RelaxDiva

a/n: 1/5 text fics for 1k! im at 982 right now but I couldn’t keep holding these back from u guys! enjoy my babiessss <3

Trinity’s sitting in the break room, phone in hand, a brief moment of respite from the emergency department as she scrolls through TikTok. She’s not really paying attention, eyes scanning the screen quickly before swiping away, numbing her brain for a minute before she has to get back to work. 

She scrolls past a video, pauses, then goes back to it. 

“Holy shit,” She mumbles, realizing that it’s you and Dennis. 

You stand beside him, fighting a smile, mouthing along to the lyrics of ‘Slim Pickins’ by Sabrina Carpenter. He looks focused, eyes a little wide and bottom lip slightly tugged between his teeth. 

“A boy who’s jacked and kind.”

Dennis bends down slightly, hands grabbing your hips, effortlessly picking you up on ‘jacked,’ hoisting you onto his shoulder. You grin, holding one of his wrists, looking down towards him just as he shifts, sliding you off and into his arms, catching you against his chest. He says something to you, and you nod, then he spins you around, your head falling back with laughter. The video ends, and the beginning starts to replay as she opens the comments section. 

holy sleeper build

bro is winning

woooow so happy for u!!! (trying to explode u with my mind)

There’s thousands more, some commenting on how hot you are, others complimenting Dennis. Most of them are playfully jealous, and you’ve liked a handful of the funnier ones, plus a sweeter one a few comments down. 

may i find a man who looks at me EXACTLY like this

She swipes out of the comments, hitting your username, her eyes almost popping out of her head when she sees that you have over a hundred thousand followers. 

There’s huge variation in your content—outfits, little vlogs showing your life, a few trends (including some dances, which you’re annoyingly good at). The one constant, though, is Dennis, who appears in quite a few videos. Trinity clicks on another one. 

You’re both in scrubs at the beginning, yours navy blue and his the usual black. She squints, seeing that it was filmed outside PTMC, around the back of the building against the brick wall. He takes your hand in his, spinning you around, dipping you towards the camera. The lighting changes with the transition, and he lifts you back up, catching you quickly, turning you so you’re in frame. 

Trinity’s jaw drops. 

You’re wearing a stunning outfit, one that highlights your figure perfectly. Your makeup and hair are done, different from how you usually wear them at work. The makeup accentuates your eyes, and your hair looks perfect.

Dennis looks good too, she has to admit. He’s wearing all black, from his button down to the shoes, his silver chain peeking out from where he has the top few buttons undone. His hair is also styled differently, his curls directed away from his face instead of hanging over his forehead, waving across the top and sides of his head. 

The comments on this one are a bit more…to the point than the last, the entire internet thirsting over you and your boyfriend. 

this is why im bi

chill guys my bfs girlfriend is on this app (we aren’t that serious though it’s actually pretty casual and im free anytime)

i love when hot people date hot people

She glances at the door, not hearing any chaos coming from outside, so she keeps scrolling. There’s content dating back a few years ago, and she can’t help but smile at how young Dennis looks, especially beside you. You’re hotter now, but you were still absolutely stunning back then, and the comments did not let you forget it. 

She tears her attention away for long enough to check the time, realizing she’s stayed long past the initial five minutes she planned. She jumps to her feet, phone still in hand, walking straight over to Dennis, who’s charting at one of the workstations.

“Why didn’t you tell me your girlfriend was famous, Huckleberry?” She asks, earning a raised eyebrow in response. It takes him a second to realize what she means, then his face relaxes with recognition. 

“Oh, like on TikTok?” He questions. “She’s not famous.”

“Sorry, what would you call it?” She counters. “A hundred and twelve-thousand followers seems pretty famous to me.”

“Who has that many followers?” Victoria asks, setting her tablet on the counter and leaning over. 

Trinity says your name, and Victoria’s eyes widen. 

“Seriously?” She asks. Trinity turns her phone towards her, showing her the profile. She takes it in her hands, slowly scrolling through the posts. “Wow. I don’t even have half that.”

“Was she one of those super annoying people who never had an awkward phase?” Trinity questions. “Just…disgustingly photogenic since birth?”

“Yeah, I mean, she’s basically always looked like that,” He says, trying to finish up the chart for a patient he discharged hours ago. 

“Everyone has an awkward stage,” Victoria says. “You’re probably just too obsessed with her to see it.”

He shrugs. “I dunno’, I’ve seen pretty much every photo of her growing up.”

“Do you have any?” 

“Uh, on me? I don’t think so,” He says, still not looking in her direction, his fingers flying across the keys. “She’s around here somewhere, why don’t you ask her?”

“She’s your girlfriend,” She counters. “You ask.”

“I’ve already seen them,” He argues, signing the note and turning the computer off, getting to his feet. 

“Are you friends with her mom on Facebook?” Victoria asks. “My mom has like, a million pictures of me on hers, awkward phases included.”

“That I also want to see,” Trinity says. “Are you?”

Dennis sighs, but he’s already pulling his phone out, tapping on the blue app and typing your mom’s name into the searchbar. He clicks on her profile, opening the ‘photos’ tab and starting to scroll through. Trinity and Victoria crowd a little closer, looking over his shoulders, gaining the attention of a few people that are working nearby. Dana raises an eyebrow, shaking her head, waving it off with an ‘I don’t wanna’ know’ muttered under her breath. 

“Oh, wait, that one,” Victoria says, making him stop. She reaches over, tapping on the image. You’re probably thirteen or fourteen, wearing athletic clothes, very obviously in gym class. She frowns when she zooms in, realizing that you still look fantastic, your hair the perfect amount of messy and your clothes unreasonably normal. “Nevermind.”

“You’re not gonna’ find anything,” Dennis says, swiping out and continuing to scroll. “The awkward phase doesn’t exist.”

“I’m determined,” Trinity says. “No one makes it out of middle school unscathed.”

That pattern continues for a little while longer—one of them telling him to stop, zooming in on the picture, swiping away when they realize that you look…normal. It doesn’t matter how far back they go, you just went from adorable to beautiful to absolutely gorgeous, all without a single dip or deviation. 

“I kind of hate her,” Victoria says. “I’d kill someone for my digital footprint to look like this.”

“What are you doing?”

The sound of your voice makes Trinity and Victoria jump, all three of them turning to face you. You’re already smiling, hoping to be included in whatever fun they’re having now that you’re finished with your patient. 

“Showing them your childhood photos,” Dennis answers. You raise an eyebrow. 

“Why?” You ask, laughing a little. 

“We wanted to see if you, uhm, if you had an awkward stage,” Victoria says. “Whitaker said you didn’t, we didn’t believe him.”

“Oh my god, are you kidding?” You ask. “I had multiple.”

“You are a liar,” Trinity says. “There was not a single bad photo of you on there.”

“On where, exactly?” 

“Your mom’s Facebook,” Dennis explains. 

“You clearly weren’t looking hard enough,” You say, holding your hand out for Dennis’ phone. He passes it to you, and you start copying their actions, swiping through the various images of you throughout your life. Your brows knit closer and closer together the farther you go, and you eventually pass him his phone back, not saying a word. 

“Exactly,” Trinity says. “You’re annoying.”

“No, my mom just cherry-picked those,” You insist. Dennis shakes his head, putting his phone back in his pocket.

“Cherry-picked for literal years of your life?” Trinity asks. 

“Yes!” You exclaim. “She probably just…didn’t post the bad ones. She wouldn’t do that to me.”

“She would,” Dennis counters. You glare at him, pulling your own phone out now, opening your camera roll. You quickly go to the top, the first images from your freshman year of high school. You look for a specific month, picking one of the photos, nodding to yourself before turning it around. 

“Here,” You say. Trinity slowly takes your phone out of your hand, looking through them, Dennis and Victoria watching as she scrolls. You stand there for a second, watching their faces, trying to gauge the reaction. 

Victoria tilts her head to the side, blinking a few times, as though she’s missing something. Trinity laughs under her breath, shaking her head, disbelief obvious in her expression. Dennis squints, then smiles, leaning back and looking at you. 

“You think these are bad?” Victoria asks. “You look…you look really good.”

“Look at my eyebrows!” You exclaim. 

Trinity passes your phone back. “What about them?”

“They’re so thin,” You insist, looking at the photos again, zooming in on your face. 

“Yeah, a little, but they suit you,” Victoria counters. 

“I like them,” Dennis says. 

“Me too,” Trinity agrees.

“How did you even get on this topic?” You ask, about to put your phone away when Mel walks over, and you perk up. “Mel!”

“Yeah?” She says, coming up to you, rubbing hand sanitizer in. 

“Settle something for us,” Trinity says. Mel raises an eyebrow, shaking her head. 

“Uh, I don’t-”

You turn your phone around, showing her the photos. “What do you think about these?”

She takes your phone, adjusting her glasses, clicking on one of the pictures. Her expression softens a little, only enough to be noticeable if you’re paying close attention, which Trinity is.

“Oh, wow,” She says. “You look...really nice.”

“Okay, that was not the correct answer,” You say, raising your hand to take your phone back, but Mel doesn’t pass it over. She scrolls a little farther down, tapping again. 

“What was?” She asks. 

“She’s trying to convince us that she had an awkward phase,” Dennis says. “But she obviously didn’t.”

“I hate it here,” You say. 

Mel frowns, shaking her head. “I don’t really see one, to be honest. I think you look…cute.”

“Right, exactly,” Trinity says. “Thank you.”

Mel passes your phone back over, and you give her a smile when she finally looks at you again, one she returns. Her cheeks are slightly red, and she gestures to the board, reaching around you to grab a tablet. 

“I, uhm, I have a patient,” She says. “Excuse me.”

She only makes it a few steps away before she turns around, looking at you again. “I could actually use your help, if you’re free, of course.”

You nod, slipping back into work easily, adjusting your badge as you follow her into the patient’s room. Trinity, Dennis, and Victoria watch the two of you walk away. 

“She is so in love with your girlfriend, Huckleberry,” Trinity says. 

“Who isn’t?” Victoria asks. 

Dennis shakes his head. “You guys need to get out of here more often.”

A/N - in my head this takes place after blurred lines but definitely does not need to be read like that so...this disclaimer is at the bottom...but feel free to imagine that as well !

tags:

1. Robby

Dennis Whitaker isn’t what most would consider a private person. His coworkers know about his brothers and his hometown and his nieces and nephews, he just never mentioned a love life of any kind. They had assumed it was because his love life didn’t exist. It’s typical with med students, focused on school and their internship. Too busy to find time for another person in their hectic lives. No one judged him. Really, they understood. Then, a few weeks after his graduation, Dennis walks into work with a gold band shining on his left ring finger. 

Most of his coworkers didn’t even notice it at first. The ED is a place where people wear gloves more often than not. Bare hands are rarer than covered ones. Robby is the first one to spot it. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just shakes Dennis’ hand and shoots him a quiet congrats, kid. It’s not until Trinity spots the new jewelry that everyone finds out. Because Trinity Santos cannot keep her mouth shut to save her own life.

“You’re married!”

“Um, yeah?” Dennis rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He’s not sure if it’s always been a habit of his or if he picked it up from Robby. What he is sure of is that he hates the way every single doctor and nurse within earshot turns to study Dennis. Like he’s their newest toy. The grin on Princess’ face almost makes him wish he had stayed in bed with you this morning. (He wishes that every morning, though.)

“When did that happen?” It’s Mel’s voice this time. No judgement. No gleam in her eye. Just genuine curiosity that makes Dennis want to hug her. 

“After I graduated. We, uh, we’ve been dating since high school.” And Dennis hates how much his voice shakes. He should be able to boast about you to anyone who will listen because you’re the most amazing person he knows. But his cheeks are hot and his throat feels just a little tight. Dennis can see Trinity open her mouth, no doubt about to make fun of him for marrying his high school sweetheart. Then Dana is stepping in front of him, shooing away nosy residents with a wave of her hand and a single noise. Robby’s hand is on her shoulder again. 

“If you ever want to bring her with you after work, feel free.” Robby’s voice is soft and deep, a smile on his face that says nothing except pride. Dennis nods slowly and Robby squeezes his shoulder once before pulling back.

Dennis practically stumbles through the door. It’s late. A bit later than he wishes it was. The shift ran long because of a multi-vehicle crash on the highway. They didn’t lose anyone, but it was a hard-fought battle. Dennis can still smell blood in his nostrils. 

“Denny? That you?” Your voice is like a balm on the exhausted open wound that is Dennis Whitaker. He makes his way toward the living room of your tiny shared apartment to see you sitting on the couch. The television plays some nature documentary that he’s sure you’re not watching. You look over the back of the couch and smile so warmly that Dennis thinks he might melt. “Welcome home, baby. Dinner is staying warm in the oven for you.”

“I love you so much.” He can’t help muttering as he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. You just laugh, reaching back to pat his hip before pushing off the couch. 

You follow Dennis into the kitchen, sitting at the rickety dining table with exactly two chairs at it. He pulls out the food you left in the oven, carrying it over to the table, just short of collapsing into the chair. You watch as he eats, crumbs falling back onto his plate, unable to hold back a smile. You’ve known the man for two decades and he still doesn’t know how to eat without making a mess. 

“So…how did it go?” You reach out to run a finger over Dennis’ wedding band. The gold is scuffed and scratched in a few places. You bought your rings together at a thrift store, old and used but no less loved. He flips his hand over, intertwining your fingers.

“Trin was loud. But Robby said you’re invited to our after-work hangout. If you ever want to.” Dennis pauses, running his thumb over your knuckles with such gentle reverence you would think he’d studied you in undergrad instead of theology. “They, uh, they want to meet you.”

“Do you want me to meet them?” You ask quietly, keeping your eyes on Dennis’ hand in yours. He squeezes slightly and you already know the answer. As much as Dennis loves his coworkers, there’s something about you being his and only his. Not having to combine his home and work lives. It gives him an escape. You just squeeze back, finally meeting his eyes. “Wanna wait a little longer?”

“I’m sorry.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. You just smile, running your free hand through his curls. He lets out a breath you’re sure he hadn’t known he was holding. “You are the most amazing wife ever, Mrs. Whitaker.”

“And you are the best husband I could ever want, Dr. Whitaker.” You pull back, standing from the chair with a creak of the old wood. “Now, come on. Shower, then bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

2. Dana

“What d’ya got there, kid?” Dana’s voice cuts through Dennis’ thoughts and he looks down at the large foil pan in his arms. Like, so big he needs both arms to carry it. He smiles that signature shaky smile and awkwardly readjusts the pan in his hold.

“Treats. From Mrs. Whitaker.” He can’t help the way he straightens up a bit when he says it. He loves that he gets to call you that now. Dennis told you at least five times the night before that you did not have to bake anything for his coworkers. You steadfastly ignored him as you carefully measured out the ingredients. He only stopped after five because you looked so cute with flour on your nose. Dennis peels back the lid to reveal chocolate and caramel and oats in some kind of layer bar, already cut and carefully arranged in the foil pan. Dennis doesn’t know what exactly went into them. He’s no chef. If it were up to him, Dennis would eat strictly fast food, takeout, and frozen dinners. “They’re carmelitas, I think?”

Dana reaches in and grabs one, taking a bite before Dennis can even say anything. She lets out a noise that Dennis really doesn’t want to hear from his coworker and shoves the rest of the square in her mouth.

“Whitaker, tell your wife that if she ever wants to divorce you, I am more than willing to take your place.” Dana mutters, grabbing another bar as she continues chewing. “Seriously, these things are gonna kill me and it’ll be worth it.”

“Aren’t you married?”

Dana just laughs, turning away without another word. Dennis can only shrug, continuing his journey to the staff break room to place the foil pan on the small counter by the fridge. He pulls the little paper sign you made out of his bag, placing it next to the tray before heading toward his locker. 

It takes about thirty seconds for every single nurse and doctor in the Pitt to realize they’ve been offered a sweet treat. Even the night shift stops by the break room on their way out. Dennis personally gets pats on the back from Dr. Abbot and Robby and about ten other people who he’s not sure he’s ever met before today. It feels…nice? A bit strange, to be thanked and congratulated for something he didn’t even do.

The day is dreadfully slow. As much as Dennis hates the idea of people in pain, it's starting to grate at him by the end of the day. Only two ambulances came in, one of which was from the nearby old folk’s home. And most of the people in the waiting room either ate something bad and are overreacting or are straight-up rude. It’s trying, but Dennis supposes it’s better than losing patients.

By the time he finally makes it around to the break room at the end of the day, hoping for a bite of the sweet treat you made, only crumbs are left in the bottom of the foil pan. He smiles. Not the shaky one he gives when people ask him questions (even when he knows the answer), but something soft and solid. Mostly because he knows how happy you’ll be when you find out that the staff of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Emergency Department are, on most days, hungrier than a pack of wild hyenas. 

“I think our grocery bills are about to go up.” Dennis murmurs against your head as he places his customary greeting kiss there. You look over the back of the couch to see him empty handed and you grin.

“Are you telling me I’m required to bake for your coworkers now?” You tease, turning to lean forward against the back of the couch. Dennis just raises a brow, grinning down at you. You two know each other better than you know yourselves some days. “I’m not complaining, baby. They can be my guinea pigs when I try new recipes. And you know me. I have no idea how to cook for less than twenty people.” Dennis laughs and you think it’s the most wonderful sound you’ll ever hear. “Plus, I’m not the one who pays for groceries.”

“About that—” Dennis tugs his phone out of his back pocket, clicking open the bank app. He grimaces at the Loans tab and focuses on his Checking. “I got my first paycheck. I thought I could help out with rent this month.”

You smile softly, reaching out to play with the longer curls at his nape. “Dennis, we agreed. I graduated and got a job so you could focus on your student loans. I pay rent and bills, you get groceries and my own resident fix-it man.” You press a kiss to his cheek.

“I want to help you out.”

“I know, baby. But I want to help you more.” Your eyes close as you tug Dennis’ forehead against yours. He hums out a long sigh and you laugh softly. He’ll bring it up again and it’ll go exactly the same. You think that’s okay if it means you get to hold him like this.

3. Trinity

Around an hour before his shift ends every day, Dennis starts counting down the minutes. It’s a bad habit. He knows. It disappoints him more often than not. When the shift handoff goes long or there’s some kind of last minute trauma. So, yeah, it’s a terrible habit to have. But he can’t help it. He’s not counting down until his shift ends. He’s counting down until he can see you again.

“Hey, Whitaker!” The voice that comes from behind Dennis is unmistakably Trinity’s. He’s honestly surprised she actually used his name. “The residents are going to the bar on Grant.” 

“Uh, good for you?” Dennis murmurs, glancing back at the clock. 6:52. He’s probably only got thirty minutes before he can leave if handoff goes well. Not likely, but he can hope. That means no more than forty-five minutes until he can see you again. Dennis loves his job. He just hates how often it keeps the two of you apart. 

“Huckleberry.” Dennis turns away from the clock, back to Trinity. She has the most unimpressed look on her face that Dennis has ever seen. “All the residents.” Dennis just tilts his head, nodding along slowly. Trinity sighs as he doesn’t answer and reaches out to grip his shoulders. “That includes you, Doc.” 

She says it like it’s obvious, but Dennis hadn’t actually considered the idea that he would be invited along. That he would go. He sees these people almost every day for over twelve hours. Does he really want to spend even more time with them?

(Yes. Dennis loves the people he works with. It took Dennis almost ten years to feel as comfortable around you as he does around his coworkers friends. Probably something to do with trauma bonding in a place where horrid sights outnumber the people who can help them.)

“Oh. Uh, sorry. Can’t. My wife is expecting me at home.” Dennis says, maybe a bit too quickly. It sounds like an excuse even to his own ears and Trinity has never been one to give up.

“C’mon, invite Mrs. Huckleberry along then. I, for one, would love to meet the woman who agreed to marry you.” She grins, jabbing at Dennis’ ribs with her shockingly sharp elbows. He can’t help smiling.

“I know. I’m lucky.” Dennis looks back over at Trinity to see her pretending to gag, fist in front of her mouth. He rolls his eyes and swats at her arm. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wife. Don’t worry, it only took me twenty years.”

“Twenty—I thought you were high school sweethearts.” Trinity stares at Dennis with wide eyes, brow furrowed tight as she looks him up and down.

“Well, yeah. But we’ve known each other since forever. I mean, there was only one school. And our year had a really small kindergarten class. It just…took me a while to finally ask her out.” Dennis smiles fondly at the memory. He had been continuously tripping over his words when you grabbed his—admittedly very sweaty—hands and said you’d love to go on a date with you, Dennis Whitaker. It was like his entire world paused for that single moment, captured in your warm gaze. Not that Dennis could ever tell Trinity that. She teased him enough already. 

“Nevermind. I don’t want to meet her if this is what I have to put up with.” Trinity actually shoves at his face with her hands, groaning as he laughs. 

“Do you really want to meet my coworkers?” Dennis asks, lights off as you both lay in bed. His warm chest is pressed against your back as he holds you against him. You always have trouble sleeping when he gets home late.

You shift, turning to face him. Light from the city outside your apartment illuminates his face. The window has curtains, Dennis just hasn’t gotten around to hanging them up yet. Always busy with work or spending time with you. Things that are more important than a piece of fabric. You don’t mind if it means you can see his face like this. 

“I mean, you seem really close. And it’d be nice to put a face to a name.” You lift a hand, running your fingers through his curls. He showered when he got home and his hair is still wet. He’ll wake up later, complaining about the damp spot on his pillow and move even closer to share yours. You’ll pretend to be annoyed. “But if you’re not ready for that, I can wait.”

“God, I don’t deserve you.” Dennis’ voice vibrates against the back of your neck, humid breath warming the skin. He wraps his arms tighter around your waist, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You let him, even though you would never leave. You think that even if Dennis tried to push you away, you would stay glued to his side. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Those were the vows you made when you married Dennis Whitaker. You had been practicing them in your head for almost a decade. 

“You’re stuck with me anyway, love.” You lift one of his hands to your lips, kissing the back softly. Sheets rustle as you tug them up over your shoulder. You press back against Dennis’ chest and hum softly. “Now go to sleep already.”

Dennis doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you impossibly closer and lets his eyes fall shut. Approximately three hours later, he shifts you both on the bed so his head rests on your pillow, murmuring something about how his pillow is wet. You pretend to be annoyed.

4. Mel

It’s a quiet day in the ED. Not that Dennis would ever say that out loud and risk incurring the wrath of whatever deity watches over the hospital. If any. So he keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the charts he’s been avoiding. Dennis prefers to chart by notepad, so he always ends up transcribing for hours on end. It’s a great way to practice his typing, he supposes. 

“Hey, Whitaker?” 

Dennis glances over to see Mel at the computer next to him, wringing her fingers nervously. He hums in reply, folding his notes away. Any excuse to avoid charting. His eyes feel like they’re about to slide out of their sockets.

“Why didn’t you tell any of us you were getting married?” Mel’s voice shakes slightly in that way Dennis has learned is low-level anxiety. The kind that builds the more you ignore it. In the half second before Dennis can speak, Mel is opening her mouth again, ears pink. “I just—I mean, we were all so surprised. And…well, I’ve never been to a wedding.” Dennis can’t help the tiny smile that grows on his lips, just barely quirking up. “Sorry, that was probably rude.”

“No, it’s just…” Dennis has to think for a moment. He loves you. He wants to show you off, let everyone know that you’ve already been snatched up. But, at the same time, he doesn’t want you to be connected to this part of his life. He doesn’t want the blood on his hands to stain his time with you. You’re his oasis from the world of antiseptic and death that he lives in every day. Compartmentalization, he’s heard it called before. It feels ugly to call it that. He doesn’t want to keep you hidden away in a box. But how the hell does he say that out loud? “Do you have someone that makes you just forget about all the bad things?”

The ED feels like it stops. Mel doesn’t answer for a moment, but her face is easy to read. She’s thinking about it. Like she wants to consider her answer before responding. Like it’s important. It makes something warm bloom in Dennis’ chest. 

“Becca. My sister. She, uh, yeah.”

“My wife, uh,” Your name rolls off his lips and he realizes that Mel is the first person he’s said it to. It’s always been my wife or Mrs. Whitaker. To define you as an individual, not simply an extension of Dennis, loosens something in the tense muscles of his shoulders. “She’s like, a break from it all? I just guess I don’t want to expose her to all this, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” Mel’s voice is soft as she rolls closer. Her hand hovers near Dennis’ arm like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch him. Dennis leans to the side just enough to make contact and Mel’s hand presses against his bicep. “I understand.”

And it’s that easy. 

The two don’t speak after that, silently typing away in a never-ending attempt to catch up with charting. Keys clack as doctors and nurses alike scurry by, busy with their own tasks and patients. It creates a pattern of background noise that lets Dennis fall into a rhythm in his charting. He glances over at Mel once. She smiles like she understands. 

“I think you should meet my coworkers.” 

He says it suddenly as you curl against him on the couch. The television buzzes quietly in the background, forgotten as you shift to look at your husband. (Oh god, he’s your husband. That fact still amazes you sometimes.)

“What?” Your voice wobbles a bit as you hold back a surprised laugh. Dennis moves underneath you, something nervous rumbling in his chest. You run a hand up his neck, carding your fingers through his curls. He leans into the touch “Hey, you mean that?”

“Yeah, I—” Dennis breaths in slowly and releases his breath with the same careful consideration. “Mel asked today. About why, y’know? I was explaining it to her and it felt…like an excuse? I don’t want to keep you in a box. Like I’m ashamed of you or something—”

“Den, Dennis. Look at me, baby.” You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes shine wetly in the soft lamplight. The shadows on his face flicker as the TV continues to play, forgotten across the room. No matter how beautiful your husband may look in this moment, you hate to see him anything but happy. So you smile and press a soft kiss to one of his cheeks. “I know you’re not ashamed of me, Dennis.” You press a kiss to his other cheek. “And I get why you’re hesitating. It’s just been us since we moved here. It’s hard to change like that.” Another kiss, this one to his forehead. “But nothing will ever change that I am here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You are the love and light of my life.” Dennis’ lips press to yours softly and you both laugh into it. This is exactly how you think it should always be. By Dennis Whitaker’s side, both of you smiling like idiots. 

+ 1

Your phone rings while you’re at work. It’s not uncommon. What is strange is that it’s Dennis that’s calling you. He doesn’t call while you’re both at work, one of the many unspoken rules the two of you have. So when you see his smiling face light up your screen, you immediately answer it, panic growing in your chest. 

“Denny? What’s up?” You try to keep your voice even, taking long, deep breaths. 

“Mrs. Whitaker, this is Dr. Robinavitch at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. I’m calling about your husband.” The voice that comes through is deep and rough. A voice that wasn’t made for yelling but has adapted to it nonetheless. The panic writhes around in the pit of your stomach now, like a living thing. 

“Is Dennis okay? Did something happen to him?”

“Whitaker is fine. He was hit by a gurney and fell. He hit his head on the floor and has a mild concussion. We’ll probably keep him overnight just to make sure there are no complications.” The voice is stern and straight to business, but there’s a softness to the edges of his words. You hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “Dennis will be fine.”

You take a deep breath. Then another. The phone digs into your fingers as you grip it tightly. You take another breath and force your fingers to relax. Dennis is fine. He’s okay. Breathe. “Can I come see him?”

“Of course.”

Dr. Robinavitch quickly gives you directions to the hospital, even telling you which parking lot is closest and would have the most parking this time of day. You jot it all down as he speaks, messy handwriting you probably won’t be able to decipher later. Not that you need to. You call a cab to pick you up. Dennis had to get to work early, so you let him take the shared car and you took the bus. 

The line in the waiting room is long and the more you wait, the more panic grows up your throat. You scratch nervously at your neck as you glance around. It smells like metal. Red is everywhere. Drops on the floor from a kid with a bloody nose. Staining the towel of an older man as he holds it against his wrist. Blooming across a woman’s blouse as she cradles bruised knuckles. You look away. It’s not that you’re a stranger to blood, you just…prefer to be far away from it. 

“How can I help you, hon?” You hear. The woman behind the glass looks you up and down once. Then again. Makes sense. You’re not obviously injured. You feel your cheeks heat.

“Hi. Um, I’m visiting a patient. Dennis Whitaker? He works here.” 

“Mrs. Whitaker?” The woman brightens just slightly, the customer service mask slipping just enough for you to see a glint in her eye. It disappears just as quickly and she points toward the double doors. A young woman steps out, dark hair pulled back. “Santos! Mrs. Whitaker!”

Santos turns toward you immediately. Yeah, that’s definitely a glint. You suddenly know that this is Trinity. It’s the shirt under her scrubs that gives it away. Dennis has always liked that Trinity wears them. He always calls her in for pedes cases when Trinity’s shirt has a cartoon on it. Today you can see the tuft of Tweety Bird’s feathers atop his head.

“Mrs. Whitaker.” Trinity’s voice has a lilt to it that you recognize from Dennis’ brothers when they would tease the two of you. She seems to stalk closer and you meet her eyes slowly, anxiety still quietly simmering in your chest.

“You must be Trinity.” You hold your hand out for her to shake, offering up your first name. Trinity’s grip is solid, hard. Like she’s testing you. The thought makes you smile. Dennis’ oldest brother had done the same thing when the two of you announced your engagement. “Everyone keeps calling me Mrs. Whitaker. Must be confusing. You can use my first name.”

Trinity just shakes her head as she leads you toward the double doors. They buzz open as she scans her badge and it’s just as chaotic as it had been in the waiting room. More, even. Trinity swiftly guides you down a dizzying series of turns until you’re stopped in front of a room. You can feel eyes on you from the large desk in the middle of the open area. You try your best to ignore them, focusing on Trinity.

“That’s what Huckleberry calls you, so it stuck.” Trinity shrugs, pushing the door open. Another woman sits at his bedside, blonde hair braided back and glasses perched on the long ridge of his nose. Mel, maybe? Then, you turn back toward Trinity, one brow raised high. 

“Huckleberry?”

“Hey, baby.” Dennis’ voice comes from the cot on the other side of the room. You immediately turn toward him, surprised at the slow thickness of his voice. Your name rolls off his tongue and it sounds so sweet that you’re almost embarrassed. This is a mild concussion?

“Hey, Den. How’re you feeling?” The woman in the seat next to Dennis’ bed stands, letting you sit. You read the nametag, Dr. Melissa King. She smiles wide and bright. The chair is plastic and probably designed to be uncomfortable, but as you grab Dennis’ hand and he smiles up at you, you know this is where you want to be. 

“Been better. Why’re you here?” There’s a dinosaur bandage on his forehead, just above his brow bone. You reach up to soothe it softly, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the shiny plastic. Dennis leans into it, giving you that familiar soft smile. You can’t help smoothing back his curls.

“Dr. Robinavitch called me. Said you fell.”

Dennis just hums. You glance around the room and realize it’s just the two of you. You’re not sure when Mel and Trinity left. You think you can remember seeing Mel drag the younger woman quietly out of the room. But as your gaze sweeps across the window, you can see a few people gathered around what seems to be the main desk. They occasionally glance over at the room. At you two. 

You can name some of them. The older blonde is obviously Dana. You look down at Dennis to see him following your line of sight. You grin. “Dana, right? I don’t know, Denny…I might just have to leave you if she asks.”

“Don’t even joke about that. She’d probably take you up on it.” You both laugh softly, Dennis squeezing your hand softly. The door clicks open quietly and an older man steps inside. He’s wearing glasses that you can only assume are readers with how far down his nose they are. “Dr. Robby.”

The man steps closer, tablet held under one arm as he looks Dennis over carefully. “Whitaker.” His voice is fond. Soft and warm like a parent. Or maybe just a teacher who cares too much. Robby turns toward you, holding out a hand. You stand and take it. “Mrs. Whitaker. Nice to finally meet you. Michael Robinavitch, we spoke on the phone.”

“You as well.” The chair is just as uncomfortable the second time you sit in it. “Thanks for watching out for Dennis. He’s told me all about you. Really admires you and the work you do.” Dennis groans on the bed, cheeks red. You grin, squeezing his hand tighter. Robby smiles as he watches the exchange. You don’t notice, too busy watching as Dennis tries to hide his face with a pillow. You pull it away before he can suffocate himself. “It’s the truth, Den. Did you want me to lie to your boss?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Robby smiles easily, typing something on the screen in his hands before turning back to Dennis. There it is again. That glint. “Ready for visitors, Whitaker?”

Dennis groans yet again. 

The night is spent with you never leaving Dennis’ side. He groans and grumbles as his coworkers share embarrassing work stories with you that he had purposefully not shared. You respond in kind, telling them about his sweaty hands when he asked you out and how he somehow managed to get a calf to imprint on him. Dana proposes to you twice, grin sharp. You only blush a little. 

You think you get it, why Dennis is already so close with these people. You loved Broken Bow. Still do. But the people there were always pretending to be perfect, putting up fronts so the neighbors wouldn’t know their dirty secrets. Here, in this hospital, everyone is just themselves. They laugh loudly, bully each other playfully, smile wide. You think you get it. Why Dennis has never brought up moving back to Nebraska. Why he wants to stay here. You do too. With him. With this new family the two of you have created. 

“Hey, Mrs. Huckleberry. You’re comin’ with us next Tuesday. That place on Grant. Whitaker knows where it is.” Trinity says as she files out of the room. Something about patients and how every single doctor in the ED cannot be visiting with Dennis. It’s not a question. Not even a request. You laugh.

“Sure thing, Trin.”

Extra

“My sister just texted me. Her wedding is next September.” You mention casually. Dennis nods, pulling out his phone calendar and jotting down the dates he’ll need off. You grin as another text pops up. “She wants to know when you’re gonna put a ring on my finger.”

Dennis doesn’t even look up from his phone as he responds. “After I graduate. You should marry a doctor, not a med student.”

Your eyes widen just a fraction and you smile so sweetly it feels like your teeth are already rotting. You can’t help grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to the rough palm. 

“Yes.” You murmur against his palm. He tilts his head and you grin. “You can ask me again when you graduate, but I promise my answer will be the same. So, yes, Dennis Whitaker. I will marry you.”

you didn’t even want to come to this party. 

and you should have known better than to show up to a frat house in a costume like this. the house was packed, lights strobing in obnoxious colours and intervals, music pounding through the floorboards so loud it rattled beer bottles sitting on the table of the kitchen. you’d gone because your friends insisted—come on, it’ll be fun, you never go out—and you’d caved, half because you didn’t want to be the ‘boring one’, and half because halloween was supposed to be the one night you could slip into something different. a different persona that you know you couldn’t keep up any other day of the week. 

even so, you had a hard time pretending the skirt of your costume wasn’t too short, having to yank down the material every time you ever dared to walk. the neckline dipping lower than you usually preferred, lace trim around the cut the one thing that still attracted you to the outfit. 

cute? yes. maybe even sexy if you walked in it right, instead of being anxiously focused on the way the material felt on you, hands fidgeting to make sure it wouldn’t keep rising. nevertheless, it made your cheeks warm when you caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror before you left. knee high socks, a little headpiece and your makeup the cherry on top. something fun and playful. something you thought might make you feel less like the girl always trailing behind her friends.

if you’d even call them that. 

more so class acquaintances that you're too nice and shy to turn down. and a few of jake’s buddies knew them, so you thought it would be okay. 

“loosen up!” one of the girls who managed to guilt trip you to come here, yells to you over the music. already tipsy, looping her arm around your neck as if she’s known you for years. “it’s s’much fun, right?”

you give her a weak smile, and sip from the red solo cup she had pushed into your hand about an hour ago. “it’s okay.”

you’d told them—rather reminded them—that you don’t drink. the taste of alcohol isn’t really your thing. but one of the frat boys, tall and grinning too wide to pass as charming, had pushed the cup into her hands anyway. “it’s just a mocktail,” they promised. “just soda and grenadine. you’ll be fine.” another classmate assured you when you hesitated to take a swig.  

“virgin, like you baby.” one of the boys joked, making the other idiots around him laugh. you flipped them off, taking a sip just to shut them up. 

so you continued to nurse it, because at least it gives you something to do with your hands.

unbeknownst to you, the boys had been hanging around all night watching. well, two of them specifically. their attentions perked at the sight of someone they hadn’t had the privilege of getting their hands on yet. both with stupid black lines smeared against their cheeks, dumb enough to dress like stereotypical jocks despite already being one. they stood smirking and plotting closely together, like they’re in on a joke you’re entirely unaware of—because they are. one of them had nudged the other early on in the night, tipping his chin towards you.

“she doesn’t drink,” he whispers, eager to hear his cue.

“so what? give her a little push. she’ll loosen up in my bed in no time.” the other responds, eyes steady on his prey. 

so now, standing in the kitchen with the plastic cup nearing its end, you don't feel very playful anymore.

you should’ve gone to the halloween party jake and his friends are at. but your classmates insisted you come and hang out with them, dance with “real boys”. you scoff now at the idea. real boys or malicious vultures? you could’ve been with genuine friends, and people you’ve known since grade school instead of adrenaline junkies who will do anything to get what they want.

you had texted jake an hour or two ago, asking how it was going over at his place, not to mention how his date was going with the girl you helped him catch. his reply urged for you to come over, sending pics of “your day-ones” to try to convince you. you had smiled at them, giggled even at their matching costumes, texting them back that you were gonna “leave this dump right now”. that was, until you quickly began to be distracted by your chest tightening. 

your heart started racing like you’d sprinted across campus. the heat in the room pressed down on you, suffocating, even though you hadn’t danced or moved. the sea of bodies suddenly felt too close, and it all felt too stuffy and sweaty. the music drilled into your skull like a construction site. your vision warped under the strobe lights, each flash too bright, too sharp, too disorienting.

your skin felt wrong. the corset boning of your top digging into the sides of your ribs in a manner you’ve now become hyper-aware of. the glitter on your arms itched, the smell of beer beginning to nauseate you. you stood up from the bar stool you were sitting on, and you felt a rush in your head, your eyes closing while you tried to steady your swaying body. beginning to walk forward only made it feel like the walls were tilting and closing in.

breathe. just breathe.

but you couldn’t. you needed to get out.

your classmates were too busy laughing with their dates to notice you slipping toward the hallway, clutching the wall like a lifeline. you thought maybe it was a panic attack—you’d had smaller ones before exams, but never like this, never this consuming.

“hey,” one of those assholes drawled, leaning a little too close and grabbing your arm. “you good?”

you make a noise in response, arm trembling in his hold, his hands sticky against you and it makes your skin crawl. 

“you should sit, baby. you don’t look so good.” he threw a grin at his buddy behind your shoulder, like it was funny. “maybe we can help.” your heart begins to pound against your ribs. 

“m’no i want to leave” you murmur, trying to move forward. throat tight and dry. your eyes trying to look anywhere but theirs.  

“come on, you should lie down. you cant be walking around like that. we got a perfectly good bed upstairs…”

his hand begins to burn on your skin. their breath wrinkles your nose with the stench of vodka seltzers and cheap beer. you tug your arm away but his grip jerks you back towards him. 

“fuck off!” you yelp, yanking your arm back again, this time kicking your foot on his knee. he winced, making a strained noise as his leg bucked and his grip loosened. you took a big step forward, pushing you off balance a bit as you tried to reach for the door again. the cold fresh air settling your body. 

your phone was slippery in your hands, and the screen was too bright when you turned it on outside, but you immediately opened your contacts. 

calling your mom was out of the question, she’d merely panic worse than you and you’re not exactly eager to hear a lecturing about deciding to go to a dumb frat party.

jake? no, you didn’t want him to abandon his date for you. and you really didn’t want him to see you like this either, too embarrassed to see you so dishevelled over what is probably nothing. your thumb continued to scroll through your contacts until you hovered your finger over the screen, pressing the only name that made sense.

Dr. Robinavitch

you had saved his number after pittfest. the night’s chaos swallowed the ER whole. it was supposed to be a fun night, scoring last minute tickets to the festival for you and your date so you could join jake and leah. that was until you all heard the sound of a gun firing off amidst the music—a sound still engraved in your mind to this day. 

jake had mumbled an introduction between the two of you when you both were rushed in alongside all the other traumas. and despite the circumstances, you were keen to officially meet the only real father figure jake ever had, and you felt it instantly. the weight of what that meant. you knew what it was like to grow up without one, to live without a man you could look up to, to care for you in that special way, so you understood jake’s bond with him before you even knew robby yourself.

he’d been as calm, precise as one could be with everything going to hell. victims pouring in, blood smearing across the floors, screams rising and echoing off the walls—it all should’ve been unbearable. for you, it was. those images still claw at you in the dark, waking you up from the peaceful idea of sleep. something you still can’t really shake off. but robby? he moved through it like he’s done it a million times, and he probably has. steady hands, sharp orders, his focus a shield against the chaos. 

you think about him more than you should. not just about the way he fought to save leah that night, but the weight he must carry after every patient, every shift. to deal with every family member who can’t accept the fate of their victim. and even with the ones who thank him, he’ll always think back to the ones who blame him. you think about what it must cost him to walk out of the hospital with his shoulders squared and his voice so even, pretend like its all okay. come back and do it all again. 

yet it's something you know all too well. to pretend like you’re functional. like you didn't have to teach yourself everything. like you didn't have to take care of your own family when you were clearly still a child. 

you admire him for it. the way that robby carries something you’ve never seen in a man before. passion without anger. authority without cruelty. care without demand. it’s truly foreign to you, almost impossible to fathom being on the receiving end of it all from a man who isn’t even your biological father, and yet—you think about it every day. you think about him.

and the truth is, he isn’t just some warming idea passed to you through stories or seen once under fluorescent lights in the middle of a disaster. he became real in quieter ways. you always took a good look at him when he’d pick jake up from classes or stop by when you were over, always giving you a warm and sympathetic smile, while you hunched over textbooks at the table. happy you and jake have remained close over everything. he’s always polite. always steady. he was someone who cared for you in a time of need. who captained the seas of your fear and uncertainty. 

and now, more than ever, you need him again.

your body knew before your mind did: if anyone could help, it was him. the call clicked, ringing only two beats, “robinavitch.” his voice was low, tired, but present.

“dr. robby?” your own voice shook when you spat the words out.

“yeah. who’s this?”

you swallowed. “it’s—it’s me,” you began, supplying the older man with your name, “…um, jake’s friend.”

he pauses, correcting himself to a softer tone, “kid, what’s going on? is jake with you?”

“no. he—he’s not here. he’s at a different party b-but i’m at this frat house, and i—” your throat closes, chest still feeling heavy and your eyes suddenly begin to sting. “something’s wrong. i don’t—i can’t—”

“alright, its okay. deep breaths. tell me where you are.” his tone sharpened, not unkind, just focused, already moving towards his car with big long steps. you mumble out the address, moving as quickly down the street as you can when you see the boys looking at you with irritated eyes through the open door. 

“i’m on my way. ten minutes, tops. stay on the line if you need to.” robby announces, engine running and tires moving out of the PTMC lot. 

by the time his car rolled up, you were sitting on the curb a little ways down from the house, arms wrapped tight around your knees. your small head piece lying haphazardly on the road, while you try everything in your power to form a steady breathing pattern. deeply fighting the urge to crawl out of your own skin.

he parked, hazard lights flashing, and was out of the car before you could blink. his hoodie was thrown over his scrubs, hair mussed from his shift, the grey in his beard shining under the streetlights. he crouched down in front of you, big hands hovering before settling—gentle but firm—on your arms.

“hey, sweetheart. it's okay, i’ve got you. let’s take a look, alright?” the pet name made your chest squeeze. no man had ever called you that, not in that way. you nod, shakily.

he guided you a little further down the block, the bass of the music still too near for his comfort—for your comfort. he shields you with his large frame, hand on your waist, from the curious eyes of partygoers standing by the doorway and out in the lawn. “privacy,” he muttered to you.

once you were out of sight, he switched fully into doctor mode. “look at me. did you drink any alcohol tonight?”

“n-no, i dont drink.”

“smoke anything? weed? vape?”

you shook your head, “no! i swear i-i dont—”

he rubs your arms soothingly, “its alright, don’t worry kid, i believe you.”

you sniffle, head falling back and eyes looking skyward to try to stop the tears from falling. “i just had a mocktail. th-they told me it was sprite and that pink syrup stuff, um, gr—”

“grenadine.” he finishes your rambling, knowing what you mean. you nod again. “okay, eyes down.” he shines his phone’s flashlight gently, looking deep into your eyes, and you couldn’t help copying him. your lips parted as you study him so clearly. you see all the freckles that litter along his cheeks, the lines that crease along his forehead, the crows feet at the corners of his captivatingly brown eyes. your stare trailing down the length of his nose, thoughts pondering into places you try to force yourself not to go to sometimes. 

“your eyes… your pupils are blown out.”

that worried him, you could see it in the crease of his brow. his thumb brushed your cheek, grounding you before falling to your wrist, fingers pressing down and feeling your heartbeat. “heart’s racing?”

“mhm” you hum out, eyes looking at the way his fingers can wrap around the entirety of your wrist. so long and thick. 

“dizzy?”

“ev’thing’s too loud.. too bright… too hot.” you clutched his sleeve like you’d float away otherwise.

he nodded slowly. “sounds like something must’ve gotten slipped into your drink. we’ll figure it out kid, okay?” robby knows how those parties go, how much those boys will do anything to get an innocent girl in bed. 

your stomach dropped, how stupid could you be? “they—what? b-but it tasted like sprite. sweet, fizzy. nothing weird—”

“hey, it's not your fault.” his hand squeezed your knee, steady, and it sent a rush through your body. “you did the right thing, calling me.”

god, that hand—the size of it, the warmth. no man has ever touched you like that. safe, but strong. present. like you mattered. his full, undivided attention to you. only you. 

you blinked up at him, cheeks hot, body hotter. “i thought it maybe was a panic attack.”

“it could be, do you get them often?”

“not like this”

he nods, taking in your responses and his quick analysis of you. “i want to take you down to the ER to run some labs.” robby says, beginning to get up from his crouched position. “i don’t want you out like this.” his hands extend out to you, gently lifting you up with him. 

your head rushes again, arms wrapping around him for support, legs wobbly. “i’ve got you, sweetheart. you’re safe.” he soothes, eyes looking down at you as he holds you tight to him. your body races at his comfort, the feel of his worn out hoodie against every part of your exposed skin. something in you cracks open.

because it wasn’t just that he was a doctor, or jake’s ex-stepdad. or the fact that its in his habit to help strangers. but that he actually cared. he cared in a way you’d never felt from a man before. no one has ever handled you with even a fraction of the gentleness robby conducts himself with. the way he noticed your stunted breathing, the trembling of your body, the anxiousness that curled in your words. the way he cooed reassurances like they were second nature. and the more he touched you—checking your pulse, brushing sweaty hair off your forehead, rubbing his thumb across your shoulder to steady your breathing—the more your body lit up with a different kind of heat. one you couldn’t ignore. one you’ve never really felt before and yet, one you’ve never wanted to act more on. 

you pressed your thighs together, helpless. the costume you’d been so shy about suddenly felt powerful under his gaze—short skirt riding with every movement, the skin of your thighs now a gift from the cover of your knee socks. neckline low across the curves of your breasts. he didn’t stare, not even once, but you felt the strain in the way he looked anywhere but there.

“kiddo,” he murmured, sliding his hand down your arm to keep you anchored, “i need you to tell me if you’re feeling worse—”

but you weren’t listening anymore. you haven’t really been listening. not to the words. just to the tone. to the weight of his palm, the steady beat of his presence. his cedarwood scent. wondering if you could taste the coffee on his lips. 

the symptoms you’d been feeling to this point started to close in on themselves. every nerve in your body suddenly finding something to focus on. something to actually feed the stimulant flowing through you. your body knew what it was doing when you’d called robby. why you couldn’t stop trembling, even as your body arched closer to his.

why you wanted him like oxygen.

your core began to pulse, an ache forming so deep in you that your fingers curled into a tight fist as he helped you into his car. one arm braced around your figure while the fabric of your skirt rode impossibly higher. your knee high socks also began to scrunch lower as you stumbled into your seat. robby’s gaze remained fixed forward as though sheer willpower can help him remain professional. 

in the car, the world steadied. the pounding music, the predatory grins, the sick dizziness—it was far gone. with robby at the wheel, your breath found rhythm again. and your purpose was solidifed. 

“i’m just going to let the nightshift attending know that we’re coming, okay?” robby tells you, typing out a quick text to jack. 

“didn’t you just finish a shift?” your words were casual, but curious.

“doesn’t matter. i’ll stay with you.” he says, gazing at you as he begins driving down the night streets. 

you should have said yes. should have let him take you back to the fluorescent lights you remember all too well, make you preoccupied with tests and paperwork. but instead, your eyes caught on his profile—the firm line of his jaw hidden under his scruffy beard, the tired weight in his eyes, the silver threading that trails all through his hair. you imagined what his face would feel like between your thighs, imagined the wisdom in his hands bending towards you not as a patient but as something else.

your body shifted before you thought. your hand finding his on the gearshift, shaky fingers curling over his knuckles. he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t close around you either. 

“hey,” his tone was warning, low, “seatbelt on.” the car sat parked beside a stop sign, as robby waited for you to sling it on. you swallowed, heart racing for a new reason—for a reason you actually don’t mind—and didn’t even dare to reach for the seatbelt like he asked for.

“sweetheart—”

but you were already leaning, climbing awkwardly across the console. the heat in your veins roared louder than you’ve ever felt. consumed by a desire that no one could pry you off of. by the time you straddled his lap, your mouth was on his—messy, desperate, tasting of a need so profound you can’t find the proper words to describe the rush you feel.

robby froze, hands hovering just off your grinding hips, not touching, every nerve in him at war. you kissed him harder, pure hunger, like if you didn’t you might just die.

“hey hey—sweets, no—baby don’t” robby’s voice was ragged, words tumbling out like he was begging, not commanding. “off, get off, please, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

but you didn’t hear him. or maybe you did. either way the sound of him saying please made your brain tilt into freefall. your lips left his and found his jaw, sharp and warm under your mouth, the stubble rasping your skin in a way that makes you whimper. you dragged open-mouthed kisses down to his neck, where his pulse hammered under your pink lips. and when you pressed down, teeth biting right against it, his breath hitched so hard it sounded like it hurt.

“jesus christ,” he whispered, fingers curling into fists against the seat. he still wasn’t touching you, not really—just hovering, holding himself back like his hands were live wires.

you kissed him again, right over the pulse point, arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him flush against you. 

and that was when it hit him. 

not just the blown pupils, not just the way your body had turned molten with need so fast it made no medical sense. but the way you were insatiable, pawing at him like you’d been starved. the way your body was practically trying to crawl inside of him. his gut turned cold.

“they dosed you,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes squeezed shut. “stimulants, aphrodisiacs.”

those frat boys hadn’t just spiked you, they’d given you something meant to make you pliant, needy. horny beyond belief. expecting you’d be all over them, what they didn’t know was that your body still doesn’t bend for just anyone. the desire only sharpened when it was him near. and they just ended up giving you the big push you’ve been waiting for. 

you whined against robby’s throat, the sound almost painful as your core throbbed against his cargos. his name lived on the tip of your tongue even though you hadn’t even said it yet. 

and robby felt split open. his whole life—his code, his training, every decent thing left in him—was screaming at him to be the adult, to be the doctor, to deny you like a man like him should. to get you some help, to put your wellbeing before whatever madness this drug was pulling out of you.

but then there was the other part. the part that remembered what it was like to be touched. to be wanted like this. the part that recognized your trembling thighs caging him in his seat, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’d drown without him. the part that saw you, yes: jake’s friend, but someone who trusted him enough to call him when no one else could help. looking at him like he was the only thing on earth that could soothe this ache.

“kid,” he said again, but it sounded different this time. not a warning. a plea. his head fell back against the headrest, his jaw tight as he fought himself, all the while your hips kept dragging over the bulge in his cargos, grinding on him like a dog in heat. “sweetie, please. you shouldn’t be doing this.” he says, eyes shutting as he lets out a rough puff of air through his nose. 

but you are. and you’re loving every fucking minute of it. every movement was pleading, begging for friction. your hands shook as they tugged hard on his hoodie, balling up the material and making fists. robby cursed under his breath and jerked the wheel to the right, pulling the car into the shadowed corner of an empty lot. somewhere dark, out of the streetlights and the world. somewhere he could breathe.

you kissed him harder—tongue dragging at his throat, on his jaw, on his cheek—marking him wherever you could. then his hands finally broke.  they didn’t grope, they weren’t greedy, but they came up to your waist, steadying you, holding you down so you couldn’t grind yourself further into his lap.

“you don’t want this,” he rasped, even though his voice cracked around the words. “not like this, baby.” but you shook your head in disagreement, biting against his neck—a desperate movement—and robby cursed so low it was almost a growl.

he really should have shoved you back into the passenger seat, driven you straight to the ER, put you under a nurse’s care, under a doctor who still has an ounce of sense and control of his life. he should be an adult for christ's sake. he should remember that you’re jake’s friend. 

the shy one, the kind one, the one that's smart and respectful, and laughs at his stupid dad jokes. 

but then you rolled your hips again, anguished, grinding over him like you are starving for a meal, and he can feel your soaked panties against him. feel the way it leaves a stain on him, how it sticks to him—and fuck does it kill him. 

better with me, he told himself, lies stacking fast in his head. better me than those assholes who drugged you. better me than some frat boy in a dingy bedroom. 

he killed the engine, but before he could get another word out, you were unbuckling him from his cargos with frantic fingers. robby’s chest heaved, torn between guilt and heat. your skirt kept scrunching high on your thighs, and the sight made his knuckles go white against the door handle.

goddammit. 

“fuck. okay—okay, sweetheart. slow down,” he said, catching your hands, trying to steady them. “you’re wound up so tight, it’s gonna hurt if i don’t—let me help you.”

you whimpered when his hand slipped beneath your skirt. your wetness hit him in the chest like a blow from a baseball bat. you were dripping, thighs smeared with your juices, trembling under his touch, panties desperately clinging to you. his breath hissed through his teeth.

“jesus christ,” he whispered again, but this time it wasn’t a prayer, it was need. he pushed the damp fabric aside and sank one thick long finger into you. you gasped, clutching onto his shoulders like you were holding onto your rescuer, because in a way, you are. robby swore he felt the tremor run straight through your bones.

“there you go,” he murmured softly, as his hand worked slow and careful. “gotta stretch you, kid. can’t just—fuck—can’t just let you climb on like this.”

your hips chased his hand anyway—reckless—trying to get him as far deep inside of you as possible. bonus points if he curled them just right. robby added a second finger sooner than he would have wanted, trying to remain in control of your animalistic appetite. his fingers then scissored inside you, opening you up, trying to give you just enough prep to make this whole insane ordeal survivable. your nails dug into his hoodie, your breath hot against his ear as you moaned, loud and pitchy. 

he kept muttering to himself, to you, to no one, “better with me. better it’s me.”

you continued to grind down on his hand, chasing the stretch, desperate for more. hell, you would’ve taken four fingers if only he’d let you. robby couldn’t stop hissing through his teeth, the sound of restraint, of a man fighting himself as much as he is fighting you. you were wet beyond belief, arousal slicking his hand, his wrist, his cargo pants, the car seat. your body was so ready, so in demand of relief, it didn’t even make sense, like your biology had been rewired.

robby curled his fingers once, deliberately, and you cried out, nails digging into his shoulder, thrusting towards his wrist. “please, please, robby, i can’t—”

“you can’t what, sweetheart?” his voice was ragged, trembling with effort. “you can’t stop? or you can’t wait?”

you shook your head silly, like a child, like the words were impossible to mumble out. “m’need you s’bad it hurts.”

that nearly undid him. he swallowed hard, yanked his hand away, and you gasped at the sudden emptiness, hands reaching for his to come back. robby was panting now, reaching down with frantic hands to shove his cargos low enough to free himself, bludge throbbing. 

you’re in pain. its only in his nature to help you. 

“fuck,” robby muttered, glancing around the darkened lot he’d pulled into. no one. just shadows and the occasional sound of a passing car in the distance. still, he angled the vehicle deeper into the dark, the headlights killed, every precaution automatic even while his brain screamed at him to stop this.

his hands ran up and down your thighs, fingers hooking on the tops of your knee socks before moving back up. you didn’t even bother tugging off your underwear, rather planning on pulling it aside while your delicate fingers wrapped around robby’s cock. he huffed out air through his nose, eyes peering everywhere but where you were touching him.

he’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. his cock was heavy in your hand, thick enough that your fingers barely met when you wrapped them around him. blood flows through his length, head flushed a deep pink, skin hotter than the rest of him. he was already slick under your thumb, leaking with sin. veins stood out along his big length, your fingers tracing their path. you couldn’t stop staring, shamelessly fascinated, a little dazed, like you’d found something both dangerous and holy. he was too big for you—he had to be—but the way he twitched against your palm made you ache to try.

you gave him a few strokes, fist tight, before lining him up. your fingers trembling in anticipation. robby grabbed your hips, fingers biting down. “don’t—don’t rush this. you’ll hurt yourself, sweetheart.”

“don’t care,” you whispered against his nose, kissing him again, dragging his lower lip between your teeth before soothing it with your tongue. “want you. need you. please, robby.”

and it was your please that broke him. he guided himself back towards your core, pressed the thick head of his cock against your soaked entrance. you whimpered, already rolling your hips forward, and with a groan he let you sink down. he held your hips, forcing you to go slow at first, but much to his undoing, he sat you down on his lap, your body practically pulling him in. 

the stretch was overwhelming to say the least, reaching depths hidden inside of you that you couldn’t even fathom. your nails scratched down his chest through his scrubs as you moaned so loudly he had to clamp a hand over your mouth.

“shhh—christ—you’re gonna be the death of me, kid.” he utters, his other hand steadying your hip as you bottomed out on him. he filled you so completely you swore you’ve never felt anything like it, your walls fluttering around him like your body couldn’t decide between fighting or clinging.

you pulled his hand away from your mouth and replaced it with his lips, swallowing his groans and kissing him with such lust you’ve never had the privilege of experiencing. then you started moving.

it wasn’t graceful—neither of you had room for anything angelic. it was raw, desperate, you bouncing on him with a feverish determination, a hunger so carnivorous it's driving you to the edge, grinding forward to feel every inch of him. robby’s hands hovered like he wanted to guide you, to hold you still, but you were relentless, riding him like your life depended on it.

“sweetheart—fuck—you’re using me.” his voice cracked, a stunned kind of awe as he watched you, felt you around him. he let his hands finally settle, one splayed across your back, the other kneading your hip as if to ground you from this high. “god help me, but i’ve never seen anything like this.” he mumbled to himself, words too quiet against your own noises. 

your head fell back, hair sticking to your damp skin, sweat shining at your collarbones. his eyes sat heavy on you and you felt something fluttering deep inside. the way he watched you—like you were something holy and damned at the same time—nearly undid you before you were ready.

he kissed along your throat, his beard scratching you soft flushed skin, his breath hot against your pulse point. “that’s it. take what you need. if it has to be like this, then it’s gonna be with me.”

you clenched down hard at his words, hips stuttering, a moan tearing from your throat so raw it echoed in the small space, in the darkness. he knew you were close, too close, and he angled his hips up, meeting you with shallow thrusts, trying to give you the perfect mix of friction.

your hands pawed at robby’s shoulders, before your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him as close to you as possible. his mouth littered goosebumps against your skin with his heavy intakes of air, hands soothing the tremors. you can begin to feel the incoming storm of ecstasy, and you tuck your head into his neck for shelter.

the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.

it wasn’t just pleasure—it was obliteration. your body convulsed, thighs trembling and there wasn’t a way to stop them, vision whiting out as waves tore through you harder and faster than you’d ever imagined possible. your cunt gripped robby so fucking tight he swore he saw stars, his own climax dragging dangerously close, but he held it back just to watch you in awe.

you sobbed against his mouth, cries bouncing off the fogged up glass windows of the car. your nails digging into the hard muscle of his back, your hips jerking without any clear rhythm as your climax went on and on, drug-fueled, unbearably intense, and undeniably necessary. it felt endless, like every nerve in your body had lit up, like you were dissolving from the inside out. 

death by cock. 

when you finally came down from the edge, you collapsed against him, every muscle in your body continuing to twitch, your breathing shattered into little gasps against his throat and your puffy lip quivering against robby's warm figure. his hand is cradling the back of your head, mouth leaving kisses along your wet cheek, salty and sweet with your tears and sweat. and still, your cunt clenched around him, aftershocks so violent, so consuming he hissed through his teeth again.

“fucking…” he trailed off, hands clutching you tight, rocking you gently even though he was still buried to the hilt. “i’ve never seen anyone cum like that.”

and he wasn’t sure whether he should pray for forgiveness, or fuck you into the seat until you shattered all over again, but you are perfect.

you began tugging—clumsy, frantic—at the neckline of your costume, whining into his chest. “robby, please… it’s too tight, it’s digging—” your voice broke into a desperate whimper as you clawed at the boning of the bodice.

he cursed, sitting up enough to get leverage, big hands finding the tiny zipper at your back, fidgeting with it as his fingers trembled—surely you couldn’t notice over the heat of him. you arched like a cat, pressing yourself into him while he worked you free, mumbling into his throat about how hot you are, how you can’t breathe. the second the fabric eased, you sucked in a gulp of air, but still breathed out a cry, “off, all the way—please, it hurts”

robby peeled it down your arms, gentle even while his cock twitched deep inside you, balls full with his seed. he tugged it off and threw it to the back seat, your skirt bunched pathetically around your waist, forgotten. your knee-high socks abandoned all the way down to your ankles. you sat in his lap in just that little lace bra he could see peeking out of your top the moment he drove up to you. the straps sliding off your shoulders, the skin of your breast curving upright, it makes his breath catch.

“jesus christ, sweetheart…” he rasped, thumb grazing the delicate bow in the center. “you’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”

you didn’t answer, just rocked harder on his lap, fingers clawing at the hair at the back of his head, your tits straining against the lace. robby was unraveling, every ounce of discipline burned away under the sight of you like this—and god, he didn’t know if he despised himself for taking you like this or for already craving more. 

and it began dawning on him: its too late, he’s let himself want you. 

it was the sound you made when his hand covered your breast that finished him—high, broken, like you were coming apart again. robby yanked the lace down, baring you to the dark of the car, groaning deep in his chest as he played with your hard nipples. you whined, lip caught between your sharp teeth, arching your back towards his paws. you kept grinding against him, feeling him throb inside of you. his hands began to lift you away from him, not necessarily wanting to finish inside of you. not yet at least. 

you didn’t need another thing to worry about. 

your nails dug into his forearms, begging him to not move you away. “n-no” you whined into his lips. he groaned, eyes closing, “sweetheart, i can’t—” he grumbled into your mouth.

“please, robby i wanna feel it, pleaseplease—” you cried, your cunt sucking him in cruelly, threatening his every last ounce of control, though he surrendered that to you almost the first time your lips touched him.

but he had to hold some foot in the door, something he owed as a man who knows better. 

he quickly lifted you up, cock slipping out and rubbing against your clit. your whined, eyes closing as you throbbed against the feel of his flushed length against you. the head twitched before his hand could wrap around it, letting it spill across the soft skin of your stomach. hot streaks of sin dripping down your belly button. 

you moaned at the sensation, looking down at the mess like it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. and then, without hesitation, you swiped two fingers through it—sticky, glistening—and brought them to your mouth. 

robby’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “sweet girl…” he groaned, watching you suck your own fingers, your tongue swirling to taste him, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “don’t—fuck—don’t do that to me.”

but you whined like it was the best thing you’d ever tasted, wide eyes locking with his as you grabbed more off of yourself, licking your fingers clean, every drop. obsession written all over your face. it was a provocative sight, and you looked gorgeous. 

robby thought he might never recover. but you weren’t done. not even close.

your hand guided him back into you, your hips beginning to roll hard, greedy and frantic even though he was softening inside you, even though you were trembling like your body was burning itself alive on need. “robby,” you gasped, clutching at his shoulders, eyes glassy with want. “please, i still need—”

“kid.” his voice cracked, hoarse from the force of holding himself together, from trying to ignore the way his head is still leaking inside of you. he framed your face in his big hands, palms swallowing your flushed cheeks, forcing you to look at him. to focus. “you’re wrung out. look at you. you can barely breathe.”

but you shook your head stubbornly, a heavy whine slipping past you, lip bleeding crimson again, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. “don’t care. i—i need more. need you. please—please you feel so good.”

he closed his eyes, forehead pressing against yours. he should’ve told you no, should’ve drawn the line—but you can say it was abandoned long time ago. instead, he gathers you against his chest and kisses your hair, whispering, “alright. let me take you home, babygirl. we’ll do this right. not in a fucking parking lot.”

you whined at the idea of a delay, at the thought of him pulling you off his lap, but robby was already shifting you gently, guiding you back into the passenger seat. your thighs still not burning with strain just yet. you blink up at him, dazed and blown out with desire, as he reached into the backseat for the old hoodie he always kept there, the fabric worn soft from years of use.

“arms up,” he ordered quietly.

you obeyed, pliant and shivering at the cold sneaking through from outside. he slipped the hoodie over your head, tugging it down until you were swallowed in his scent, his warmth. then came the pair of sweats he kept for the gym—which he hasn’t frequented in a while but that's besides the point. he worked you out of your ruined costume, finally freeing you of the uncomfortable fabric that you once liked earlier, even for a small moment. he tugs the fleece lined pants up your thighs himself, knotting the string at the waistband so it wouldn’t slip off.

“there,” he muttered, smoothing the hoodie over your body with a touch that lingers more than he should. “no more of that fucking costume. you’re mine, not some little dress-up for those frat boys.”

you exhaled a shaky sound, somewhere between a sigh of relief and a moan, burrowing your face into the collar of the hoodie like you could disappear into it, claim it, keep it forever. like it was already yours and you’re not planning on giving it back. 

your phone buzzed as robby helped buckle you in. he noticed the name that flashed onto the screen—jake—god, that should have been his last warning, to make this not drag out any longer. but then he caught a look of your eyes and he quickly shut off your phone. you barely noticed it all, mind still preoccupied as he started the car, reaching for his hand across the console and clutching it in both of your own.

“more when we get there?” you whispered, voice small but insistent. 

robby glanced at you—his face red to his neck, puffy lips, hair scruffy from your hands running through them continiously—and his chest tightened like it might split apart.

he gave a low, rough laugh, thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles. “yeah, sweetheart. until we get that demon out of you.”

your whole body shivered at the promise, thighs pressing together as if you could already feel it, because fuck you still can. and robby gripped the wheel harder, jaw tight, because if he didn’t get you home soon, he was sure he would end up pulling over again just to keep you from wrecking yourself with need. 

or himself. either one.