the next flight out here."

"Oh God…" Noelle gasps, "She's going to pull through though, right?"

Dana gives an uncertain shrug, blinking her tears away, "They're not sure, she lost a lot of blood. They stabilised her but we don't know how long she was like that for."

Noelle slowly nods, taking a moment to take it all in before remembering why she came downstairs in the first place, "Where's Robby?'

"He went up with her." Dana pauses for a minute before she gives Noelle a knowing look, "Listen, I know you and Robby have a thing going on but I have to tell you this. Robby has been in love with her for years and the only reason he didn't do anything was because he didn't want her to lose her job but what happened today changes everything. If she survives this then Robby is going to tell her the truth and he'll try to make it work. I know he should be the one to tell you this but I want to do this so you're not caught by surprise."

Noelle stands in shock at Dana's words. Her relationship with Robby was atypical, it was a traditional relationship but it was more than friends-with-benefits and so where they stood was never exactly clear but Dana's words confirm the truth of it. It was never going to become serious and Robby had been in love with someone else the whole time and it was always going to be you over her for Robby.

It's deep into the evening when Jack finds Robby on the roof, looking over the skyline with a deeply troubled expression.

"Any updates?" Jack asks as he joins him on the edge of the roof.

Robby shakes his head. You had spent hours in surgery before being taken to ICU where not even the chief of emergency medicine could visit you.

"They say it depends on the next fourty-eight hours. If her vitals don't improve then…" Robby can't bring himself to finish the sentence, the prospect of you dying making him sick to his stomach.

Jack doesn't try to comfort him with words, they're both doctors, they know the reality of the situation. All Jack could do was stay by his side, silently reminding him that no matter what, Jack would always be in his corner. 

"If she survives this I'm going to tell her everything." Robby blurts out, "If I need to I quit this job just so she can finish her residency here."

"You'd think she'd want that? Seriously?" Jack frowns at him, "We both know she would never want you to throw what you have here away just for her."

"Just take it one step at a time brother," Jack continues as he pats Robby's shoulder, "Have an open conversation. Let her decide her future otherwise you will be ending the relationship before it even has a chance to start."

"When did you become so knowledgeable about this stuff huh?" Robby attempts to joke, poking fun at the fact that Jack has refused to see anyone since his wife passed away.

"I'll have you know that the kids find me very cool and hip and keep me updated on what dating is like these days," Jack smirks, "They're very knowledgeable, you should ask them for tips."

That makes Robby laugh, his shoulders dropping from the tense hold they were in for the first time in hours. 

It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.

You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.

It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.

Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.

Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”

You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.

“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”

Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”

Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.

Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.

Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.

Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.

“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”

This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”

A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.

“Dr. Abbot!"

Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.

Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”

This is quite the surprising turn of events.

After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.

Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.

He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.

“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.

“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”

Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.

“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”

You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.

“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.

“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”

“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.

You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”

His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise. 

You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting. 

Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”

From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.

Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”

Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.

Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex. 

Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.

His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.” 

As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.

“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.

“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.

At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.

An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.

At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you. 

In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red. 

A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.

“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.

Jack smirks. “Did you now?”

You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.

“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.

The prospect disappoints him just a little.

“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”

Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.

“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.

The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”

Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”

Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing. 

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.

You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.

Jack blinks in surprise.

He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.

He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”

Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”

Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—

He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”

Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.

Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”

Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture. 

The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.

As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.

“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.

Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.

“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”

A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass. 

He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.

“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”

You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.

“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”

You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”

Of course that would be your takeaway. 

He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”

When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.

He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.

And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.

You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.

He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.

As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”

You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.

His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.

He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing. 

After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh. 

Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.

“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.

You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”

“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”

You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”

He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.

Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.

You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.

He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.

You sigh happily and snuggle closer.

It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.

Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.

The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.

Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Stay.”

Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.

Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.

Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.

“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”

You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”

Best behavior, Jack. 

“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”

In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.

“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.

Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.

“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.

Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.

For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure? 

But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.

Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.

“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.

Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”

“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.

Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.

He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.

You wake feeling like death warmed over.

You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.

You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.

Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest. 

You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?

Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.

Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.

Time to face the music.

You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.

Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.

“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”

You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”

“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”

“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.” 

Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”

“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.

“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.

In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.

You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”

He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”

You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.

“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.

“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.

A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”

Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”

Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”

Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice. 

 “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.

It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.

He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs. 

“Of course.”

Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape. 

“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”

You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.

After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions. 

Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.

Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.

When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.

You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.

His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”

His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”

Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” 

After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.

As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.

You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”

He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”

“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?” 

“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”

Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?

“Oh god,” you whisper in horror. 

“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”

Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.

You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”

“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.

Jack places a hand on your thigh.

All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.

His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.

“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”

He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.

After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him. 

“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?

He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.

“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”

You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”

“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.”

You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”

Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.

A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.

“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.

You beam after him.

“Nice. And dirty.” You finished securing the strap of your high heeled shoe, standing up from the ottoman at the foot of the bed to walk closer. “Certainly nothing you’d have any complaints about,” you all but whispered, holding his gaze in the reflection as you pressed a slow kiss behind his ear. 

“But,” you added, back to your normal volume as you stepped back, guiding him to turn and face you, still giving you that self satisfied smile as your hands ran over his broad shoulders, smoothing wrinkles in his suit jacket that weren’t there, “if you try to bail on me and send me to this thing alone…” You clicked your tongue derisively. “Well, I might just never talk to you again.”

Jack laughed, a full chest laugh that made you smile, his hands resting on your hips like they belonged there.

“Never again?” he repeated, only grinning, eyes creased at the corner, when you gave him a solemn nod. “Three years just gone like that? You’d move out tonight if I don’t go drink warm punch with people you spent a few years with as a teenager?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Definitely. And I would miss you so so dearly, especially with how handsome you look right now. So pretty please come with me so I can still come home with you.” You batted your eyelashes at him dramatically, giving him a sweet smile while he chuckled. It was never a real question and you both knew it. Jack would fly with you to New Zealand that night if you truly asked him to. He would drop everything for you, and would never miss an opportunity to make you happy. Even if it meant wearing a suit and standing around with people almost 20 years his junior, pretending it didn’t make his skin crawl to see them look between the two of you and do the math.

“Well, when you put it like that…” he drawled, his smirk giving way to a fond smile as you tugged him down by his shirt collar to kiss him sweetly. He gave you a softer smile when you parted, lingering in each other's space.

“Why do you even want to go to this thing anyway?”

You exhaled something between a scoff and a laugh, taking a step back and turning from him to focus on putting on the earrings Jack had gifted you for your birthday a year before he’d finally asked you out. In hindsight, you could understand why Ahmad and Donnie had started betting on when one of you would buck up the nerve and make a move. They needed the levity after watching you inch closer and closer for so long, all the while starkly refusing to admit your feelings. You could still remember the looks your coworkers would give you when they got stuck in a room with you, ranging from intrigued to downright uncomfortable as you danced around the obvious truth.

“Want might be a strong word for it.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “That does nothing to answer my question.” You paused, still holding one earring in hand as you turned towards him. 

“Because,” you said, quieter than you’d been since you’d first told him about the invitation weeks before. “No one in high school ever thought I’d turn out to be much. They made my life hell, spreading rumours behind my back, pouring stuff on my lunch so I couldn’t eat it.” You waved your hand dismissingly, letting out a small sigh. “All sorts of stupid stuff. Apparently one of them even started telling people I died a few years back.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open into a small oh, dark eyebrows raising. It took a lot to surprise him between his time abroad and the hours he spent undoing some of the dumbest and most tragic accidents Pittsburgh could offer, but the pedantry of teenagers was something he never got used to. Even if the evening marked fifteen years since your graduation, it made him wonder what you might be walking into. Some people never grew up. He knew that better than most, spending his nights regularly tending to the wounds of so many people who swore they had a great idea in the moment, just to sober up in the ED full of regret.

You nodded, a tight lipped smile doing its best to hold back your frustration. 

“How did you die?” Jack asked it so carefully, like your fake death was a tender subject, that you couldn’t help but laugh. He looked so somber when you glanced up at him that your laughter only grew, until he was frowning at you and acting crosser than he was. 

“I have a right to know,” he chastised, still acting stern. “I think I’ve earned that after three years. To think you went and died and didn’t even do me the decency of telling me. It’s rude, that’s what it is.”

Your laughter quelled, leaving only a breathy smile full of love for the goofy man before you.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you promised cheekily. “Next time I’ll make sure you’re the first one to know.” Jack’s frown deepened at that, and he shook his head. “Next time? Oh no, you’re not dying again anytime soon.” He stepped closer, arm wrapping around your back and leaning down to press a firm kiss to the side of your head as you secured your second earring.

“What kind of doctor would I be if I lost you?” he murmured, speaking close enough to your ear to send goosebumps down your arms. 

You hummed, trying to stay focused and not get lost in his charm. 

“Still a pretty damn good one, baby.”

He made a discontent sound, ducking and pressing one more kiss to your cheek before retreating to a wall of your shared bedroom, leaning back against it with his hands in the pockets of his dress pants. The sight just about drove you wild.

“C’mon, then,” he prompted, head tilted back so he was looking down the bridge of his nose. “How’d you die?” The corner of his mouth twitched, adding on “So I can be more prepared for next time.”

You twisted a ring on your finger. Your hands felt fidgety, and you knew he noticed, his calm, level gaze dropping to your hand for a moment before returning to your face. “They said I was in a car accident.” You rolled your eyes, taking a deep breath before trying to get the next words out. “They said I was drunk and hit a stop sign, or a building, or a school bus full of children, whatever. The story varies at that point from what I know.” 

“Jesus. How’d you find out about this?”

You smile wryly. That was the best part of the story. “Someone sent my mom a condolence message on Facebook.”

Jack barked out a laugh.

“Right?” you exclaimed, laughing despite yourself. It was all so ridiculous. “And they didn’t even know me! I think we just had biology together or something and tracked her down.”

Jack blew out a deep breath of air. His burly arms crossed over his chest, not sure how to file away this new information about your fake death. Despite his mixed feelings about the idiocy of youth, he gave you a crooked smile, almost looking impressed as he exhaled a soft laugh. “You sure know how to keep things interesting, sweetheart.” You grinned, struck just again by how much you loved him. Most people would be disturbed to hear about your teenage years, and you couldn’t exactly fault them. But to Jack, it was just another thing to take in stride, only mattering if it mattered to you. He would listen, and learn, making sure he knew how to support you without judgement. Nothing was ever too much for him, not even close. Not when it was you.

“Thank you, I try,” you joked, giving a small curtsy and almost tripping when the fabric of your dress clung to you. Jack’s hands were on your arms before you had a chance to fully stumble, stabilizing you and giving you a fond squeeze before letting one hand slide down to hold your own.

“Anyone tries any of that shit tonight, you tell me,” he said sincerely, all signs of teasing gone. “You’re not a teenager anymore. They can’t get you.”

You breathed out a short laugh. 

“Damn right they can’t.” You smiled up at him, a determined set to your jaw. Those people had taken enough from you, and you were done letting them. You took his hand in your own, raising it to your lips and pressing a soft kiss to his calloused palm, your heart fluttering at the soft look in his beautiful hazel eyes as you pressed it to your cheek. His thumb ran over your cheekbone. 

“Besides,” you continued, giving him a teasing smirk, “anyone who tries anything next to my certified hunk of a boyfriend who could probably deadlift anyone we meet tonight is just asking for trouble.”

Jack laughed hard, his shoulders shaking and a few silvery curls slipping down to rest on his forehead. You brushed them back, returning the easy smile he gave you, full of love and joy. 

“Maybe ten years ago,” he conceded, cupping your cheek in his hand, his smile widening as you leaned into his touch. “But now your hunk of a boyfriend would rather just carry you around. Preferably home.”

You pouted, toying with the collar of his dress shirt. “But you look so handsome.”

His eyebrow raised. “And I’ll stop being handsome when we come home?” You scowled at him, almost breaking your fake annoyance when he looked so happy with himself, a small crooked smile pulling at the corner of his lips, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Unfortunately for me and my productivity, you’ll always be handsome, Jack.” He dragged a hand over his scruff, palming at his cheek where more and more hair grew in white instead of the dark gingery-brown it was when you first met him. He didn’t care usually about the change, and you went above and behind to make sure he never forgot how desirable he was, but public appearances still made him nervous sometimes.

“Stop fussing with it,” you chided softly, cupping your hand over his against his cheek. “It looks good, baby. Stop worrying, please.”

His eyes dropped from yours with a heavy sigh, shoulders deflating slightly.

“People might talk.” His voice came out softly, the same even tone he almost always had. Straight to the facts, even when they were inconvenient. You knew him well enough to hear what he was saying behind the words. People might see you together and make snap judgements on who he was, who you were. They might discredit your relationship before even knowing him, seeing just the creases on his face and the tinge of silver that crept into more and more of his dark curls by the year. 

You refused to give them the satisfaction of caring.

“So?” Jack’s eyebrow raised, chin tilting down so he could give you an odd look.

“So, people might think less of you,” he explained, calm enough that it hurt your heart. “Or they might go after you again. Why give them any more ammunition? Things were hard enough for you back then.”

You stepped closer, smoothing your hands over his shoulders.

“Because I’m happy now.” Jack blinked, but some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “I’m not scared of them anymore, Jack, and I want to do this for myself, to prove that I can face them. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to-” “I’m coming,” he cut in, certain and looking at you like you were crazy to even offer. “As long as you want me to, I’m there. You’re not alone this time.”

“I know,” you promised, holding his eye contact easily. “I’d never be alone, even if you weren’t there with me. And I do want you there, the same way I want you to go grocery shopping with me or to run to the post office with me. You make things more fun.” A small smile flickered onto your face, ducking your head slightly. “I might also have a small evil ulterior motive,” you confessed, slightly sheepish. 

Jack hummed inquisitively, the beginnings of a smirk playing on his lips. Usually when you referenced being evil it entailed him and a state of undress.

“And what would that be?” he asked smoothly, voice just a touch lower than usual. You could feel heat creep up your cheeks at the small difference, your body responding before your mind had the chance.

“Maybe I want to show off my sexy boyfriend.” He grinned, a faint pink creaking up to stain his ears and the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made your heart do somersaults. “My sexy doctor boyfriend,” you corrected, nuzzling into his neck and peppering his pink skin with kisses and the occasional nip of teeth. You pulled back just enough to kiss him once, firm and passionate, smiling breathlessly as he chased after you when you pulled away.

“That okay?” you checked, heart hammering at the sight of him so breathless and flustered, dark eyes hooded and hungry.

He nodded, grinning crookedly.

“No complaints here, sweetheart.” He held your chin, pressing one more slow kiss to your lips, only pulling back when your lungs screamed for air. “But we might want to get a move on,” he murmured, voice low and rough as he smirked against your lips. “‘Cause I can only see you dressed up for so long before I need to take this dress off, stunning as it is.”

Walking into the high school felt all too familiar. The harsh fluorescent lighting was the same as you’d left it, eerily similar poster boards lining the hallways painted in your school colors. It was as if no time had passed at all, the Spirit Board frozen in time, only the faces in the photographs changed. 

And yet everything was different. The halls felt wider, no teenagers shouldering past each other, clustering up along the walls or locking lips against the lockers to the chagrin of their neighbors. You could practically hear the idle chatter, the squeak of sneakers and distant sounds of metal lockers slamming shut.

You didn’t duck your head as you walked down the hall now, scurrying from class to class and stepping out of people’s way like you did as a teenager. You moved through the thin crowd of people easily, faces familiar but aged slowly recognizing each other as they found their names prepared on adhesive nametags on a table pushed along the wall. 

Jack followed you as you moved, trailing half a step behind you, his hand in yours anchoring him to you, as if you would get swept away if he didn’t watch you closely. He picked up your name tag for you, smoothing it over the material of your dress and joking that he wasn’t important enough to earn a nametag. You quipped back that he could have brought his hospital ID badge from home if he was really worried about it, and he chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before following you as you led him through the school to find the gym, where the actual reunion was being held.

You were barely ten feet into the large room when a familiar voice stopped you, calling out your name from a few feet away. You turned, an apprehensive frown already on your lips as you pivoted to face the woman. Your heart thudded in your chest, and you took a steadying breath, reminding yourself that things were different now. Who knew? Maybe she was different now. Maybe she had grown a heart. Nothing was impossible.

“Oh my god,” the woman said, eyes dragging up and down your body with wide eyes, her jaw dropped open as she stared incredulously. “Look at you, all dressed up!” She giggled softly, a manicured hand coming up to tuck a shining lock of hair behind her ear. She was still bleaching her hair, you could see. Frustratingly, it looked amazing, flawless waves falling down around her shoulders. “God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in heels before,” she commented, head dropping to the side as she spoke in a chipper tone. She was overly enthusiastic in the way only people who wanted something were, her smile blown larger than life and movements overdone just slightly. 

Jack cleared his throat beside you, his warm steadying hand pressed against the small of your back, and you glanced up at him. His brows pinched for just a moment, the hard line of his mouth set as he silently asked you if you were alright. You gave a weak smile back, shifting slightly closer to him, and his jaw set, his focus shifting back to the woman before him. 

“Hannah!” you chirped, plastering on a fake smile. You glanced down at your dress, hands smoothing over the material, suddenly hyperaware of the cling of the fabric against your skin and how different it was from your jeans and hoodie you’d stuck to in high school. 

“Yeah, I’ve kind of branched out more since graduating,” you joked. “Guess my experimental era came a little later than most.”

Hannah chuckled, eyes sliding past you again to sweep over Jack. You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to stay calm. You’d expected the way her eyes swept over him, her smile, while pretty, not quite reaching her eyes. Hannah had always had a sharp quality to her that was hard to place, hidden under sweet tones and veiled compliments.

“Wow. You are…not what I expected when I heard our little valedictorian was bringing a date.” Her head tipped slightly to the side as she appraised him, eyes continuing to slither over his sharp suit, one hand (with nails painted to match her shoes, of course) holding her plastic cup while the other folded across her chest, one hip popped out. She hummed, ignoring the way Jack shifted slightly under her gaze, his eyes flicking to meet yours though he refused to cede any ground to her. 

You could feel a familiar prickling under your skin, her gaze feeling like X-ray vision that could see right through you, just to poke and prod at the perfect spot to make you fall apart.

Jack shifted closer, an arm coming up to casually wrap around you, one warm hand resting on your hip as he pressed you against his side. He didn’t look away from Hannah, but the familiar weight of him provided a comforting feeling, keeping you grounded while unease churned in your stomach.

“Well, I’m as surprised as you are,” Jack joked, only the edge of his mouth tipped upward as he teased. “She could have anyone, but she keeps me around anyway.” He turned to look down at you, his smile coming easier when he saw the way your face warmed and you couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Still, if that’s her only lapse in judgement, I don’t think we can fault her too much.”

He turned back to Hannah, offering her a small nod instead of a handshake.

“Jack Abbot,” he said, offering a tightly-lipped smile. 

Hannah beamed, her nails tapping against the side of her plastic cup as she looked him over. “Hannah Sampson,” she replied, standing just a bit taller. Her gaze moved to you, barely turning her face towards you, staying firmly planted with her spotless heels facing Jack.

“And of course, you know me,” she added with a small chuckle. “Or at least you did. Who’s to say after all this time if that really counts anymore, right?”

You laughed weakly. You had the feeling you knew her better than you would ever want to.

“So how’ve you been?” Her voice was overly sweet, patronizing like she was talking to a small child who wouldn’t understand her if she used a normal tone. 

You glanced at Jack, your hesitant smile growing into something more sincere as you found his soft hazel eyes.

“Things have been good,” you said, still facing him. The corner of his mouth twitched, and your chest warmed. “Really good,” you added, fully grinning as you turned back to Hannah, ignoring the skeptical squint of her eyes. “I did what I said I would, went off to school and got my degree. Met this wonderful man and somehow got him to agree to a date-”

Jack looked offended. “I asked you out,” he corrected. You only smirked, shrugging as you leaned against him, your shoulder pressing back into his chest. 

“Excuse you, I clearly remember us hanging out on the roof talking until the sun came up.” 

He rolled his eyes, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

“During our shift,” he drawled. “Don’t think an HR violation classifies as a date.”

You grinned, snaking an arm behind his back, between his dress shirt and blazer, relishing his warmth as you pressed more firmly against his side.

“You sure have a way of putting a damper on things,” you teased, leaning up to give his scruffy cheek a kiss. He bit his lip to keep from smiling, only humming in response, and you turned back to Hannah, giving her an apologetic smile. 

“Anyway,” you chuckled, satisfaction pooling low in your gut at the disbelieving look on her face, like she was sorting out a puzzle only she could see. “Yeah, things are going great. We’re even talking about getting a cat together.”

Jack chuckled, the warm sound vibrating through his chest and into you. 

“Oh, we’re going to,” he confirmed, as if the decision was already made. For him, it was, and who were you to deny your love another creature that would love him as much as you did.

“Aw, how cute,” Hannah chimed in, lip jutting out in a pout. “I’ve always been more a dog person myself, but I’m sure a kitty will love you.” Her gaze moved over you, one lazy pass that felt more like an appraisal than true sight. “Should have pegged you as a cat lady.”

Her words should have stung, and maybe on a different day, they would have. But not here, not now, with Jack’s steady hand on your hip and the idea of the two of you curled up in bed with a little furball purring on his lap. 

You shrugged. “Probably, yeah. But Jackie here is the true cat dad.” You looked up at him, already able to picture him fawning over a little kitten tumbling over itself, or a senior cat who curled up beside him as he read his novels, glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose and that adorable crease between his eyes as he got lost in the words.

“I’m a lover of all animals,” he countered, but you clicked your tongue. 

“You know you’re a cat person, baby. You can love lots of animals, but you know what you are at heart.” You tapped his chest with your palm, right over his heart, your grin widening at the way he squinted fondly down at you, smiling despite himself.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

His eyes were soft as he looked down at you, and your chest warmed. He always looked at you like that, and it took you a long time to learn to accept it, to accept him and the steady, gentle love he offered like second nature, correcting you softly when you even thought of brushing off the myriad of wonders he saw in you.

“Don’t I know it,” you teased back, pressing closer to him and giving his jaw a chaste kiss.

You managed to muddle through a couple more minutes of conversation with Hannah without tripping over your words too much. You were pleasantly surprised to find your confidence only grew the longer you talked. She asked about your career and how you were handling the high stress of emergency medicine, giving a tight smile and a clipped congratulations when Jack jumped in for you, insisting that you took to the chaos like a fish in water, always knowing where to be just in the knick of time. She asked if you still managed to see your family, managing to drag up your siblings’ past issues with anger management and substance abuse. You didn’t miss the fierce gleam in her eye, hiding behind her honeyed tone as she tutted about how sad it was to see them washed up so young, and how her heart had just broken for you in high school to come from such a background. Jack’s grip on your hip had tightened slightly, but he let you fight your own battle with your head held high. Her smug smile slowly curled into something closer to a snarl as you told her that, actually, you saw your family often. That one sibling had sought treatment for their mental illness that had gone undiscovered, and that while another still struggled, you’d learned to set healthy boundaries and only help when asked, no longer offering more than you had to give. 

You’d laced your fingers through Jack’s, never feeling more loved than you did when he looked at you with such pride.

“My parents are actually coming to visit us in a few months. They say they’re coming to see me, but I have half a mind to think they just want to see Jack.” You chuckled, not caring about the pinched expression Hannah wore when Jack laughed beside you. “Don’t even try to deny it,” you warned him playfully. “You’re their favorite in-law and we haven’t even made it official yet.”

Jack’s smile only grew, something in him softening at the promise of a forever together, of being an official family.

“Yeah, we’ve gotta get on that.”

He grinned as your face warmed, pressing your face into his shoulder to hide as your heart almost burst out of your chest just to get closer to him. You needed some air if you were going to make it through the night without dragging him off to a broom closet and kissing him stupid. 

You regretfully separated from him, hating every inch of air between you, even as your cheeks burned and your head swam with dizzyingly happy thoughts.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go grab some punch.” You flashed Jack a teasingly shy smile. “For some reason, it’s feeling warm over here.”

He hummed, looking very pleased with himself. He gave your hand one final squeeze before dropping it.

“Can you grab me some too?”

You grinned. “I was already going to.”

You weren’t gone for long before Hannah followed you. You could hear the quiet click of her heels on the linoleum flooring drawing nearer as she slid up next to you while you surveyed the small banquet someone had put together. Pre-packaged cheese spreads, hummus that was already room temperature, and cookies from the local bulk supply store. Not bad for whatever pittance of a budget the student council was working with.

“So, how old is Jack?” Hannah smiled sweetly when you glanced up at her, acting like she was just making polite conversation and not prodding at your relationship like she hoped to topple it like a house of cards.

You shrugged, head turned back down as you considered grabbing a snack while you were by the table. You eyed the brittle looking cookies on display before deciding against it. The fruity scent of the punch drifted through the air, and you were craving sugar to soothe your nerves, more than any number of mass-produced cookies could provide. You wanted to kiss whoever thought to bring an ice bowl to set the punch over. It was the only thing that stayed cool in the gym that always had a way of running humid. You grabbed two cups from a stack at one end of the table, having to tear through their plastic sleeve to free them when they caught. 

“Does it matter?”

Hannah shifted slightly on her heels, a small hum coming from the back of her throat.

“It’s just…Well…Isn’t he a little old for you?” The hair prickled at the base of your skull, a hot wave of anger flooding through you. There it was. The criticism hiding behind the guise of girlfriendly concern.

“That’s rich coming from you,” you muttered, head downturned as you ladled punch into your two red solo cups. 

Hannah let out a surprised laugh, a haughty high-pitched noise that got stuck in the back of her throat.

“Excuse me?”

You grimaced, collecting your cups and looking up to see her giving you a scandalized look.

“And what exactly does that mean?” she demanded, the obnoxious charms on her bracelet jingling as she put her hand on her hip. You wondered absently how much the whole thing cost. Five hundred dollars? A thousand? Two? Who even cared. It was all the same to her, just another jewel in her crown to flaunt around, a subtle flash of silver and diamonds to remind everyone who she was and what she had.

“It means,” you said, louder and sharper than you’d intended, “that I remember you getting awfully close to your piano teacher back in the day. Which was funny, given how much you bombed at Jennifer Chase’s birthday party. How old was he anyway? Thirty? And I know he was married, because my cousin was friends with his wife.” A slight pink rose to Hannah’s cheeks, matching the tone of her dress perfectly, though you’d never admit it. 

“I was drunk at that party,” she stammered out.

You nodded. “Oh yeah, you were plastered. But not before your boyfriend showed up with the keg, remember? Which was after you snuck off when you realized maybe your instructor exaggerated a bit when he told you how naturally gifted you were.”

Hannah shifted on her heels, tossing her head to the side to flick a stray strand of long hair out of her face. Her lips were pursed, eyes icy, her nice girl mask gone, just it had been all those years ago.

You could still remember her cheerily wishing you have a good weekend as you spilled out of class, just to corner you on the bleachers during lunch, her sweet smile gone as she sneered at you and your second hand backpack covered in pins and patches you’d sewn. 

She wore the same expression now, sneering at you from her three-inch heels, but this time, you looked back, refusing to flinch.

“I’m not the one who brought my sugar daddy.” 

You froze, everything stilling around you as a storm churned within you. 

She really just said that. And what’s worse, she said it with absolute, snide conviction, convinced she’d dealt the final blow, as if it was glaring obvious there would only be one reason you could be interested in Jack.

“You know what I think?” You weren’t sure where your calmness came from, but your voice came out cool and collected, only your blazing eyes showing your fury. You didn’t wait for an answer. “I think you’re miserable. I think you poke and prod at other people and try to tear them down because you feel small, and you think no one can hurt you if you’re the one doing all the hurting. But you couldn’t be more wrong about Jack. You could never hurt him, and you can’t hurt me either, because I have him on my side.” You stepped closer without realizing it, everything you’d held onto for all these years finally flowing out of you in one moment.

“Jack is a good person, better than me and damn better than you. He’s smart, and kind, and empathetic, and you know that he’s attractive. I don’t need to tell you that, you can see it yourself, and we both know you’ve been checking him out since we walked in.” You couldn’t stop, finally seeing her frozen in place for a change, her pretty eyes blown wide in shock. “You just can’t stand that someone like him loves me because you think that you’re better than me. But the truth is, you’re not. You never were. And Jack does love me, more than anyone ever has. So you’re going to shut your fucking trap about my man, because just because he took an oath to help people doesn’t mean that I won’t knock your teeth out if you say one more mean thing about him.” You scoffed, suddenly realizing she didn’t even know he was one of Pittsburgh's best doctors. 

“Oh, yeah, and he’s a doctor, by the way,” you added, just to rub salt in the wound. “So I’m gonna go join my hot, successful, wealthy, and kind as fuck boyfriend and tell him for the hundredth time today how much I love him. Feel free to feel bad for me as much as you want. I’ll see you in five years if I don’t let Jack convince me to stay home next time. And he can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”

You clicked your tongue as you picked up your two cups of punch, giving her a fake sympathetic look before striding across the room, head held high and heart hammering in your chest.

Jack’s eyes brightened when he saw you approaching, a small smile tugging at his lips without realizing it. He accepted the cup you held out to him, and had it raised halfway to his lips when you nudged his arm aside, stepping into his space and placing a needy, hungry kiss on his lips. He grunted in surprise, brow furrowing at the sudden act, but kissed you back, his free arm wrapping around you and supporting your lower back.

“What was that for?” he asked breathlessly when you pulled apart, lungs screaming for air. His voice was low and gentle, soft eyes probing you for answers. 

You only sighed, taking his free hand in yours and taking a small sip of your punch. It was overly sweet, enough to feel it in your teeth.

“More than I could ever say. You regret coming with me yet?”

He raised an eyebrow, expression staying level and flat. “Sweetheart, this is nothing. In fact, go ahead and RSVP me as a plus one for the 20th reunion.”

You scoffed out a laugh. “Ooh, you planning on sticking around for another five years?” you teased. You knew the answer, you could see it written on his face every time he looked at you, like you were the only thing worth truly seeing. 

“I’m not that old, sweetheart.”

You laughed. You took another sip of your punch before setting it on a nearby table. Your hands found his, and you gently tugged him, giving him just enough time to set down his own drink before you were dragging him with you towards the dance floor. The music played quietly over the speakers, a mix of music that was popular during your high school days mixed with whatever hits played on the radio.

“Come on, Jack, dance with me.”

Jack grimaced for a moment, stilling before you could fully pull him over.

“I’m not much of a dancer, honey.”

You quirked a brow at him. You stepped closer, settling against his chest with your arms slung around his neck while his hands settled on your hips. 

“You’ve done much more difficult things than awkwardly dancing with me.” 

Jack frowned, handsome features distorting as his brow furrowed. 

“You know you don’t have to,” you added, turning serious. “Talk to me, Jack. What’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours?” 

He looked away, jaw working once as he gathered his thoughts. 

“I’m not exactly graceful.” He said it quietly, voice coming out low and rough, like it pained him to say no to you. “Don’t want to step on your toes.” You laughed softly. Your hand found his cheek, gently turning him to meet the eyes you wanted to look into for the rest of your life. 

“You think I care about grace? Jack, this is a high school reunion, not Dancing with the Stars. And who cares, trample me if you want. I just want to dance with the man I love. God knows I’d probably step on your toes too.”

Jack hummed a small laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Less of a risk of it hurting me,” he supplied easily. “Less toes.”

Your head dropped to his shoulder when you laughed, resting against him like it was second nature. You barely even noticed when he started to gently sway from side to side, moving you along with him until you were dancing.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his neck, turning to press your cheek against his shoulder. “For everything tonight. And all of the last three years and however many we have together. I love you Jack, so much.”

He dipped his head until his nose grazed your hair. He pressed a soft kiss to your hairline, his warm breath tickling your scalp. 

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

You raised your head just enough to catch him in a kiss, slow and sweet. 

“Will you dance with me again someday?” Jack hummed softly, eyes soft and steady as he looked down at you. 

“One day.” “It’ll be good practice,” you pointed out softly. “We’ll have to dance together again at some point, and as much as I’ll always love our clumsy kitchen dancing, we might want something else for the scrapbook.” You smiled sweetly, unable to help the happy chuckle that bubbled out of your chest.

Jack smirked down at you, hazel eyes glimmering with fondness. 

“You saying I can’t do the chicken dance at our wedding?” he drawled.

You laughed again. “You can do whatever you want at our wedding,” you retorted, “but I’d prefer if our first dance was a little more put together than that.” “So save it for the second dance then.” You grinned, nodding happily as his grin finally cracked. “Honestly, I can’t think of anything more fitting for us.”

Jack laughed through his nose, and the smile he gave you was so soft, so open and caring and him that it made you want to propose right there in your old high school gym, even without a ring to offer. 

“I’ll learn how to dance for you,” he said after a moment, voice low and rough, sincere to the point of not caring how he sounded, as long as you were in his arms, swaying with him to the bad pop song playing. “I’ll get a better suit.”

“But this tie,” you requested, toying with the knot he had tied at his throat. 

His smile only grew, breathing out a short laugh. “Of course, sweetheart. Your tie.”

He rested his forehead against yours, drawing you closer and letting out a soft sigh as your fingers carded through his hair. 

“I’ve been waiting to hear back from the jeweler,” he admitted softly. “Would have asked you by now if I could have. He had some family emergency, had to push back the date.” He frowned, big brown eyes looking so apologetic it broke your heart and made it beat faster all at the same time. “Wanted to ask you on our anniversary. Had a whole plan, but he wasn’t ready. Didn’t want to rush him when we have time, but…I wish it could have happened sooner,” he finished quietly.

You knew it was coming. You had known for a long time that Jack was your one and only, the man you wanted to grow old with, and he made his thoughts about you just as clear. When he’d started taking closer notice of your jewelry a few months before, noting if you preferred silver more than gold, or wore sleeker pieces rather than showier ones, you knew it was fast approaching. Even your anniversary plans had clued you in, and you were surprised when the night ended curled up together without new titles for each other. You hadn’t had it in you to feel disappointed though, not when he was still your Jack, and you would be able to wake up to him in the morning. He was always going to be your husband someday. Just on a different timeline.

“The ring isn’t the important thing,” you reminded him softly. “You are. Just us, working as a team. I’d marry you with sharpie drawn on my hand, and I’d still be the happiest woman alive.”

Jack hummed his laugh, giving you a slight nod and a crooked smile that was as teasing as it was adoring.

“Maybe we don’t wait then. Maybe…the end of the month.”

You could only smile up at him, giggling when ducked his head to press a kiss to your cheek, his stubble tickling your sensitive skin.

“You’ve gotta at least act surprised when I ask though,” he murmured against your skin, pressing kiss after kiss across your face until you were pulling away to get him to stop. He grinned easily, settling back against you like he belonged there, voice hushed so no one else could overhear him. “Can’t have your parents thinking I have no manners.”

You smiled softly, lost in the soft and steady love written on his face. Things always felt so easy with him, even during your darkest moments. Even when you were exhausted and stressed, one small annoyance away from losing your minds, you were able to calm each other down, to be a safe place to let yourselves break and know that you wouldn’t have to patch yourself together again alone.

“Believe me, Jack, I’ll be as surprised as I was three years ago when I first asked you out.”

“I asked you out,” he laughed.

“She’s the other Dr. Abbot?” Nazley says under her breath to Crus, “she’s so much younger than him,” 

“Yeah,” Crus murmurs back but you and Jack don’t hear them, the two of you in your own world for a moment, “they kinda don’t give a fuck,”

“Hey,” Jack says, his voice dropping to something much softer. He’s in awe of how beautiful you look under the harsh fluorescences of the ER. 

“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile, shaking your head, rubbing in the purell on your hands. The little group of nurses and doctors gather around you. You nod hello to Crus and Mateo, pausing on Nazely, “I don’t think we’ve gotten to work together yet,” you hold out your hand to her introducing yourself.

“Nazley Toomarian, intern,” she says, “I- I just started tonight,”

“Jesus and they put you on the night shift?” You turn to Jack, “free her.”

“I didn’t assign her to the night shift,” Jack holds his hands up in self defense.

“Well, it’s really nice to meet you Dr. Toomarian,” you say, “you’ve got a good teacher here,” you wink at Jack.

“You’re not biased or anything,” Jack smiles.

“Not at all,” you roll your eyes playfully, “whaddya got for me?” 

“This is Judith. G1, P0 with no prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension,” Nazley says, standing up a little straighter as she speaks to you, before turning back to Judith, “How's the headache?”

“Still a 10,” Judith moans.

“More fentanyl?” Crus asks.

“Yep,” Abbot says, trying to suppress the smile that wants to form on his face now that you’re in the room. He leans into you and murmurs under his breath, “missed you,”

“Jack, you saw me two hours ago,” you smile, "remember? We carpooled from our house?”

“BP's good,” Crus says, eyes on the monitor, “another fifty,”

Your eyes linger on Jack as he beams at you while you walk over to the patient's bedside.

“Hi Judith,” you say softly, “I’m Dr. Abbot from OB,”

“I thought he was Dr. Abbot,” Judith looks towards Jack.

“He is. I- uh- am too,” you smile at her, “we’re married,” 

“Oh,” Judith sighs, “that’s nice. That you get to work together I mean. Do you have kids?”

“No,” you say, and you don’t have to turn your head to see that Jack has walked up next to you, to feel the tension radiating off Jack at her question. Thankfully Crus intervenes before Jack boils over.

“Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.” Crus says, handing you the wand and gel. 

“No, no, no.” Judith wraps her arms around her stomach, “ultrasound can harm the baby.”

“Not true.” Jack says curtly.

“I understand that you feel scared but not doing the ultrasound can end up harming you and the baby,” you say gently, “I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Ok,” Judith huffs, dropping her arm, “just do it as fast as you can,”

“Why no prenatal care, Judith?” You say, no judgment in your voice, squirting the gel on her stomach.

“I wanted a free birth,” she says defensively, “no doctors, no hospital, no medicine.”

“Mm,” Jack says from beside you, “you have a midwife? A birth doula?”

“No, I don't need one,” Judith says, as you drag the wand over her belly, “women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, clearly getting irritated, “with an infant mortality rate of 30% for most of those thousands of years,” 

“You know Judith,” you say, cutting off your husband, speaking softly while keeping your eyes on the screen, “for a lot of those years birthing was a community event. Women relied on midwives and the other women in their lives to help them during childbirth.”

“What is this good cop bad cop?” Judith moans. 

“I know this isn’t how you envisioned it,” you say, turning to her, “but there are a lot of people here who are more than happy to help you, if you’d let us.”

“Dr. Abbot is the best doctor in this hospital,” Jack says, feeling his heart swell at the patience and care you’re offering such a difficult patient, “I’d listen to her if I were you,”

“Femur length seven centimeters,” you say to Jack, “37 weeks. I’d induce.”

“What?” Judith says, panicked, “no, no, no. Absolutely not.”

“At 37 weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby,” Jack says firmly, but with a little less bite, “we need to get you upstairs so Dr. Abbot can induce labor to save you and your baby.”

“No.” Judith sits up, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”

You stand, exchanging a knowing look with Jack before walking over to the phone and calling up to the OB department for a room.

“Labs are coming back.” Nazley says, pulling the labs up on the computer, “Hemoglobin 7.5, platelets 40. LFTs are sky high.”

“HELLP syndrome,” Jack shakes his head, looking at the results.

“Hemolytic anemia, elevated liver enzymes, and low platelets,” Crus explains to Nazley.

“They're cleaning a room,” you say, hanging up the phone, “I can bring her up in ten minutes.” 

“How you doing, Judith?” Jack says, walking back to her bedside. 

“I- I-” Judith’s eyes roll back, her body starts to spasm.

“Oh, she's seizing,” Nazely says.

“Oh, shit,” you say, moving next to Jack, “10 of IV diazepam. Have another 10 ready,”

“With all the movement, we can't get a fetal heartbeat,” Mateo says, checking the CTG.

“Putting on 15 liters by mask. Should we intubate?” Crus asks.

“Hold intubation. Let's try to break this. We don't want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to,” you say to Nazley, explaining your rationale. 

“Nazely, what's the diagnosis?” Jack asks.

“Um, with the seizure, now it's eclampsia,” Nazely says.

“Fetal heart rate is about 90,” you shake your head, “way too low,”

“Mom's sats are going down,” Mateo says, his eyes on the monitor.

“Time to tube her?” Crus asks, looking between you and Jack. The two of you stare at each other, seeming to telepathically communicate.

“Set up for it, but wait,” you speak for the pair of you, “another 10 of diazepam. Push 4 grams of Keppra.”

“Pulse ox is 88,” Mateo says, shaking his head.

“Dr. Abbot?” Crus says, looking at Jack, “Intubate?”

But Jack looks at you.

“Let’s do it,” you say. 

“Nazely, what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?” Jack says.

“Etomidate and roc,” Nazely offers her best guess.

“Mm, not quite, Dr. Toomarian,” you say, snapping on a pair of gloves, “120 of propofol, 60 of succinylcholine.”

“Why is that, Crus?” Jack says, pulling on his own pair of gloves.

“Propofol for the anti-seizure effect, sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.” Crus says.

“Exactly,” Jack nods.

“Pushing the propofol,” Mateo injects the medication into Judith’s IV.

“Once she's flat for intubation we need to displace the uterus to the left,” you say across the table to Jack.

“Nazely, that's you. Big hug, both arms. Get the baby off the vena cava.” Jack mimes the movement, guiding her.

“What's she had so far?” Shen says, walking in the room.

“30 of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol,” Jack says, eyes on the monitor.

“Damn.” Ellis’ eyes follow Jack's, “What's your next step?” 

“Any ideas?” Jack asks the room, “Nazely?” 

“Dilantin? Valproate?” Nazely offers.

“Infusion is too long. Push 100 of ketamine. That's had results with refractory status,” you say, nodding at Nazely. She injects the ketamine into the IV and immediately the heart rate picks up, but not as much as you’d like, “little better.”

“Yeah. She should be upstairs with the rest of OB,” Shen shakes his head.

“Best of OB is down here with us,” Jack says, looking at you with adoration. You smile and shake your head at his compliment. The phone in the room rings and Ellis moves to pick it up.

“Ok, got it.” she says, “OB says send her and Dr. Abbot up. They have an OR ready.” 

“This one looks like it took a turn for the worse,” Robby says walking into the room, and as if he spoke it into existence, Judith’s heart starts to fail, “fuck. V-fib”!

“Chest compressions, Dr. Toomarian, Charge to 200,” you say, commanding the room, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call the NICU. Start a timer.”

“Charged. Clear.” Mateo says. Everyone raises their hands off Judith and steps back. A shock jolts her body but her heart doesn’t pick up again on its own, “continue compressions!”

“Gown up, baby, it's you and me.” Abbot looks across the table at you and you give your head a little shake at the pet name in this dire circumstance.

“Dr. Toomarian, do you know the four-minute rule?” You ask as Mateo helps you slip on a gown.

“Uh, not sure.” Nazely says, tying Jack’s gown for him.

“Pregnant patient with a viable fetus, you have four minutes after cardiac arrest to save the baby.” You say, sliding your goggles up your nose.

“And the mom,” Jack adds, “we don't call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It's a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.” 

“But she doesn't want any medical intervention.” Nazley says tepidly. 

“Doesn't matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” You say. “OK, charge to 200. One more rhythm check and then Jack and I are gonna cut. Ellis, you and Crus on Mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. OK, hold compressions.” 

Everyone steps back, raising their hands off Judith’s limp body.

“Still V-fib.” Crus shakes his head.

“We need to get this baby out right now,” Jack says to you, and you nod, “let’s have eyes on Dr. Abbot, this is a priceless demonstration we’re about to get,”

“Ok, ten blade,” you say, holding out your hand, grateful you’re masked up so the trauma room can’t see you blush. Mateo places the scalpel in your hand.

“First incision is from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis through the skin to the linea alba.” You say, dragging the blade down her belly.

“Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus,” you’re laser focused, making an identical incision on the deeper layer of skin.

“Ellis, gentle traction,” Jack says, pulling back his retractor and she mirrors his movements. 

“Ok, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby,” you say, taking the scissors from Mateo, “using scissors to extend superiorly.”

“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.” Jack says, knowing what you need before you have to ask. 

“Amniotic fluid looks good,” you say, as it spills out, “give me some fundal pressure.”

“Breech position,” Jack says, as you reach into her uterus.

“Baby's out. It's a girl!” You say, and Jack can hear the smile in your voice. He knows that this is your favorite part, usually much more joyful and with the mother conscious. 

“Ok, blue and flaccid. We got mommy, you take baby,” You say to Shen. Everyone works in frantic precision. You pull out the placenta in a smooth motion, getting it all out in one go.  

“Hold compressions.” Jack says.

“I got a weak carotid.” Mateo says, and you breathe out in relief. 

“No seizure activity on the EEG.” Crus says, eyes on the monitor. 

“Ah!” Shen calls from across the room, “Baby girl just scored the winning point! APGAR of 8 is pretty normal.”

“Holy shit,” Dr. Pettyfer, your OB colleague pushes in the room, “what did I miss?

“Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.” Jack says, resting his hands on his hips.

“I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section,” Pettyfer says, looking between you and Jack, “got your text 12 minutes ago.”

“Shit happens fast down here,” Jack shrugs.

  “Dr. Abbot did a resuscitative hysterotomy in 36 seconds.” Crus says, awe in his voice.

“Impressive,” Pettyfer crosses his arm, looking down at Judith.

“You’re not gonna ask which one?” Jack says, crossing his arms.

“I don’t have to,” Pettyfer smirks.

“NICU's sending a team down,” Mateo says, hanging up the phone.

“Alright well I can take mom along with my star resident,” Pettyfer nods at you before turning to the ER crew, “you guys are rock stars,”

“We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night,” Jack says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“My god,” you roll your eyes at him, before turning back to Pettyfer, “can I meet you up there in five? I wanna wait for NICU to come get the baby,”

“Yeah, no problem,” Pettyfer says as Crus and Ellis help him roll Judith out of the room, the rest of the ER staff clearing out leaving you and Jack alone. You lock eyes and let out a long, deep breath.

“You were amazing,” Jack says, walking towards you, the tip of his boot bumping against your sneaker.

“I fucking hate anti-vaxx, make america healthy again bullshit people,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jack teases as he moves his arms around your body, holding you against him. You pinch his side and he yells out a little yelp.

“She was scared,” you say, breathing in his smell, “idiots can be scared too, Jack,”

“So true, baby,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down your back, “you were good with her,”

“I was,” you sigh.

“I didn’t like it when she asked if we had kids,” Jack says into your hair.

“She was just scared, looking for a little connection,” you say, pulling back so you can look your husband in the eye, “it’s ok that we’re doing things our own way. We’re allowed to not want kids.”

“I love you so much,” he says, squeezing your hip.

“I love you so much,” you echo.

“Fuck kids,” Jack says.

“Fuck kids,” you say so enthusiastically Jack can’t help but laugh, “...for us though. For other people it’s super important to my livelihood.”

“Right,” Jack nods in mock seriousness. You smile at him, running your hands up his arms, locking your fingers behind his neck.

“I want you all to myself,” you whisper, leaning up, quickly biting his ear lobe. Jack grips down on your waist and lets out a small, soft groan. 

“You got me,” he rasps. 

“I know,” you smile, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I gotta get back upstairs my love,”

“Ok,” he says, trying not to be so disappointed, especially after getting to spend a little extra time with you. 

Jack shoves his hands in his pockets as the pair of you walk towards the elevators, knowing he’d be too tempted to take your hand if he didn’t.

“If I give you constructive feedback will you still love me?” You say, as the pair of you move slowly through the pitt.

“I’ll love you no matter what,” Jack hums.

“You should try to call Nazley Dr. Toomarian,” you say, clasping your hands behind your back, “she just became a doctor. And I know you have your whole fun-attending-night-crawlers thing but… she worked hard to get here and I think it could mean a lot. Especially because the night shift down here is kind of a boys club,”

“We have Ellis!” Jack says.

“Jack…” you stop in front of the elevator giving him a somewhat incredulous look,“Ellis is the head of boys club,”

“Point taken,” he laughs, pausing, letting his eyes run over your face. “Ok. I’ll work on that. Can I give you some constructive feedback?” He pushes the elevator button for you.

“Of course,” you smile. Jack leans towards you, letting his finger brush against the back of your palm, against your wedding band.

“Your ass… looks amazing in those scrubs,” he whispers.

“Jack!” You laugh, as the elevator dings open, starting to walk through the doors.

“Hey,” Jack says in almost a whine, grasping your hand in his.

“What?” You smile.

“No kiss?” He says, his eyes wide and puppy-like.

“We are at work,” you smile, squeezing his hand and he gives you this look like he knows you want to kiss him just as badly. You sigh, “fine. A little one,”

“Just a little one,” Jack says, crinkling his nose, leaning towards you, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You giggle against his mouth, turning your head away.

“That’s all you get,” you smile, pulling away, backing into the elevator.

“I’ll see you later,” Jack says, the tips of his ears red, burying his hands in his pockets.

“Bye, Dr. Abbot,” you say, drawing out his name with a flirty twang.

By the time you reach your floor, you’re practically dragging your feet across the hall. You’re more tired than usual, not having properly rested before going to work—to be fair, you weren’t supposed to come into work tonight. But your co-worker had called you just as the sun was setting, asking if you could cover half her shift because of something you couldn’t be bothered to remember when you grumbled yes into your phone. You could’ve simply said no but she covered for you that one time when you disappeared for almost an hour sinking your teeth into a man who was incessantly trying to persuade you into taking a 10 minute break in the back alley, so you owed her.

It’s a little after midnight now and there’s nothing to do. Despite it being one of the shittier shifts you’ve had, you were a little grateful that you at least had something to do on a day off—though you’re unsure if you could still count it as a day off because you did work. 

Nothing seems to be enough these days. In the earlier years of being a vampire, you did anything that could possibly be done under the moon, thrilled by your newfound abilities and testing the limits of your being. Now, you’re almost tired of it. You’ve read the books, you’ve seen the movies, hell, you’ve even met others like you, and it’s a wonder how so many of them could do this for decades and centuries. What do they possibly do with all the time in their hands, watching the world change again and again? Surely, they grow bored of everything. You certainly have and you’ve only been doing this for almost 50 years.

If you had to think about it, Jack Abbot is the only interesting thing right now, and how things will end with him is not quite clear yet. 

You try not to listen in into his apartment as you pass his door, he was probably on shift anyway.

Your place is quiet as you enter. Hardly out of the ordinary but usually there’s soft pattering of paws on the floor to greet your arrival. There’s none of that tonight, there’s only the soft meow from one of your cats on the kitchen counter.

“Hey, Jim.” You coo as your fingers find his soft white fur.

It’s then you notice the absence of your other cat. Calling out his name, you search in his usual places; under the coffee table, the empty box by the closet, on your bed. You even search the cupboards in case he somehow got himself in there (it wouldn’t be the first time). Pete always had a knack for hiding in the dark nook and crannies of the apartment but he usually came out once he heard the concern lacing the sound of his name. Now, you’re really concerned because the wretched cat is nowhere in sight.

Jimmy, ever the useless bastard, stays in his spot cleaning his fur.

“Can’t you atleast call him in your cat-language-whatever to stop fucking around and come out?” you grumble under your breath as you almost trash your apartment searching for the sneaky asshole.

As you look under the bed for the nth time, a series of knocks come at your door. Startled, your head hits the bed frame. “Ah, fuck!” Rubbing the back of your head, you make your way to the door and swing it open without bothering to check through the peephole. 

Jack is standing on the other side.

You can’t stop the surprised oh! that leaves your mouth. Embarrassed, you chuckle, “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you.”

Jack smiles kindly, “Hey, sorry if I startled you, you okay?” He gestures to your hand still rubbing that spot on your head.

Quickly, you drop it. “Yeah, just a bump, that’s all.”

He nods, “I came by because, uh, I have your cat.”

“What?”

“Yeah, found him here in the hallway when I got back from running errands,” He responds, “Read the collar and it said ‘Pete’ and I’ve heard you yell his name a couple times, figured he was yours. I tried knocking but you weren’t here so I brought him to mine.”

The little fucker must have snuck out the door as you left, you were in such a hurry that you didn't even notice.

The sound of relief that escapes you is loud, and it didn’t leave any room for the embarrassment of having Jack hear the unfortunate scoldings of frustration you’ve given your cat, you’ll be embarrassed of it later when you’re alone. “Oh thank God, I’ve been looking for him everywhere, thank you, Jack.”

Shaking his head of gray, he says, “No problem at all. It’s just- Well, I would’ve brought him here myself but he’s hidden underneath somewhere and won’t come out. I could try to get him but I don’t think my back would appreciate it.”

“Yeah, he does that. Don't worry, I’ll get him.”

Nodding, Jack walks to his door as you follow behind. 

“He’s been hiding since I brought him here.” he explains as he enters his place and into the living room. “I don’t think he likes me. He scratched the hell outta my arm when I picked him up.”

You freeze before you could step foot past the threshold. Jack hasn’t invited you into his apartment therefore you can’t just walk in. Sure, the implication that he was letting you in was there but you need the explicit permission. You can almost feel the invisible barrier there on your fingertips. 

Swallowing the anxiety growing in your stomach, you ask, “Can I come in?”

In the living room, Jack is slightly bent down, looking underneath his couch, “Yeah, guy’s under there.”

You test it, foot attempting to pass the threshold but the barrier doesn’t disappear. 

Christ, couldn’t he just say ‘yeah, come in!’?

You wonder if he’ll find it weird if you ask a second time. When you stay quiet, Jack glances at you so you pretend to fix your shoe to avoid looking like a complete idiot just standing at his entrance.

“Pete!” You call from your spot, praying that hearing your voice is enough for him to run out and into your arms.

“I don’t think he’s comin’ out.” He mumbles, “Maybe he wants to see you first, see it’s not a scam or somethin’”

Again, it’s clear he’s saying you can come in but you need the words! You’re screaming inwardly, simultaneously thinking of ways to help this situation and cursing your stupid cat, bastard! So help that creature if he’s the reason your secret is revealed. How’s that for a story? 

Girl, revealed to be a vampire after her cat hides in neighbor’s apartment and she can’t come in because said neighbor for some fucking reason won’t give her the explicit invitation she needs!

You thought of using your little compulsion ability on Jack, dust off the old mind control trick, but that idea was futile because for that you need to have him in direct eye contact with you. Asking him ‘Hey, I know you’re like a couple feet from me right now but can you maybe come back here so I can look you in the eyes?’ was just as weird as ‘I know I just asked but can I come in and can you maybe answer clearly this time?’.

“Pete, I swear to God, if you don’t come out!”

“C’mon, little guy, your mom’s lookin’ for you.” Jack calls out softly.

This was getting exasperating. Each second you spend lingering by his door risks your exposure. 

Jack steps closer, bending a little more to look at the wretched cat but the action must have scared the poor thing because then there was a blur of black zooming from under the couch to god knows where in the apartment.

“Hey!” he calls out and starts to go after him, but before Jack disappears into the corner, he looks back at you. “C’mon, get in here, guy’s probably gonna tear up my room.”

A massive weight is lifted off your chest. You almost feel the barrier physically disappear before you as you finally step foot past the threshold. Immediately, you chase after Jack straight into his bedroom. 

He is lingering by the foot of his bed, down on one knee and peering under the frame. The sight of the old man on his knee makes you jump into action, quickly kneeling and almost sticking your head under his bed where you find Pete hiding in the corner. The poor thing looks scared, you can’t imagine how he must feel, being picked up by a complete stranger and having them take you into a place you don’t know.

Suddenly, all the frustration you had for him dissipates, “Hey, Pete, it’s me, baby.” You murmur, extending a hand to him. The cat turns and immediately recognizes you, if the meow he lets out is anything to go by. 

“C’mon, get outta there, s’time to come home.”

You don’t notice your neighbor watching you intently as you softly lure the cat into your arms. When Pete slowly crawls out, you gently pick him up in your arms, cooing and rubbing his fat little belly. When you finally notice Jack’s gaze on you, it’s only then you realize you're standing in his bedroom, his very intimate space that you just barged in. You try not to notice the way his navy blue covered bed is neat and made, his clothes draped in a chair, the personal belongings on his bedside table, and the single picture frame on it. 

Smiling at Jack, you turn and march out, finding your way back into the living room. “I’m really sorry for all the trouble.” 

Jack shakes his head with a wave of his hand, “S’nothing, don’t worry about it. Definitely made my day a little more interesting actually.”

“Well, that’s Pete, I guess. He’s always trouble, and I'm really sorry he scratched you, he doesn't like strangers holding him.” You wince.

Jack only shrugs, glancing down at the red lines on his forearm, “It’s fine, they'll heal alright.”

You can only nod in response. There's silence for a moment, then—

“So why Pete?” 

“Why, what's wrong with it?” You arch a brow, ready to defend your cat.

“Nothing! Just never seen a cat be named something so…common?” He muses as a hand comes up to scratch at his gray stubble.

“Well, he’s named after Pete Mitchell, y’know, from Top Gun?”

“Ah,” Jack murmurs, “So why not Maverick?”

Nose scrunched and brows furrowed, you say, “Too on the nose, don't you think?”

“I guess. What, you got another cat named Nick?”

You chuckle, “Ha, no not Nick. Jimmy, actually.”

“As in..?” Jack raises his brows.

“Jimmy Stewart.”

Jack looks pleased by the answer, “You an old Hollywood fan then?” 

“Why do you look surprised?”

“You kids aren’t usually interested in them s’all.” He shrugs.

There’s that word again. Kid. You bite back the urge to tell him that despite the way you look, you’re part of the right age group to appreciate them, having been born during its period.

“They’re great, I don't know how anyone refuses to watch them! It's their loss, I suppose.”

The old man chuckles. Tick. Your ears catch the sound as the hand on the clock moves when another second passes, reminding you just how late it is.

“Crap, I should get going. I’m sorry for all the bother, you must be tired.” You apologize as you start walking to his door.

Jack follows, “Please, sweetheart, stop apologizing, I told you it's completely fine.”

The pet name sends a rush of warmth through you, it makes your stomach do an embarrassing flip. Did he really just call you that? When you face him as you walk out, Jack’s face is stoic, like calling somebody sweetheart was a completely casual thing for him.

Well, not for you, it isn't. Christ, you’re gonna be thinking about this for an embarrassingly long time.

“Uh,” You forget your words all of a sudden, and looking into Jack’s eyes as he watched you think was certainly not helping, “Thank you again for, um, for Pete and keeping him here.”

“You’re welcome, neighbor, watch out for him the next time you leave, yeah?” 

“I will, goodnight, Jack.” You say as you start to walk towards your own door.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” He replies, flashing you that sexy smile as he steps back to close his door.

The second you're inside your apartment, you look down at Pete, who is perfectly content in your arms, “You’re annoying, you know that?”

Pete blinks.

Gently, you let him down and watch as he immediately runs to his food bowl. Your back hits your door with a soft thud. The last 30 minutes runs in your mind in a loop, that deep and smooth ‘sweetheart’ playing repeatedly like a broken record. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear it as if his mouth is right there by your ear.

A thought appears, uninvitedly, of his voice whispering that name paired with words that are nothing short of sinful as he—

You slap your hands over your face and heave a sigh.

you nod and lean forward to hug him. robby buries his head in your neck as he holds you tight against him, a tear falling down his cheek.

“want to come sleep in my bed tonight?”

“is that okay?”

“of course, honey.. i’ll go and get dressed then come back and get you okay?”

you nod again, watching robby leave and you blinked back tears waiting for him to return. after a while, you heard his footsteps padding across the hall outside, so you got up and walked over to your doorway, meeting him there. he smiled down at you, leading you to his bedroom where you quickly got into bed—you tried to hide your smile but he caught you.

“feelin’ all better, huh?”

“mmhm..”

robby smiled and got in his side of the bed and let you snuggle into his side, kissing the top of your head.

“everything’s gonna be okay, sweetheart.. dad’s always gonna be here to look after you and take care of you, okay? nobody’s takin’ me away from my sweet little girl..”

you nod, settling down into his side and falling asleep. robby soon fell asleep himself, and soon you were on your side, robby behind you, his arm wrapped around your waist. you woke up in the early morning, checking the clock, which read 4:32am, and you rolled your eyes before closing your eyes again and trying to get back to sleep. but you wriggled slightly in robby’s grip, squeezing your legs together with a whine. you swallowed thickly, before gently taking robby’s hand and pushing it between your legs. a groan behind you let you know robby was awake.

“what time is— what are you doin’ honey?”

“c-can you touch me, daddy?”

“of course, honey.. you need some help down here?”

“mmhm..”

It was late, and it was dark, and you were feeling stupid and emotional in the way you always seemed to after a big fight. The breakup between your roommates had lasted for weeks, and they kept dragging you into fights like a child in a divorce. You needed air.

The car crunched across the asphalt as you pulled out of the parking lot, you didn’t have a destination at first, just aimlessly driving and fighting back the frustration. You considered the hospital, just to take a breather in the ER car park for an hour, maybe head to the diner a few blocks down for some bad pancakes and an even worse milkshake.

The idea hit you like a terrible light bulb. Dennis Whitaker, your friend from work, was house-sitting for Dr Robby still. He’d said himself the house was lonely and big at night, and he wouldn’t mind the company if you had a free night. So that’s where you headed, you had the address saved in your messages somewhere and had the time to pull it up while at a red light. It was fairly close to PTMC, only a short drive from the hospital.

The house was what you’d expected from the rough attending, simple on the outside, garden a little unkempt. It needed a good weeding, and maybe for the grass to be cut. You pulled up outside, back tyre perched precariously on the curb, you should’ve probably straightened up, but didn’t. It wasn’t until you approached the door that you considered you maybe should’ve called Dennis to give him a heads-up you were stopping by, but when you tried calling, it rang out and went to voicemail.

Your hand hovered over the door before you knocked. It was just Dennis, there was no point in being nervous. For a long moment, there was complete silence, before keys jingled in the door from the other side, and you were faced with not Dennis, but Robby himself.

You blinked in confusion. He still had a month left of his sabbatical and the reckless motorcycle trip he was taking across the country. Instead of explaining your reasoning for being here, or saying anything smart at all, what came out was a slow, “You… You’re back?”

To his credit, the older man didn’t question you right away or demand to know why one of his interns was on his doorstep and had his address. He just sighed and replied, “Yeah, got back last night.” His voice was gruff and typically tired.

It was then that you realised how strange this was and cleared your throat, “I’m so sorry!” You apologised quickly, realising how strange this was. “I thought Dennis was still here, he said I could stop by… I’ll… I’m sorry.”

Robby didn’t seem annoyed; if anything, he seemed slightly amused by your rambled apology. “Are you alright?” The question from him caught you so off guard that you just stared at him.

“What?” You questioned, then promptly snapped your mouth shut and scrambled to continue, “Yes. Yeah, I’m fine, good… I was just… looking for...” You trailed off because what were you looking for? Company, maybe.

He waited patiently for you to finish the sentence, and when you didn’t, he shuffled a little on the doorstep, almost as if he wanted to ask you to leave but didn’t really know how. On a whim, and a bad decision, Robby instead asked, “Do you want a drink?”

You considered the question for a moment, “I… No, I don’t want to bother you.” You denied.

He looked slightly taken aback by the denial, as if he’d just automatically assumed you’d say yes. Which he had by the way. “It’s no bother,” he said finally, “I have some of that herbal shit you drink on shift.”

It was such a simple little observation to make that you didn’t drink coffee, only herbal tea and energy drinks, but it shifted something in you that he noticed. Maybe that's why you agreed, “sure,” you murmured.

He stepped aside to let you through the front door. The house was warm, almost uncomfortably so on your skin after the slight chill from outside. He didn’t seem to find it too hot.

You recognised his walls from being on FaceTime with Dennis as he got in from a shift, automatically calling you for a rant the moment he got in. You could’ve pointed out the toaster his phone had fallen off of countless times as he did dishes or made food. It had felt like Dennis’s space for a time, so it was strange seeing it as Robby’s again.

“How was your trip?” You asked hesitantly as he busied himself with turning on the kettle to boil some water.

His silence was long; it appeared as though he was taking a long time to consider his answer. So, it was odd when he came out with, “Yeah, good.” and that was all.

You nodded despite him not looking at you, “Okay, good.” You replied. “Where did you-”

“Do you want sugar?” he cut you off, almost sharply. Clearly, the sabbatical was not up for discussion.

“No… thank you.” You replied carefully.

It was almost awkwardly silent as he poured water over the tea bags, considering he’d described it as ‘herbal shit,’ he was still drinking it. You vaguely wondered if it would be rude to leave now he’d already poured the tea. It wasn’t until he slid you the mug that he spoke again, “How come you didn’t call ahead?”

“Call ahead?” You repeated, unsure what he meant at first.

“If you were looking for Whitaker.” He clarified.

“Oh,” That made sense now, “I just… didn’t think, he said I would be okay to stop by if he was here… I thought he’d checked it with you.” You explained.

He sighed, “Yeah, No… You’re…” He paused to sip from his mug, “You were welcome to stop by… anyone was,” he added the last part as an afterthought.

You nodded again. The green tea was bitter, clearly not of overly high quality. You tried to imagine Robby aimlessly picking up a box of herbal tea as he did his weekly shopping, but the image wouldn't quite conjure. It didn’t match the image of him. The silence was oddly comforting at first, but the longer it went on, and the more you felt him watching you, the more you felt the need to break it.

“My roommates are going through a breakup, they keep dragging me into it.” You said finally. The second you said it, you couldn’t figure out why you had. He was your boss, not your therapist.

In true Robby fashion, he looked instantly uncomfortable in the face of emotion from a colleague. He took a sip of his tea, slurping when he hadn’t before and clearing his throat before finally speaking. “I’m sorry, that must be difficult.” He replied, it was the expected answer.

“Yeah.” You said simply. “I just needed a second out of the apartment.” You explained, a reason for seeking out Dennis this late at night. Robby seemed to deflate a little; you assumed it was at your seemingly dismissive attitude towards the divorce and the lack of need to continue talking about it.

However, he next led with, “So you and Whitaker aren't…” He didn’t say it, but it was implied.

Again, he’d sent you for a complete spin, “What? No.” You denied quickly. “We… We’re friends.” The insistence was maybe a bit much; he raised an eyebrow.

“Okay.” He agreed, as if he didn’t care, but there was an edge to it.

“Trinity had a bet that we’d end up… well, something-ing… but it never happened.” You were supplying completely unnecessary information now, clearly flustered by the line of questioning.

Robby was still quiet, in that stoic way he sometimes was. “No?” he pressed.

“Not my type.” You added, to be sure.

The silence wasn’t any different now; you were both still the same distance apart, still sipping tea, but it felt different. He was looking at you with an intensity that you’d never noticed, the kind you assumed he probably studied you with in the ER during procedures.

“I got to Wyoming.” He offered after a moment, vulnerability for vulnerability. Apparently, he did want to talk about the trip.

You glanced up at him, placing your half-empty mug onto the counter, “and?” You prompted him to continue.

He sighed deeply, “I realised I was just taking my problems with me.” He admitted, it almost sounded like it pained him to say out loud.

“I’m glad you came back… I hope you found whatever you were looking for.” You said in response. There had been a time in those first few weeks, when he went radio silent, that we thought he wasn’t coming back.

He went still, and then shrugged and shook his head at the same time. “Yeah, maybe I did.” He said.

You watched him closely again for a long moment, he was looking into his empty mug. “I should probably go.” You decided quickly, feeling like you’d already intruded. You could head back to the apartment now, your roommates would likely be asleep or at least cooled down.

You reached for your mug to place in the sink without realising he’d stepped forward to also take it, his hand closing around yours. It was the first time you’d been drawn this close. You took a breath, sharp. His eyes darted down to yours before he took the mug, straightening quickly. His back was turned to the sink when he said, “Goodnight.”

You swallowed thickly, “Yeah, goodnight. Thank you for the tea.” You replied, your voice coming out a lot more stable than you’d been expecting.

You’d made it to the entryway again when he caught up, making you jump a little.

“Drive safe.” His voice was rough, but his inflection sounded like he wasn’t done talking. You paused, he opened his mouth and then shook his head. “Look, if you need a place to crash or whatever, I have a spare room.”

“Okay…” Your voice was cautious but you appreciated the offer. You knew how much it had taken for him to make it. You turned to the door and then back, “When are you back at work?” You questioned.

“Tomorrow, probably.” He said. That wasn’t surprising, it was a miracle he’d stayed away for the two months he had.

“I’ll see you then.” You replied softly. He nodded, stepping to catch the door as you stepped outside.

The whole way down the path you were waiting for him to say something else, anything else. You’d reached the gate when he called out. “Wait.” He was already halfway down the path towards you, you’d stopped as he requested.

He took a breath and then spoke again. "I realized halfway across Wyoming that I spend a lot of time running from things." He shook his head. "Then I got home yesterday and now you’re on my porch." He looked at you properly.

You searched his face, trying to read the expression you'd never seen directed at anyone in the emergency department.

“And you looked disappointed that I was here.” He spoke.

You blinked. “No.” You denied, “I just… I was expecting Dennis, you caught me off guard.” You defended. Obviously you weren’t disappointed he was back.

He was still just studying your face, waiting for something.

“I wasn’t disappointed.” You clarified. “I just needed company, and… Well, I wouldn’t usually come to you.”

He nodded, as if accepting that. It was true, your boss was probably the last person you would’ve gone to about your roommates breakup driving you to insanity.

“I’m glad I did.” You said after another long pause.

Robby hesitated and then took a step towards you, it was almost unsure. You’d never really seen him look off kilter, he moved with a certain assuredness in the ER. He stopped close enough that you could see how tired his eyes really were. "This is probably a bad idea." He murmured.

"It probably is." You agreed.

"You're an intern." He pointed out, he cursed himself internally, helpful Robby.

"I noticed." You replied simply.

He gave a dry huff that almost counted as a laugh, "I'm supposed to know better."

"You usually do."

"I usually do."

No one moved yet, you kept your eyes trained on his but he didn’t move away. You were waiting for him to tell you to go home. He shook his head again, but he stayed where he was. “Thank you for staying.” He breathed, voice rough.

“It’s fine.” You whispered, feeling the need to stay quiet and not ruin the moment.

"It isn’t." His voice was quiet but more sure. For a long moment, neither of you moved. His eyes searched yours, still tired but more clear, like he’d made up his mind about something. "I've spent all night trying not to make this complicated," he admitted.

Your breath caught. "Robby..." You repeated his name because you’d run out of other things to say.

He shook his head, a small, almost defeated smile crossing his face. "I know." His hand lifted slowly, hesitating just before it reached your face. "Can I kiss you?" he said softly, "and we can pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow."

Instead of answering, you closed the last bit of distance between you, pressing up just slightly on your toes to reach him. The kiss was gentle, more a question than anything else, the rough scratch of his beard almost comforting.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours for a moment. "I really do know better," he murmured.

You smiled, and huffed a breath that sounded like a laugh, "I know."

"I'm still glad you came." He joined in your laugh with a dry chuckle of his own, it sounded like his throat had gone dry.

"So am I." You whispered into the night before stepping back. “Goodnight.” You said for the second time that night.