i love men

Low lights dangling from an extravagant chandelier greet you as you arrive at PTMC's annual charity gala. Pairs of eyes burn through you as you make your way through the crowd. It'd mostly men, wearing an eager expression that begs the question— what are you ding here alone? Many of them have their own dates on their arms, and the expressions they wear are much less inviting.

Thus, you're quite eager to find the E.R. table. A wave of relief washes over you as you spot Dana, waving you over, a glass of champagne in each hand.

"I can only hope one of those is for me," you tease, though you're hopeful.

"Right on, darlin'," she croons, passing you the full glass and polishing off her own.

There's a light clatter in your glass, and you spot a small cube at the bottom of the fizzy liquid.

Furrowing your brows, Dana jumps in before you can even ask.

"Sugar cube," she explains, continuing when you still don't get it. "It's an old wives' tale, protects you from the devil, so he doesn't prey on your happiness. Got it from Moonstruck."

You smile, though your heart sinks at the thought of who she's protecting you from. Robby's supposed to be here tonight, the first time you'll see him in three months. He's not here yet, though, his burly frame a blatant absence from your department's many tables.

"You're a godsend," you redirect your focus to Dana, eyes twinkling with what you hope looks like appreciation.

"He's not here yet," Dana supplements, and your cheeks flame.

You couldn't have been that obvious, could you? Nevertheless, you lean into your main coping strategy of the last three months— repression.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I was looking for Park," you say, the defense immediate.

Guilt bubbles in the pit of your stomach, not only for lying, but lying by using the man that's been a rock for you these past few months.

"Huh, didn't realize he joined the E.R.," she quips, your sick tummy twisting. "Ortho's that way, babe," she nods her head to a group of tables across the ballroom.

Your eyes scan the area to find Park, already looking in your direction. Your heart skips at his intense gaze, and though you wish it was out of desire, it's just…average. A plain jolt of someone watching you. Nothing more, nothing less.

Guilt prods at you once more, a fire poker to the ashy emblems of your heart, though it's soon replaced by a buzz— the one you'd kill to gt from Park, the bartender, anyone other than the man who just walked in.

You feel his eyes the second the find you, burning a hole through the back of your head. You're not brave enough to face him, even less so when Dana mutters a pained, "Shit," under her breath.

You keep your eyes trained on Park, who's undoubtedly spotted he-who-shall-not-be-named. A slight crease to his ever-lax brow gives him away.

If you heart had sunk earlier, it's now swirling in an aggressive tide, clamoring for shore. You're finally brave enough to flit your head towards the door. Immediate regret washes through you, as he's not alone.

Your eyes adjust to the sight of Michael Robinavitch with Noelle Hastings on his arm. Your heart's an anchor now, hopeless at the bottom of the ocean.

Your mind latches on to the little details— the ones that bear the evidence of three months away. Shaggier hair, longer beard, kinder eyes.

The sight of him is a car wreck, a nasty, 40-car pile up that sends your hazards flashing. In every universe, he's a nuisance, your biggest distraction.

He makes his way over to the table, a wolfish, proud grin turning your insides. The sight of him turns you inside out, raw, vulnerable, and full of want.

The rest of the room melts away in favor of the man in front of you— the endless chatter of party-goers like a sad song underwater, muffled and melodramatic. His eyes find yours, and it's instant mesmerization.

Everything you'd pushed to the side for the last three months comes roaring back— the love, the desire, the consuming anger, the utter fury. He feels it too, you can tell. The shine of his brown eyes give you deja vu- back to the day he left, the day he let you go.

He pats Noelle's hand, the rest of the ballroom roaring back to life. Your heart pounds, leaking venom with each smack against your ribcage. Eyes darting to where they connect, your body moves before your brain can catch up.

Slamming your champagne on the table, you ignore the stares, the liquid sloshing over the lip of the glass, and walk away. So much for keeping the devil at bay, Dana.

Saddling up at the bar, you lean your forearms on the hardwood, a slight arch in your back. You don't miss the bartender's eyes, the way they drag over your frame, the deep neckline of your dress.

"One second, sweet thing," he croons, your tummy twisting.

As you wait, your eyes scan the other patrons. One so happens to be a man, one you can place to radiology, though you don't know him super well.

"Hi," he mutters, a shy smile on his face.

Your heart picks up at the sight of him, the sudden onslaught of attention a mix of sugar and spice, and absolutely nothing nice.

"Hi," you respond, giving him your name and department.

"I'm Nick Barker," he supplements, offering his hand to shake. "Radiology."

"I thought I recognized you!" You chirp, giving him your own name. "You came and helped us out when we went analog this past summer, you saved our asses."

"Ah, yes, I remember," he thinks back with fondness. "It was chaos down there, I don't know how you guys do that."

"If I had a nickel for every person who's told me that, I'd be able to give my two weeks," you quip, tapping your nails on the bar.

"Isn't that the dream," he replies, and your heart picks up at his sweet smile.

"What can I get ya, gorgeous?" The bartender asks, a sinister smile curling his lips.

"Oh!" You gasp, your gaze snapping back to the bartender.

The heat of their gazes burns through you like a laser, an animal hunted for prey. There used to be a time where you'd revel in this attention, pop your hip and bask in it like a cat would the sun.

Now, all you can think about is-

"Dirty Shirley with tequila," a voice calls from behind you.

Your eyes widen, heart nearly dropping out of your ass at the low timbre rumbling behind you. Whipping your head around, you find Robby, his forearm resting against the bar, mirroring you.

It's instant, the way you straighten your spine, dropping your arm from the wood. Cheeks aflame, palms sweaty, and heart racing, you turn back to the bartender and stumble out a pathetic, "Uhm-yeah, yeah, that."

You feel his smile, cocky and shit eating, from beside you. You refuse to look at him.

"Barker, good to see you," he croons across you, and his voice is enough to bring tears to your eyes.

"Robby, hey!" He exclaims, reaching a hand over to shake his.

You stumble back, incredulous at the clear disrespect. Digging your heels in, you inch toward Barker, desperate to give the false impression that you're there together. The Cheshire grin on Robby's face shows that you're wholly unsuccessful.

"You got a really sweet girl on your team, we were just reminiscing on the Fourth of July, felt flattered someone so pretty remembered me," he says, and your cheeks heat from the attention.

Your eyes lock with Robby's, the mere mention of the Fourth an alarm bell ringing between you two. The last day you saw him, the last day you spoke. The day he broke your heart.

All the hurt comes rushing back, a tsunamic wave of heartbreak. You lean into it— the nastiness, the pride that swells in your tummy at Robby's wide eyes, his flared nostrils.

Adding fuel to the fire, the bartender comes back, placing your drink on the bar for you.

"Dirty Shirley with tequila," he rings out, a slight wink in his right eye. "Enjoy, beautiful."

Robby clears his throat as your hand reaches for his, fingers brushing as you accept your drink.

"Thank you!" You chirp, swirling your tongue around the straw and taking an appreciative sip.

The earthy sting of tequila makes its way through your bloodstream, the throb in your heart ever so sensitive. Damn it, your drink was supposed to repress those feelings, not exacerbate them.

"Well, it was good to see you. Robby." Barker shakes his hand, and, if your eyes don't deceive you, goes slightly pink as he turns to you. "And you, as well, beautiful."

You smile at the compliment, though it sounds grating compared to the names Robby peppered over you in your most intimate moments.

Every man over the past three months has existed in this dichotomy— Robby and Not Robby. The Not Robbys fell short, every single time. This time is no different, and your heart wrings itself out like a dirty dish towel.

Baker's words elicit an ache that you could only wish was born of an aggressive fondness— the lurch in the heart coming home to a pet after a long day, the patter in your chest when you're kissed for the first time.

No, it's none of that. It's darker, more sinister. The gut punch when you're told devastating news, the sickly twist that pools in your stomach when you've told a lie, inflicted damage onto someone else. Guilt wracks you, desperate to be different, to love someone, anyone else.

Then, it's just you and Robby.

His proximity is a toxic waste, exuding between you until you feel green. The soft sniff of his nose, his same old woodsy aftershave, his thick thigh in your peripheral— it's overwhelming.

"You do look beautiful," he mutters, and your heart falls deep into your stomach at his rich timbre. "They're not wrong."

Your heart pulls, and there it is, that tingle, the pang that only seems to appear when you're around Robby. It triggers your deepest endorphins, releasing them through your whole body until you're warm and fuzzy.

"I wasn't doubting them," you quip, taking another desperate sip of your cocktail.

"Good," he replies, his gaze lingering on you a moment too long. Your eyes are focused on the many party-goers, but you can tell. You always can with Robby.

Scanning the party, you lock eyes with Park, a look of concern etched in his brow. That familiar guilt returns, the collision of both men in the immediate vicinity dizzying.

"You come with him?" He asks, pointing his beer in Park's direction.

"Wha-" You whip your head towards Robby, cheeks burning at his small smile. "No, uhm- no. I didn't. I came by myself."

"That's a shame," he remarks, tipping his beer bottle to his lips.

You're stuck on his mouth, closing around the glass, the liquid traveling down his thick throat. You swallow, hard, grabbing your drink and standing.

"Though, I'm no stranger to coming by myself. Story of my life, right?" You joke, letting him choke on the fizzy drink as you walk away.

You make a beeline for Park, swaying your hips as you feel three sets of eyes follow you. A prick of confidence pokes at your belly, a childish glee replacing your sorrow with each sip. Park's got a sardonic smile as you approach, propping your hand on his forearm.

"Hey!" He coos, a soft smile on his face. "How'd that go?" He mumbles, nodding his head back to the bar.

You're feeling a little brave, whipping your head back to where Robby still stands. His eyes are dark, almost mean as he continues to clear his throat. He pumps his fist against his chest, refusing to tear his watery gaze away from you.

You smirk, just a little, before turning your gaze back to Park. He clocks your expression immediately, your soft eyes, supple mouth. It snaps you out of the haze Robby seems to always put you in, and you feel so, so idiotic.

Your mouth twists downward, a sickly feeling bubbling in your stomach as you fight the pounding of your heart. Each beat reverberates one name throughout your whole body— Robby, Robby, Robby.

Tears gloss your eyes, holding your head down to hide it from Park. There's a guilt that never seems to go away when you're with him— an ache born from crying over the same man for months, from his never-ending patience, his arm that always finds its way around your shoulders.

Like now, his soft smile finds you, even when you do everything in your power to avoid it. You can't help but smile back, ears perking to the song that the band strums up. The Way You Look Tonight.

Memories flood your mind— chest to chest with Robby, soft socks on separating your skin from the cold hardwood of his kitchen, the refrigerator light your only company. You hear his voice in your ear, the gentle way he sang each lyric to you.

You allow yourself the briefest moment to wonder if he's thinking about this, too. When you turn, though, you see him, beckoning a gleaming Noelle to the dancefloor, and you're back at square one.

"Come on," Park says, and you snap your head to find his hand extended. "Let's go. Don't wanna see you cry over him anymore. Let's have a good time tonight, yeah?"

You nod, accepting his offer. Your belly is a firepit, sparking and cracking at your indifference to the man before you. You have a lot of love for Park, but not the kind he's looking at you with now.

His eyes shine as he spins you around the floor, warm hands riding along your calloused skin. Your heart twists, lurching and desperate to love him instead. To love anyone else.

If you were a better woman, you'd have accepted his date proposal months ago. Instead, you'd given him a phony excuse, something about how you're not ready for another relationship yet.

He'd been so gracious, has been ever since. Happily biding his time with your friendship, never any pressure to push things further.

You know, though, that his patience is wearing thin, that there's only so many times a man you're not sleeping with can pick up these pieces.

This still doesn't stop your eyes from finding Robby, swaying to the beat with Noelle over Park's shoulder. Instinct pulls you closer to Park, your nails clutching his suit coat as you rest your chin on his shoulder.

He huffs out a surprised chuckle at this, his chest shaking with the action. You smile against him, giving him a light squeeze. The whole time, your eyes burn into Robby.

Your heart lurches at his tall frame, broad and soft and well lived. The smile on his face fills you with enough rage to burn down a small city. This was your song, many moons ago.

His eyes meet yours over Noelle, and the earth stops on its axis. White noise drowns in your ears, the exhilaration of him flooding your fiery veins.

It's embarrassing, how much you missed him— his gaze, his attention, his love. He doesn't deserve it. He hasn't earned it.

Your heart simply refuses to accept this. Refuses to accept that he's dancing with another woman, refuses to accept that it's this song, that he'd do this to you.

This wasn't the Robby you thought you knew. You can't believe how wrong you were.

Sinking your teeth into your glossy lip, your eyes start to well with tears. His brows furrow ever so slightly, and your shoulders shake with a quiet cry.

Park goes still against you, pulling you away from him just so.

"What's going on, hm?" He mutters. "Let me get a good look at you."

You're frozen, unable to tear your eyes off him. Park sighs, and your heart sinks. It's only then you whip your head to him, tears finally spilling over your lash line.

"I'm so sorry," you shake your head, lip trembling with the pressure.

"It's okay, it's okay, I know," he mumbles, pulling you to him.

He palms at the back of your head, shushing every now and again.

"You love him," he admits, pulling you away from him once again. "You always have. I'm not an idiot," he remarks with a sad smile.

"I hate him," you breathe, and he lets out a sardonic chuckle.

"No you don't."

And with that, you're alone on the dance floor, a sort of final chapter in your relationship with Park.

You watch Park retreat to his table, a small fraction of your heart cracking as he goes. You choke on a breath, remembering the real problem at hand.

Whipping your head back to Robby, you find him talking to Noelle— kissing her on her temple and making his way to you.

Panic courses through you, eyes going wide as you act on pure instinct. Flitting your head the other way, you find a large door that leads to a balcony. Darting across the dance floor, you twist the knob and step out into the night.

The early November frost sends a chill down your spine, your heavy breath echoing in the night. Goosebumps prick your skin, your arms flying to protect yourself, soon regretting your decision.

The door behind you clicks, and your heart sinks. Your chin sits on your shoulder, feeling Robby's presence even though you refuse to look at him.

"Take a hint," you choke out, sniffing hard through your nose. "I don't want you out here."

"You should've locked the door, then, sweetheart," he muses, and you feel the sudden urge to deck him in the face.

"I didn't know there was a lock, jackass," you snap, turning to face him. "And how dare you call me sweetheart?" You poise, your finger pointed right at him.

His eyes widen, a cocky smirk stretching his lips.

"We're getting right into it, huh?" He asks, and you roll your eyes.

"You broke my heart, Michael," you insist, his eyes shining with something sad that you can't quite place. "You come back, you order my drink for me, compliment me like nothing's wrong. What do you expect me to say?"

"I don't know," he shakes his head, taking in the view behind you. "I didn't mean to break your heart, honey."

There's a nail in your heart with each pet name, bleeding poison into your belly.

"You have to stop that, Robby," you croak, wiping your damp cheek.

"Back to Robby now, huh?" He asks, and you scowl.

"How can you be so nonchalant about this?" You pose, tossing a hand out in disgust. "We were together for three months, you told me you loved me," you choke, the memory threatening to suffocate you.

"Then, you left. Never told me why, dated Noelle, then took off for three months."

Your voice is small and petulant, words tapering off into a pool of shame.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his own eyes glossy now.

Gritting your teeth, you flit your eyes away. You can't stand to look at him, to take in his tears.

"After all of this— leaving me, coming back and bringing Noelle, chasing me out onto this fucking balcony, you have the fucking nerve to cry?" You're shouting now, thankful for the thick wooden door separating you from the rest of the party.

"You're right," he croaks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Your eyes follow the action, desperate and hungry. "I'm sorry. I've been crying a lot more since I started therapy. He says it's healthy for me."

Your heart drops, getting stuck in your throat.

"Therapy?" You choke on the words, tears falling at a rapid pace.

A shiver runs down your spine at the revelation, your numb nose sore and uncomfortable. He leaps into action, slinking his jacket off and placing it around your shoulders.

You let him, resigned and sad, but too cold to deny it. He revels in this a little, you can tell by the small quirk in his lip.

"Thank you," you mutter, turning away from him and facing the open greens that greet you.

"You're welcome," he croons, and your heart aches.

You know that voice. The low timbre that rasps in the morning, praises you in the E.R., coos at you in his bed while he drives himself in and out of you.

His eyes burn a hole in the back of your head. His gaze is inevitable, it could follow you across the earth if you let it.

"It's beautiful," you mutter, too wiggly from the silence to let another moment pass.

"Yeah, it is," he's looking at you the entire time he speaks, taking a few steps closer to you.

"You're an asshole," you reply, not daring to look at him.

"So I've heard," he remarks.

"Noelle's probably missing you," you lean forward, arching your back in his line of sight.

He clears his throat, and you smile, your heart rate picking up.

"And Park won't be missing you?" He poises, and you shrug.

"We were never together," you admit, the truth bitter on your tongue.

"But he likes you," he supplements, and your heart sinks.

"Don't remind me, I feel bad enough already," you groan, letting your head fall into your hands.

"Yeah, well, I'm not much better. I took Noelle as a friend. Well, an ex. We broke up a while ago," he shrugs, and you finally look at him.

The sight of him is like a gunshot— rugged and broad and oh, so handsome. It knocks the breath clean out of you, catching in your throat on its way.

"A while ago?" You poise, and he just shrugs.

"Didn't last maybe a week into the sabbatical," he says, now parallel with you against the rung of the balcony.

"And you asked her to be your plus one to this?" you scoff, disbelief coloring your words.

He nods, and you can't help but laugh.

"God, you're the worst!" You chuckle, and he can't help but do so himself.

"Is that really bad?" He asks, pursing his lips.

"Yeah, really bad," you tease, a soft smile playing on your lips.

A foreign warmth spreads between you two, a buzz you haven't felt in months. It's soft, like a homecoming. You've felt at home with Robby for longer than you'd remember.

"Your smile is so pretty, I missed it," he murmurs, and you scoff. "I'm serious. I missed you, so much."

"You're not allowed to say shit like that to me," you snark, and he chuckles. "At least not until you tell me why you left."

He looks down, heavy breaths racking his broad shoulders. The temperature between you two drops again, plunging into ice.

"I was scared," he admits.

You roll your eyes.

"No shit."

"Ha, I deserved that," he scruffs, a sad chuckle leaving his lips. "I was, though. Scared. I know it's a shitty excuse, but you were real. I wasn't ready for it."

"But…you are now?" You supplement, daring to look at him once more,

He's so pretty, you want to throw up.

"I am. If you'll have me," he stands up straight, hands in his pockets.

You ponder his offer, the anger you've carried for months now dissipating at the idea of having him in your arms again. Frustration pricks at your stomach, a burning rage in your stomach.

"You make me feel like such an idiot," you spit, and he shrinks.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to-"

"You don't mean to?" You cut him off, eyes wild. "You break my heart, date someone else in front of my face, take off, come back with her, and I still love you. How am I supposed to feel?"

His eyes shine, and he takes a deep breath before he says, "You love me?"

"Of course I do, Robby!" You flail your arms. "What did you expect?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so fuckin' sorry," he pleas, tears spilling from his big, brown eyes. "You deserve so much better than what I put you through, and I'm an idiot."

"I won't disagree," you deadpan, though your breath is shaky. "Why did you ask Noelle? Why didn't you ask me? If you're so sorry."

"Wasn't as scary. I told you, I'm a fucking coward," he laughs, sardonic and poisonous. "You scare me. I love you, and that fucking terrifies me."

"So, what's different?" You ask, taking a step closer to him, his breath mixing with yours in the cool night air. "You come back, tell me you love me, spin me this whole story about how you're in therapy now, and- and what? I'm supposed to just- fall to my knees and take you back?"

"No, God, no, of course not," he coos, brows furrowing. "I guess- I don't know what's different," he admits with a scoff.

What he does next simply knocks the breath out of you. He sinks to his knees, his hands coming up to rest along your hips.

His touch scorches you, his sad, wide eyes shooting through you like stars.

"I don't know what's different, I can't promise that I'm fixed, or I'm better, I don't even know how much I've really changed," he starts, and you roll your eyes.

He grips your hips tighter, forcing you to look back at him.

"What I do know, is that I love you. I thought of you everyday I was gone. I'm sorry I didn't message you for your birthday, but I went and got you diamonds. They're in the car," he whispers, your heart throbbing at the gift— both the diamonds, and a grown man on his knees before you.

"I'm going to regret this tomorrow," you murmur, crashing your lips to his.

He's smoky, lips soft and smooth as they devour yours, his body slowly rising to full height again.

You positively melt into him, arms wrapping around his neck, leg popping out behind you.

His big hands trail over your skin, eliciting a shiver ripping through your spine. He slides his jacket off of you, tossing it on the patio furniture littering the balcony.

Wrapping his arms around you, he keeps you warm from the chill that permeates your skin. Hands finding your ass, he lifts you against him, dress riding up in accommodation of the large man now between your legs.

His warmth between your legs sends a jolt of heat through you, punching a sweet "oh!" out of you. You squeeze your eyes, clinging to Robby tighter than before.

"Ooh, feels good being back in my arms, hm?" He asks, pressing you deeper into him.

You whine, burying your face in his neck, a quiet nod laced with shame. Your pussy pulses against his tummy, stretched taut over his white dress shirt.

He feels it, you know he can, purely from the shine in his eye, the darker hue to them. It makes you whimper, rocking your hips against his stomach.

He coos, patting the back of your head as he carries you over to the white, acrylic couch set against the railing.

He groans as he sits you both down, wiggling your hips to get comfortable. His eyes shut, he sucks in air through his teeth, and you smile.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" You ask, lacing your arms around his neck once more, rocking your hips against his.

"Hah!" He huffs out, head falling back and eyes squeezing shut as you maneuver above him. "Baby, baby, fuck, feel so fucking good on top of me, y'gotta stop."

"I missed your rambling," you slow your movements, pressing a kiss to his Adam's apple.

"I don't ramble," he grumbles, pinching your ass before giving you another sweet kiss.

You stay there for a moment, at home in his arms, tongues rolling over each other. You'd missed this— his smell, his taste, the way he took his time with you,

A wave of desperation rolls over you, all these sensations hitting at once, and you pick up your hips once more.

"Baby, stop," he orders, gripping you tight.

"Mmph!" You whine, throwing your head back, wriggling in his grasp. "I want you Mikey, please, been so long."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he grits under his teeth. "Alright, up." He motions for you to move with his hands, raising a brow when you pout, stay put on his now hard cock.

"What, you think I'm gonna put you through all this then make you ride me?" He asks, wide eyed. "I'm not a total asshole, babe. Up, c'mon. Bend over the railing."

A rush of excitement rolls through you as you finally listen, a quiet "good girl" echoing in your movements.

Flipping your hair over your shoulder, you rest your chin there, slipping your strap down, the other one following suit. You let the silky fabric fall to your feet, stepping out of it so you're left in a black bra, matching panties.

"Fuck, oh my God," he groans behind you, and you lick your lips as you approach the railing. "God I missed this, missed this fucking body so much."

You hear his breath hitch, a sardonic smile on your lips as he grips your hips with his large hands. He pulls you into him, shoving your bodies together.

Pressing a gentle hand on the small of your back, he encourages you to bend, to rest your arms on the cool metal rail.

"Good job, such a good listener when she wants to be, yeah?" He teases, moving your hair to the side, fastening his grip on the back of your neck.

"Yes, Mikey, God," you whine, wiggling your backside into his fully clothed front.

He chuckles at this, a sweet coo on his tongue.

"Sorry, honey, not super fair of me," he says, and you can hear his jacket being shed behind you. "And it's so cold, too. Left you all alone half naked for me without giving you a thing. So mean, aren't I?"

You shake your head in a playful nod, resting your cheek on your arms so you can look back at him.

He's unbuttoning the bottom of his shirt, exposing his belly, his hairy chest to the cool night air. He shivers, and you roll your eyes.

"Such a baby," you joke, and he smiles, cracking a hand down on your ass.

"Ooh!" You whine, lurching forward at the contact ever so slightly.

He grips the back of your sheer panties, bunching them up, sliding them as far between your ass cheeks as they'll allow.

"Thereee we go," he croons, and you can practically hear the sardonic smile on his lips. "Now you're remembering how to act right, hm?"

Your cheeks burn, head nodding a desperate yes.

"Good girl," he says, smacking your ass once, twice, thrice more before letting the fabric go.

The panties rest between your cheeks, the skin there still sore from his rough hand. His cold hands stroke up and down your back, calling forth a shiver all through you.

"Hands are cold," you mumble, reaching for your panties, yanking them down and sliding them over your heeled feet.

"'m sorry, baby," he rasps, fingers finding your bra clasp. "You can't complain too much when I'm getting you naked, though, no?" He teases, bending over you so his smooth voice is in your ear.

You shake your head against him, leaning back on his shoulder.

"Love you, Mikey. Do you love me?" You ask, eyes big and wide and burning a hole through him.

"Of course I do," he whispers, pulling you in for a kiss.

It's sloppy, rough and messy, not unlike your relationship with this man. He pulls back, just enough to husk against your lips,

"Love you so fuckin' much, can't believe I ever left you," he confesses, placing his big hands over your tummy, squeezing the excess skin there.

He uses the newfound pressure to sink into you, the head of his cock intruding your tight pussy.

"Fuck!" He nearly shouts, throwing his head back as his tip slots inside of you. "God, how did I go without you for three whole months? Even before that, Jesus, I'm a fuckin' idiot, love you so much."

Your nails grip the rail in front of you, knuckles aching from the pressure. A gasp rocks through you as he sinks in another inch, then another, and another.

"I love you, Mikey," you whine, arching your back as he bottoms out inside of you. "Better not leave me again," you demand, craning your neck to look back at him.

The sight that greets you is only one you've imagined in these past couple months. Robby, eyes bright and shiny, full of love, as he slams his hips into you.

"God, I dreamed of this for months, Mikey," you mewl, a fire brewing deep in your belly. "Would rub my clit and think about this, about you."

He groans, picking up his speed inside of you. The slaps his skin lets out against yours is lewd, unmistakable as he moves at full speed.

The tip of his cock nudges your special spot with each thrust, rolling your eyes back in your skull at the building pressure, going limp in his arms.

"Fuck, say more, baby, keep going," he nearly begs, cracking another spank onto your skin.

A strangled noise wrestles itself from your throat, your pussy tightening around him at his actions, his words.

"I did," you whine, squeezing your eyes shut as you take in the sensations, your impending orgasm. "Every night, thought about you and how you made me feel. Even before you left. Sometimes I'd even rub my pussy thinking about you, while Brendan was on my couch."

This confession takes you by surprise, eyes shooting open as that reality crashes down on you. At the same time, Robby snaps.

He growls, throws his head back in a strangled, "FUUCCCKK", his hips stuttering as his cock throbs inside of you.

"I'm sorry, baby," he utters, your pussy still milking his orgasm. "I'm so sorry, fuck. Oh my God, you can't say shit like that to me, gonna make me go fucking insane."

You giggle at this, squeezing extra tight around him, encouraging the last few drops from his weeping tip.

"Fuck, fuck," he presses a hand into his forehead, a disbelieving chuckle on his tongue. "Get on the fuckin' couch and spread your legs. I mean it," he demands, spreading his jacket over the patio furniture.

You clamor over on shaky knees, keeping them apart as Robby settles between them. You lift them up as he does, the spike of your heels resting against his back.

"Mmmm. God, missed this pretty cunt," he exhales, running his nose from hole to clit.

You gasp when it attaches to your bundle of nerves, even louder when he wiggles himself into you.

"Mikey! Please! I wanna cum so bad," you beg, shameless and desperate. Wiggling your hips in his face, you chase the friction that had you so close just moments ago.

"Shhh, shhh," he coos, circling his lips along your clit. "Calm down. I got you, never gonna let you go again, y'hear me?"

You nod, sinking your fingers into his hair as he makes out with your cunt, wet and sloppy and loud. It's lewd, the smacking sounds, the grunts that omit from his lips. You love it.

You tell him so, again, and again, and again.

"Love you, God," you throw your head back, the coil in your belly springing up once again, tighter than ever. "Oh! Love you so much," you whine, flinching as he adds a finger.

"Mmm," he groans against you, vibrations running through your whole body. "Cum for me, please?" He mumbles into you, big, brown eyes boring into yours. "Missed the way you taste, can you show me again?"

He laps you up, plays with your wetness as he continues to slide his long digit in and out, in and out.

He's got you right at the edge, and you allow yourself to teeter there for a brief moment before fully letting go.

Your vision turns to black as your orgasm creeps over you, the earth stuttering on its axis as the high hits you.

It's overwhelming, relentless heat surging through you, trails of fire rippling in your veins.

"Michael!" You cry, lurching forward, grinding your hips into his face.

"Yeeeessss," he drawls out, pulling you closer into him, helping you ride out even more of your orgasm. "Keep cumming, I got you, don't worry about a thing and just keep fucking cumming."

You obey, because of course you do, tiny explosions still reverberating through your body. Your body finally relents, shivering at the smallest hint of overstimulation.

"Mikey, Mikey, 'm good," you giggle, breathless. "I'm good, 's too much, God! It's too much."

He finally lets up, a wave of relief washing over you as you fall back into the couch.

Your eyes focus on the night sky, though you feel his on you. Turning your gaze downward, you think Robby is the happiest geezer you've ever seen in your life.

"Hey, beautiful," he rasps, resting his cheek against your thigh.

"Hi, handsome," you coo, reveling in the shiver that sends down his spine.

"Wanna get out of here?" He asks, placing a kiss to your sensitive skin.

"More than anything," you breathe, turning to find your panties.

"Ah!" He tuts, followed by a light smack of your thigh. "Got 'em right here," he admits, pulling them out of his pocket, and sliding them up your thigh.

"Michael Robinavitch, you are a pervert," you tease, sticky love dripping from your lips.

"Maybe, but you love me," he repeats your earlier confessions, eyes wide and shining.

"I do, love you so much," you murmur, cradling his face in your hands.

"Here's what I want to do," he starts, sitting up on his knees and beginning to redress you.

"What's that?" You poise, a cute smile on your face. He melts at the sight before continuing.

"I want to get you all nice and dressed and comfy again," he says, slipping your dress over your head, your bra going into his back pocket. "I want to take you home," he continues, pulling his own pants back on. "I want to put you in those diamond earrings I got you for your birthday," his shirt follows, shaky fingers buttoning himself back up. "And I wanna fuck you while they glow in the moonlight. You hear me?"

You nod, eyes wide and full of want.

"Good," he smiles, sliding you off the couch and onto your feet. "Go get your stuff, we have many months to make up for."

You don’t know. Either way you like it. You like him coming through the door and it almost being like he’s not coming back to a place but coming back to you.

Smoothly, you fasten the nail polish lid and set it aside: on top of the magazine on his coffee table. Then, you lift you head. You stretch your neck, craning it over the back of the sofa, and call out to him. “Let me see, then," you say, already knowing where your boyfriend has been for the last hour. “Let’s have it.”

Robby strolls into your view. He's shirking off his jacket before he dumps it over the back of the other side of the sofa. “Have, what?”

He greets you with kiss. Ducking down, Robby makes your lips meet his from above. His hand comes to rest on where your neck is stretched, fingers spread along the column of your throat. The touch is gentle, barely there, but Robby hopes it's enough to distract you.

It's not. You tap his hand, the one on you, and you both part. Your eyes are directed right up at him, at his face that looms over yours. Softly, you lecture, “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Neither do these," he retorts, talking about what you've brought up first; why he's left you on your first shared day off in two weeks. If Robby can sulk, he will. Yet, what your boyfriend presents as now is completely withdrawn; defeated by this latest stage of life he's reached.

A light laugh of your is stifled. This is big to him, whereas, it feels so miniscule to you because your generation wears them not just as necessities but as accessories also. It highlights the age-difference between you; because you see them as nothing, meanwhile, Robby compares himself to being one more milestones from a headstone.

“Come on, they can’t be that bad," you say, keeping your voice encouraging as he joins you on the couch. He slumps down, reclining back as far as possible without lying horizontally. “They’re just glasses, Robby. Glasses. To help you see better.”

“Because I’m old," Robby counters. He sends you a tired, resigned look. "I’ve got them because I’m old and I’m losing my sight.”

This time, you can't hold back your laughter. “You are not losing your sight at all," you assert. Lightly, you poke him with your foot; the one where your nails are totally dry from their fresh coat of polish. You smile at him when Robby's eyes land on you, him half-smiling at the attention you're practically poking him with. You carry on, "Yeah, maybe, your eyes are weakening, but it’s not like you’re having to wear them all the time. It’s just screens and reading.”

Any chance of him feeling better vanishes. Robby puffs and looks away, bemoaning, “It’s because I’m old.”

“You’re impossible," you say, with an eye-roll at his dramatics. Maybe it's because you're young, that you're not even approaching the stage of life that Robby is in for another two decades, but you don't see the big deal. They're glasses. Just glasses. Reading glasses specifically. You see people wearing them every day and don't consider if they're old or half-blind; short or far sighted. Your life is too busy, too hectic, to care. “Just…" You know you have to care if it's Robby. It's really bothering him, playing into the insecurity he already has that his life has slipping away from him in a blink of an eye, ironically. It doesn't help that he's clinging to youth by falling into a relationship with someone over twenty-years his junior. "Just, show them to me," you push. "They can’t be that bad.”

Thankfully, Robby isn't so bitter that he can't do as you say. His actions are unwilling, however. You wonder if he's as nervous, behaving so bereaved by another sign of aging, because it's in front of you. It's you he's having to experience these things with. The person who gets excited when his grey comes in more prominently in his beard, especially around his mouth, because weirdly that excites you. In fact, you're delighted when one morning you find a silver strand hidden within your hair because it means you're not so different from your boyfriend. You can grow old together. The person who stands in the steamy mirror after a shower and can stomach looking your body over in its full nudity; everything so young, so soft. And, right now, in your twenties, it’s the most fuckable you’re been so far.

Out of the pocket of his jeans, Robby fetches out a hard box. He pops it open and, once he's gotten the glasses out, the magnetic seal snaps shut. Robby kindly unfolds the temples of them and, then, slides them onto his face, comfortably over his ears and the settle nicely on his nose. Afterwards, Robby looks to you. He faces you and puts on a mocking, pressed smile. “See?”

“Hmm-mm." You nod a few times, small, endearing. "I do see." You're observing him over: the new addition to his appearance. "More importantly, can you?”

He gruffs out, “I can.”

Next, you ask, “Do they make things on the screens clearer?”

“Yes," Robby says, getting out his words with a souring reluctance.

A smile hits your face. It gets bigger and bigger, until you're beaming at your boyfriend. “So, stop complaining. It’s just medical intervention, if that.”

You can tell Robby wants to roll his eyes at you, but he halts the urge. To him, you're clearing making sense, and yet, this feels much bigger than what you're making it out to be. Robby tells you, “I’m not complaining because I need them. I’m complaining because they make me look old. They make me feel old.”

“Michael, lovey," you start, gently coaxing yourself further across the sofa, closer to him, "you are old.”

“Oh, Jesus, thanks," rolls sarcastically out of Robby, louder than he is prior. He's too close to an exclaim; his voice coming from the back of his throat. "Knew I could count on you for reassurance."

His reaction makes you laugh, not mocking but slightly disbelieving that this is really something that's affecting him. If you don't know any better, you'll think your boyfriend links this to impending doom: a headstone at fifty-three. Death on scene, no chance of saving, a 'DNR' printed on his forehead because he's 'just that old now'.

Plainly, you put, “Who the hell are you trying to kid here? You know your age, you know what comes with it. Just be grateful it’s glasses and not a knee replacement," you joke, but it doesn't go very far with Robby. Spying this is much deeper than a little insecurity, you poke him with your foot again. His eyes meet yours, tired, and you smile gently. "There's plenty of young people, old people, middle aged people who need glasses. Hell, I probably need them for how much time I spend on my phone scrolling," you comment, and Robby actually agrees with a small, breathy chuckle. “Plus..." You get up on your knees and crawl up up to him, finding a safe place beside of him. You trace your fingertips delicately over his beard, nails scratching at the skin beneath. "I find them very sexy," you admit of the rounded frames he's come home with.

There's a light crinkle of surprise to his face, eyes a touch innocent under raised brows. He's checking you're being honest without a word and when he sees you're being entirely sincere, Robby juts his side to the side and tries to park it. Instead of thanking you, Robby stays deflecting and says, “You’re a goddamn liar.” But he knows to placate you, his sweet overly-sensitive soul of a girlfriend. His hand runs up your thigh, lodged in next to him, and he expels a long sigh, "But I appreciate the compliment, honey."

“No, you don't. You hate compliments," you say rather knowingly. It causes his mouth to smile and he sends it over to you. "But..." You extend on your knees again and, much to Robby's amazement, throw one of your legs over his. You straddle him, climbing into Robby's lap like it's the most natural thing for you. Teasing him with a wicked smirk, you make sure to tell him, "Just so you know, I find you very sexy, so, by default, I find them very sexy." A kiss is pressed to his jawline, right at the edge of his handsome face. "I find you in them very sexy. In fact, I think this could work for me," you concluded, far too happy with yourself and what you're certain you can conjure up between the two of you.

By now, Robby knows how you give yourself away. He knows that wicked glint to your eyes; how it gets all warm and seductive. He can't help the smile that spreads across his face, making the skin at his own wrinkle. Excitement stirs in him, and Robby fixes his hands to your waist, bunching up the end of your top. "Work, how?”

“Hmm, I think…" You pepper a couple more pecks on his jaw, following upwards, "—maybe, I find them hot," you confide. "And we..." Your mouth tracks up to his ear, teeth grazing his lobe, right before you whisper, "can spend the next hour finding a way for me to show you how hot I think you are."

As your tongue flicks against his earlobe, Robby's grip fastens on you. He surges forward with you in his lap, now longer slouching. He puts you both on the edge of the sofa's seat cushion, and Robby asserts back, "I think we can do better than an hour."

You crane your head back to be able to meet his face, eyes large through the magnifying quality to his lenses, and you roll your hips once. Your hands cup his cheeks, right before another more bruising kiss, and you say playfully, "Oh, my Robby, always a fucking optimist."

They're practical, that's what you tell yourself. Practical. Necessary. Because Robby needs them. So, why is your head so full to the brim of the most inappropriate thoughts when he's wearing them? Why are you clenching around nothing more, squeezing your thighs together to help the heat, just to be able to get through an interaction?

It starts off innocent. That's what you want to believe, anyway. Your gaze often finds Robby's throughout a shift — checking in, promising with a raised finger that you or him will be one minute before either of you is by each other's side. Both of you keep another in your sights, in your path, in your way sometimes you'll argue when he's feeling particularly wantful. It's nice, though, to know you're considered. Thought of. But this is different. This feels unique to those new reading glasses of his. Your eyes aren't just drawn in or searching anymore; they are attached. Glued. Pinned. Set on him. And Robby? All he's doing currently is charting.

The glasses are perched nicely on the bridge of his nose, at the top. It's no secret that you've always found Robby's nose handsome. His prominent, large feature adds to your attraction. It makes his face more striking; compelling. The pleasure you have in both watching him and being intimate with him is rooted in that beautifully thick nose of his. The first encounter where Robby ate you out: his broad tongue swiping at your glistening, leaky hole is seared in your mind. When you peak and he dives his face in closer, inhaling you, devouring the gushing you give him, and the tip of his nose catches your clit — it's otherworldly. You remember the strangled cry. The yelp you let out after. How Robby, ever attentive, figures out fast what's happened and uses his nose to his advantage to hear you again. He has you grinding down on his face, smothering him; clit rubbing wildly against it as you chase your high on it.

All of it plays in your mind now, worsening. You're picturing the same scenario, but, now, Robby wears his reading glasses. Those round, intelligent frames on his beloved nose. You imagine the lenses fogging up from his hot breath echoing back at him from where he pants it into your sodden pussy. How your arousal smears on the glass from how close he is. That Robby will see every inch of you more clearly that he ever has. He won't miss anything. Every button of yours he presses. Every trigger and what it does. Every tell of yours he'll find, uncover and bank to his skills while wearing those glasses...

Snap!

You jolt back. The pencil you've been biting breaks. It shocks you. You're startled as you take in the two splintered halves. Drool pools in the corner of your lips and around the pencil itself. Something's broken in you, too. Another twisted, previously undiscovered part of your is pried open, jarringly wide. It's alive. It's fiery and beating; throbbing and thirsty for this fantasy your brain has conjured up for you.

In a harsh flash, back in reality, you realise you have a problem. An ache — wet, heavy, unmistakable. You feel your pussy pulse and flutter thrice in a row. There's absolutely nothing to satisfy it; to grip your warm walls around, least of all Robby's dick right now. It makes you feel inherently empty and gagging for Robby. You look over to him again and your head drops shortly after, groaning when you spy he's still got the glasses on.

You take yourself off from your spot, out of the stool on wheels. Covertly, you check where you've been sat and swipe your palm across it just in case. You're vastly relieved to find it's dry when you're very blatantly not. Getting away from central hub, for a moment's privacy, is the only thing that can save you. Yet, instantly feeling the slick of you causes you to cringe. Your folds feel both engorged and drenched. You worry about the state of your underwear and how you look walking. It's mortifying to think your legs wobble and can't graze together because it'll be worse. The cute panties you slid up this morning are stuck to the shape of your private, moulded to soak up the moisture, gathering up between your legs. It causes you to walk with them parted a tad, to stop it spreading and spoiling your scrubs as well.

The smile you have on is fixed, straining. You aim it at patients in the hall and fellow colleagues, who just think you're heading for the toilets. You hope your journey there looks more natural to them than it feels to you. However, the desperation hits you as your palm does the restroom door. You shove it open with more force than intended, but you're in. You're safe. Once you turn the lock, you have privacy. As much as you can with the bustling chaos of the emergency department muffled through a door.

Humiliation degrades you while you grip the string-tie around the front of your scrubs. Your shaking fingers make fast work at undoing the knotted bow and, then, they grab either side of your bottoms and underwear. The thin, baby-blue lace mocks you now. In your distress, you drag both down at the same time, lowering yourself down to the toilet also. When you sit, you meet the stark evidence of your vivid imagination.

The gullet of your panties wears a slimy, thickened version of your arousal. Your slick smothers the material. So far Robby's glasses have cost you one pain of cute pants, a pencil and your dignity. It's embarrassing how wet you are; how worked up you've gotten from a basic, functional accessory. That a pair of reading glasses has done this to you.

While you wipe below, with three pieces of toilet roll folded, the shock keeps coming. The wipe is both too smooth and not enough. There is no friction all at. There's not enough paper to collect up your wetness. It's comfortably slick between your lowers lips and following the track to even slip between your ass cheeks. An irritational part of you panics, figuring you'll won't survive the rest of your shift without a plug of some sort. Then, the sensible you is triggered: it doesn't work like that. But you're never been this wet before. Not from mere thoughts of your boyfriend in a sexy situation. Lord, what have a simple pair of readers done to you?

You're completely sodden. You think this is grounds to make an Irish goodbye, a sick absense; go home immediately. How can you work after this, with this? How can you even look your boyfriend in the eye knowing how horny he's made you, all accidentally? You're not responsible enough to be caring for ill and/or injured patients. You've a sexual deviant. No trust should be put on you, especially when it takes four wrap-around loops of toilet paper to collect up your problem. But what kind of excuse is, 'I got so turned on, I physically can't compute anymore'?

Who takes that seriously? How will Robby ever take your seriously if he finds out?

It highlights your age — your immaturity. It makes you feel small. Like a scolded teenager that can't control their sexual impulses. Not a woman in her twenties who has been in the healthiest relationship of her life, having sex with the same man for the last three months. No, you have to be an adult about this. You can't let Robby know. You have to hide this side of yourself, cover it back up. It shouldn't be so hard; you've only just found it out yourself.

After cleaning up, as much as you can, and creating a makeshift pad out of paper to keep your now-dry pussy from dampening your underwear ago, you head out. You go back to work. You return to your patients. You avoid where you last saw Robby. You push the idea of his glasses out of your mind. The risk is disgustingly sordid, and even if you feel amazing, you have to lock it away.

While it keeps happening at The Pitt, working often side-by-side with Robby, the next time you find it's bad for you is two days later. After another gruelling shift, of skimming past Robby — dangling yourself in front of him like piece of meat, sneaking secrets touches, getting more touchy-feely when you come across him, going against not just the rules of the PMTC but the boundaries you've both put in place to remain professional — you've gone for a shower. You want to wash off the urges you're having. It's the fifth pair of underwear you've ruined in just a couple of days. You peel every pair off of you now, already pre-empting them doused in your juices. By the end of the week, you might have to put on a load of washing on just for the panties you'd soaked through from those glasses if this continues. It scares you into finding a pair you don't particularly care for tonight. After your shower, after you're lotion-ed up, you tug them up over you and then a shirt over your head.

Your stomach distracts you from it, however, and you welcome the change in thought. Something delicious is cooking. Nothing is better than sweetened white onions caramelising in a pan with garlic and a ton of good olive oil. It's the base to every pasta recipe Robby knows and spoils you with. If you aren't already moaning to be fed well after a long shift, you let one slip on entering the poxy kitchen of your apartment, finally here again after telling Robby you have to spend more time there if you’re paying rent. But now, you wish you are alone. The sight you see is enough to wish you’d say you wanted a night alone.

Robby is in his glasses. Again.

And you're doomed.

Yes, it's bad enough at work when he's entirely competent and brilliant. When he's the smartest, most experienced in the room. But, it hits your vagina more in a domestic setting, in your home this time. It's a dull, wanting, wetting ache to spot the frames slip casually down his nose, falling while he checks the recipe in grandmother's homemade, hand-stitched recipe book. It's perfect bliss. A relaxed Robby, freshly showered and shed of The Pitt, in a t-shirt and loose, cotton shorts that he keeps are your place in a drawer. The image is a softer, lovable version of your boyfriend, and you want to bone him more because of it.

Carefully, you slink in behind Robby. Your arms weave around his front, closing him in so your chest pressed to his back. He barely flinches at the new addition of your touch. Instead, Robby huffs a tender chuckle; a smile twinkling at his face. He's gentle with you, lifting one of your hands to be able to kiss the back of it.

"There you are," he says like he's been expecting you, expecting this. "Nice shower?"

You hum. The side of your side nestles against the fabric of his shirt and you breathe in deep. He smells of the coconut crème bodywash of yours mixed with his standard scent, and you bury your face in it. When you moan, Robby chuckles again.

"You good?"

To the centre of his back, then, to the blade of his right shoulder, you put kisses. "I'm fine," you murmur. "Just, want you."

His mouth twitches up happily. "Let me finish cooking dinner and after we eat, you can have me," Robby promises. "All to yourself."

An annoyed groan is stuck in your throat, he doesn't get it. "No, Robby," you say, "I want you. I..."

Where your hands are resting, around his stomach, gives you the perfect access for your next move. One of them travels south, from Robby's soft tummy to the waistband of his shorts. You slip under it, biting your lips when your hand meets the furry, little happy-tail that leads you down to the base of his dick. You grip at him, delighting as Robby's hips jut forward, into your touch, with a surprised 'Ah-haa."

"Want you," you repeat, lower, your voice more lustful and dangerous. "Need you now."

Robby turns his head. He glances back at you, eyes blown wide lewdly, under those readers, at your crude confidence. His mouth parts with another groan, caused by you palming at his dick. His hisses when your hold wraps around his length and tugs. "Oh, fuck," he cursed. "Sweetheart, not right now."

"Please," you whimper pathetically. "I'm so wet, Michael. So wet for you."

Proving your point is simple. You remove your hand from where it's been working at getting Robby hard; it’s now in a half-stiff state. You back off. Your warmth leaves Robby's, and your back collides with the counter behind you. This time, your hand disappears to get at your own centre. Robby watches down the bridge of his now, over the frame of his rounded glasses; pupils dilating in his hungry stare. Your hand sinks into your panties. The neat, cute bow at the top of their hem is an affront to your false innocence. Your fingers easily, smoothly gliding between your folds. A pretty, little gasp escapes you at the circle you stroke around your clit while Robby, seeing your wickedness better in his glasses, eats you with his eyes.

When you retract your hand, you reveal your glistening digits. They shimmer with your arousal, and you, like an angel turning to devilishly ways, raise them to your lips. You bring them to your slight agar mouth and suck your fingers into it. Tasting yourself, under Robby's agonising scrutiny, has never been hotter. Around them, you hum, eyes half-lidded as your relish in the pleasure and in how Robby looks at you, caving, in those those glasses.

You offer your saliva-covered fingers out. "Do you wanna—?"

The teasing questions is devoured up. It's yelped from you. In a flash, Robby has stormed at you. He charges. His hands are bruising, gripping at your waist harshly. His mouth is on yours in a messy collision. His tongue plunges into it and laps at your own to be able to taste what you've just cleaned from yourself.

It's not enough.

A desperate, starved man is who you have made your boyfriend into. Fifty-three years of age and he's never experienced need the way he does with you.

Robby's incessant, one after the after kisses tingle. They make your lips swollen from how you crave to chase them, to keep up. Then, when they leave you, they're planted greedily to the corner of your mouth; then your cheek, chin, jaw and neck. There's a path he follows. Teeth grazing your skin while his beard burns and scratches at it, too. You suck in a sharp inhale as Robby yanks at your wrist. He holds your lovesick gaze, through the lenses, and, unflinchingly, Robby puts those same fingers of yours, smothered in your own slobber and the remnants of your wetness, into his mouth.

The tongue that's just been battling yours is flat against the underside of your two fingers. It splits them apart in Robby's warm, wet mouth. That skilled tongue of his running between them and around them until you're moaning at the sight. It makes a nice home as he tightens his grasp around your wrist to continue in aiding in how he sucks them clean for you. Everything about the action is within his control. You start this, and yet, Robby is determined to finish it. Or, at least, get you there.

When he is done, when your fingers are covered in his slobber, and they come out of his mouth with an audible smack, his eyes are still holding yours. They're locked on you, bearing down at you through his slightly fogged glasses. Desires binds you together. It magnetises him to you; and you to him. And, before you know it, Robby is kissing you while his hands are at your waist again. They're gripping you even harder now. His fingertips dig into the supple flesh at your hips. It's pinching. You're in heaven.

Robby uses it to grab at your more and grab at the delicate cotton of your panties as well. He's yanking them down as one of his knees nudges yours apart. Your underwear catches mid-thigh, and Robby slaps the side of them. It's a signal you've had before, but Robby makes it clear what he wants from you.

"Up," he directs breathlessly, into your mouth that parts with a moan.

Quickly, you obey. You don't risk not following his instructions. Your hands curl around the edge of the island and, with Robby's help, you hop on up. It allows Robby the chance to strip you completely of your panties, dragging them all the way down past your ankles and pocketing them swiftly into his shorts. Your core is drenched by the action, for him. You pull Robby closer, between your spread legs. You've put yourself on a plate for him, for an entirely ravenous man. You purr at the expectation of your steamy fantasy finally coming true: Robby eating you out while wearing his new reading glasses.

Only, at the very last second, right before Robby sinks down on his creaky knees for you, that's snatched from you. Robby takes them off and sets them down carelessly aside of you, on the counter. As he spreads your legs wider, making room for himself, you try to brush them. Regrettably, they're just out of your reach, and you moan just as Robby takes his first taste from the source.

"Ahh, yes," you mewl.

His index lightly parts your labia, your folds soaked by how turned on your are, while his tongue rolls around your peaking bud. He sucks it in, causing you to make a pitched moan. Your Robby is a man of little words when he enjoys his favourite meal, but is one of incredibly skilled actions. The singular digit becomes two. They dips down into your hole, testing, teasing. He probes your entrance, only sinking in to his first knuckles but enough to gather up your slick. Robby pulls them out, much to your chagrin, to turn them in the opposite direction — upside down while he now curls them into you again. He aims for that sweet spot, the one he's trained himself to catch with every thrust.

"Oh, my fuck, yes," you pant, hands threading in his hair. While you squirm, you tug; and Robby pistons his fingers in and out of you. "That feels... Oh, shit. You're so fucking good at that."

The praise emboldens him, making certain that Robby picks up the pace. He smiles around your clit, his tongue rigorously flicking back and forth over it. What he does feels amazing. You can't get any better. You're so lost in the moment, you have forgotten why you got so wet in the first place.

Now you're grinding against his long face, hands pinned either side of it as you run after the high. The only thing keeping you from falling off the edge —both your orgasm and the counter — is Robby. You're too selfish, too needy, to care about safety. Your hips move with a life of their own, frantic. It's feeding some insatiable part of you to have Robby's fingers curls and, then, tap that spongy spot.

"Ah-hhh!" you cry out.

With it, your back arches. Robby gets furious with the pace he plunges his fingers in and out of you. The sopping sound of your pussy smacks with each thrust drives him crazy. He's determined now. He can sense you're close when you're unable to say anything other than, "yes, yes, yes" over and over. Throwing your head back, the tip of his tongue circling your overly sensitive bud, drawing it into his mouth with an unquenchable fierceness, you sob. It rips from your throat and, as an orgasm tears through you gloriously, your hips snap forward.

"Fuck, Michael— Michael!"

His unwavering grip on your allows you to ride your high out. While he rinses you of it, you're grappling to get back to your senses. But they're trembling, unsteady. You're lucky that Robby has a hold on you. He keeps your upright and safe.

Heavy pants are heaved out of you. The way you run after them is erratic and embarrassingly eager. Robby slurps it up — you up. It's his last act before he's rising from his knees with a grunt. His face is wet, but you don't mind. He kisses you again with your juices drenching into his beard. It smears against your chin and face. The tangy taste of you is dominated into your mouth once more, better because it's accompanied by his tongue. It makes you cling to him more. You two ravage each other until the afterglow is stolen away.

Bitterness fills the air. The kitchen floods with it. The smell of burning startled you both from staying in your spent. "Fuck," Robby damns himself more than you, even if you are the distraction and cause.

Unwillingly, he tears away from where you're haggardly perched to turn the stove off. The onions and garlic are charred to the bottom of the pot. He snatches up a cloth, wraps into around the handle, which is searing hot, and dumps it into the sink. Swiping on the tap, Robby lets the water fill, exhaling in relief that the smoke alarm hasn't gone off. His gaze lifts. It meets your frame — panting, weak, legs apart displaying your shiny, pulsating, ruined core, and a stare that doesn't conceal your fucked-out state. It makes him grin, eyes swelling with glee. The show of it has you laughing. It has him doing the same. Then, Robby is coming towards you again.

He cups your face. He plants a long, hard kiss on your lips. Another is placed to your hot cheek and a third to your sweaty hairline. There, Robby hoarsely says, "I'll order in."

Work is grating on you. Not the ache in the balls of your feet from being on them for fifteen hours straight. Not from how each ill person chips away at the softness you start the day with until you’re raw. It's Robby and those damn reading glasses. His reluctance to make them his friend has since vanished. He's realised they're helping; that they're making him a better, more efficient doctor, so is wearing them often when overlooking results and charting at the computer. The reaction it evokes out of you is surely inhuman. It must be animalistic, linking back to basic primal instincts, because you're goddamn feral. How nobody has figured out why is beyond you.

You're drawing closer when the glasses are on. You're snaking on up to him; fluttering your lashes more when you want his approval on a patient; sipping at his lukewarm coffee you claim tastes better when you share while you maintain direct eye-contact with him; manoeuvring around him by planting your hand on the small of his back; brushing your behind against his front as your skilfully complete your tasks in a trauma room. More than once it's gotten you a weird look from whoever's unluckily witnesses it and are later reprimanded by Robby, as chief attending and not your boyfriend. You're sure to remind him how much he prefers being the latter when you're sneaking kisses between clearing rooms after a discharge.

It seems Robby has made your work unbearable. Everywhere you turn, there Robby is. He's either wearing the glasses, going to wear them, sliding them off or you're wishing he is doing any of the above. You especially like it when he pulls them out from where he keeps them, puts them on barely, scans over a chart someone's given him, drags them over his face when removing them and then tucks them back into the top pocket of his scrubs. You want to be tucked into the same pocket. The more he wears them, the more turned on you're getting. It makes you get handsy with him: palms lovingly rubbing up and down his arms, squeezes or sweet pats delivered to his shoulders, even a daring peck when you find him on a break. Robby doesn’t pick up on why; he's not going to risk losing the extra good mood you're in especially when it carries on when you both get to his.

It consumes you at The Pitt, but home gets to be your escape. Or it should be. There's not many reasons to why Robby will be wearing his reading glasses as often as he does at work. Home is the only place you can conserve your sanity, where you can exercise control. Halfway through your calm evening that shifts. Robby has other plans for you, and you're a mess just as you are at work.

The television plays your nightly fix. By the end of the day, your brain is mush and all it can manage is dumb, predictable reality tv. As you tiredly fawn over complete strangers falling in love through a screen, in a 'pod', without ever seeing the other person, Robby has your feet in his lap. Lazily, he massages them and has been for the last forty minutes. The pressure of his thumbs is sensational. At one point, at a particularly tender knot he rubs out, you moan like you might in the middle of sex, which gets a lift of Robby’s smile and brows. It's all very adorable: your feet in his lap, your guilty-pleasure show on, and him making you laugh every so often with a dry, sarcastic comment towards how ridiculous it is that people propose to someone they’re never met.

What disturbs your sanctuary is the pinging of his phone. Robby mumbles out, "Sorry," to you as he busies his hands with it instead of your now. He sees the notification and dispels a sigh.

"What?" you ask, nosily and interested in what's taken your solace with him away; your boyfriend's slice of evening bliss.

"Email from Gloria," he answers.

You roll your eyes for him and mention, "You don't have to reply, you know. You're not on-shift, you're not paid to answer emails in your free time."

Despite you being right, Robby can't let this pass. His duty sounds like a blaring siren in his head. The control he has isn't fleeting, but Robby treats it as such. He digs his heels in, pretending he hates how the PMTC can't manage without him, without it leaching on every ounce of his life, and yet, Robby simultaneously banks his usefulness on it. Too much of him leaks into his work. Sometimes Robby doesn't know where it ends and he begins — like now.

"Just one reply," he promises, as if you'll buy it. You don't, and you pull your feet away and cross your legs to give him the space he needs.

What you're not expecting is how Robby reached aside of him again, for the side-table, and collects up his reading glasses. You suck in a thready breath, already having that desire wash over you. As Robby puts on the frames, beautifully settling them on his face, you chew at your bottom lip. You can't sit the way you are anymore. You have to bring them up and to your chest, desperately trying not to be reminded of how painful and all-corrupting your crush on your boss is.

Your boyfriend, your brain corrects and it's still not enough. With the power he had over you, you'll like to be more — something so plain and replaceable as a 'girlfriend' can be. God, you can't believe a sensible pair of rounded, reading glasses has to thinking of being Mrs Robinavitch. It's pure insanity. You’ve been dating for three months, having been hooking up for seven weeks prior; you can’t be thinking of marriage. But you are.

For a couple minutes, you allow yourself to watch. Your show is forgotten. It's boring in comparison. You're too enthralled by the sexiness exuded from Robby in his simplest, cosiest form. He types away with his thumbs, illuminated by the white light of his screen, and you're squeezing around nothing, around utter emptiness. The room is suddenly too hot. You're sweating through the vest-top you've got on and you're certain your underwear is ruined again with more of your slick. What is this now, your seventh pair sodden from how much you want to fuck Robby in his glasses? You've lost count. All because Robby's readers have struck gold in your horniness. Now, you're sloppy and light-headed and begging for attention under those heightened lenses.

While you press your legs together, you feel how wet you're growing; how it's spreading through and around your vulva. Everything minor move is slippery and easily made. You know that with a little care, maybe a few peppered kisses and light petting, you'll sink right down on Robby's dick with near to none resistance. It's honestly so pathetically weak of you, and that's not considering how pliant you already are for Robby.

You hum around nothing, stifling a moan dead in your throat. Briskly, you dart your eyes to the tv when it cracks Robby's concentration. You're pretending the noise is at something you agree — or, hell, disagree — with in your show. You don't care. His survey of you, checking, is brief, then, he goes back to finishing up his email. Again, you shift. You sweep your longer stare up and over to Robby, at the other side of the loveseat. You have to bite down hard when you see the tense, little frown to his brow from the stress. The screen casts shadows on his face, more prevalent because of the glasses.

Another tiny, coarse moan leaves you. Is this desperation? Is this what he feels like to Robby when you're in a nice dress or those jeans that hug your ass so snugly he has to put hands on you? If it is, you believe he's got the patience of a saint. Because you? You're barely holding on.

Less than a minute later, Robby is putting his phone aside with a gruff sigh. "Okay, that's all done. I'm all your again, swe—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentiment: his dear return to you. There's nothing 'dear' you want to do now. The moment he sets his device down, you're pouncing. In swift haste, you're surging up from your prior position and throwing yourself into his lap. You land with a firm thud, a moan rolling out of you while you put your lips eagerly to his. A surprised Robby takes a second to adjust after another grunt at the impact — at your keen behaviour. Hands of yours already pawing at him, desperately seeking more of Robby. As much as you can possibly get. It's like he's air to you now and you need him to breathe.

Your knees, either side of his thighs, are working well. They're still loose at your young age, still able to support your weight without fail. No clicking or seizing up like Robby's can. When you're rising up and on down on them, you're seeking reprieve. You're peer out of your eyes, fluttering lashes sometime blocking your view, but you can see him. You can see Robby. And those damn glasses. You grind yourself down on him, back and forth, rocking in their instinctive practice. The kissing you're doing, lips faster than this, stalls as his bottom lip gets caught between your teeth. You nibble, tease and pull at it, delighting with a grin as Robby moans for you.

A harsh slap is delivered to your backside. The sting hit your left cheek and you gasp loudly. Your mouth drops open. Robby's palms roam the exposed skin, sneaking up the hem of your shorts to feel more of you. His digs into the meaty flesh of your ass; one of his pinkies is just short of the thin bit of material that's bunching up between your cheeks. He uses that hold on you, firmer now, as guidance; as a handle. He gets to control the force and the drive of your rolling hips. He pushes you down further, craving the friction of your covered sex grinding over his. Yours is slippery, you know, and it's shielded by both your panties and thin cotton shorts. Your heat preens to be dragged over the stiffening length of Robby's penis. Its thick girth parts your lips, already adapted to fit between your slit while you mould around him.

"Oh, my god."

"Fuck, sweetheart," Robby says roughly. "Just like that. Keep going."

Your hips splutter. Hazy eyes manage to peel open and set on Robby again; his are filled with crude suggestions of you, of what he can do to you if you're as yielding as he thinks you are right now. He's looking up at you, stare blowing wide, exacerbated by the reading glasses that magnify him and you. They're tipped back, knocking against the sides of his nose, and you let out a needy whine.

His voice is wrecked while Robby tracks heated, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. "What's gotten into you, huh? So obsessed with me lately." His observation comes with another sharp slap. It connects with your ass and you hiss with your head falling back. Your hands grip at the back of Robby's head, the only leverage you have while you continue to rock over him. The sickening sensation of your sodden underwear — and shorts —forming to Robby's throbbing, erect member. You're dragged over it again and once more over that. It makes you wetter. You can feel it leak out of you, through them and onto him. Robby feels it, too.

"Jesus, you're so wet, sweetheart," Robby comments, and you think you might burst with happiness; and if you're waiting any longer. "What's brought all this on?"

"You," you whimper. "You — I'm so wet for you, Michael."

His mouth attacks your throat still. He kissed down to and around your pulse point, sucking at your skin. It's not enough to bruise, but just to make your skin pucker and feel sore so Robby knows he was — is —there. The only problem, when Robby tries to take it further, his glasses knock against your collarbone. They jolt back at his face, jabbing the sides of his nose in a cruel way. Robby now sees them as an obstruction to you — to this pleasure and heat you've got swirling around you tonight — he takes them off. He doesn’t realise how your soft whines aren't in neediness anymore, but in a momentary lapse of disappointment. And you forget when he bucks up into you and you remember that sex has always been this good without the glasses, too.

His hands guide you, placed at home on your hips. Robby tugs at the short length of your dress, pulling it down the half-an-inch the tightness allows and it rises every time you have to walk again. It's the past-time he has when he's out with you in that dress — short, smug, low-cut and with big, draping sleeves. He's not sure yet if his favourite or if it makes him crazed, especially when he walks the couple steps behind you as you're taken to your table. Robby tries to keep his eyes ahead, but they dip. They lower, landing on your backside as it jiggles, even more so while you're clipping along in your heels.

Date-night is a non-negotiable. Once weekly, you and Robby have a commitment to each other. You go out for dinner, getting all dressed up and excited for the night ahead, to end up at a restaurant that's struck either yours or his fancy during the space between the last date-night. You enjoy the ritual of it. You like how you always part ways after work — you going to your place for the first time in maybe four days to get ready and dolled up — then, Robby picks you up and takes you out. Getting wined and dined until you, no doubt, go home with him and don't see your apartment for another four days again.

Your smile is large and radiant as you send it over to the waiter. "Thank you so much!"

Robby gets this uneasy twist in his gut to see it aimed at anybody that isn't him. Still, he knows this is who you are: polite, kind to service workers, smiling when you're on a date with him. And Robby accepts it with a pressed, thin smile of his own and thanks the waiter just as you have. His hand comes to your behind again, covering your modesty as you slip through the gap between the tables into the rich, leather booth seat that runs along the wall. It's a table set for two: you opposite Robby giving him his most perfect view.

Yours arrives shortly after.

The glossy menu is pried open and your eyes are already hungrily scanning the items. What they don't take notice of is the price: that's not a worry tonight. There is not a single date-night that Robby allows you to pay for. Coffee, a sandwich, a drink in a bar —sure. But dinner? Date-night dinner at a nice, expensive restaurant? That's Robby's role. It'll be an issue if you test it — if you take this from him — and, after years of being treated poorly by past dates and bad relationships, you're happy to be spoiled. You welcome it. Nothing feels better than being proudly independent but having a man who wants to take care of you, too. The option is there, you just don't choose it.

"See anything you like?" asks Robby, genuinely interested in what you're thinking.

Lifting your head, you have an answer ready, although, it gets lost. It falls from you, slipping right away, when you clock what's happened while you're distracted. Robby has put his readers on. Within seconds, you know you're doomed. Your legs cross: your left over your right, and you can feel it start to happen. The warmth blooms below, pools in your pelvis. You don't have to be a genius to know your choice of underwear is wrong. It's a pitiful excuse; practically string. Your thong stands no chance in surviving dinner.

Yes, your head is screaming. Yes, you see something you like. And it's him. Robby looks even more handsome tonight; well-rested and soft. The ironed shirt he wears is the perfect, snug fit. He has the sleeves neatly rolled up, folded just beneath his elbow, and enough buttons are undone to peak at his chest hair. God, you'll bury your head in right now if you can, if he'll allow it. Nuzzle your nose in it, inhaling his scent, which is more woody tonight thanks to his aftershave. His beard is groomed nicely, too. The clean shave to his neck makes you coo. In the next day or two, while the stubble pricks through is going to burn and irritate your skin, you're going to love it.

But those thoughts aren't appropriate here. Or anywhere that isn't in the privacy of his bedroom or yours. You're not even sure if they're too obsessive for Robby's ears. He gets pink whenever you call him 'handsome' or dare compliment him; you'll hate you think of the colour he'll go if you tell him of the seductive, sordid thoughts you have swimming in your mind because he’s gotten glasses to read better.

You swallow the dryness in your throat, the only place that manages to get that way. "Um, I think the chicken sounds good," you say.

"I thought you'd go for the linguini," he mentions, but you're not thinking about anything other than wanting to ride Robby's face while he keeps those glasses on. His lift to yours. "Or the grilled zucchini." When he doesn't get a response, just motionless stares back, Robby checks, "You good?"

"Yup," you reply, short but never clipped. "Yeah, I'm..." You're starting to writhe on your seat, feeling a little needy below. Your decision to be safe over sorry — and embarrass yourself terribly by smearing your arousal on the leather beneath you — is quick. "I just need the ladies."

You slide and stand. Your smile is pleasant, directed at the couple less than half a metre away from your table. For what you're about to do, you hope they'll forgive you. But you know that, once Robby's decided on what he wants, he'll remove the glasses like every time he's done before. You wiggle your dress further down, causing Robby's stare to snap down to your almost bare thighs. It's cheeky. You've done it for a reason: to rile Robby up the way you are.

And you do that successfully with your next move.

Leaning over, your hands cup Robby's beard-adorned jaw and cheeks. You dip and connect your lips with his. They slant over the top of his mouth, moving deliciously against Robby's greed to taste more of you. There's no mercy with how you slip your tongue into his mouth, daring him with a lick to engulf you back.

When you part, both your lips swollen from the brazenness of your kiss, you smirk to find your lipstick is smudged over him. You swipe the pad of your thumb over it, ridding him of it, and then you give him the smile he gets jealous if you send to anybody else. Proudly, you voice, "I'll have the chicken saltimbocca. Thanks, lovey."

You leave, whisking away quite merrily. Stunned, Robby is breathless from your kissing. Discomfort rises in both his chest and trousers, aware that he's in public. That you're with him: the very attractive, young thing that wears shorts dress with low-cut front and makes out with him before you go to the toilet. It's a jarring difference to the others couples, who gawk at what Robby has and what you've done. Robby nervously looks to the table next to his, at the same two that you've smiled at, and he does the same only his face is burning up. He's a brilliant red as he runs his sweaty palms down the length of his thighs. "It's a real nice place, right?" he says, trying to make light small-talk that he knows won't last. Robby states of your behaviour, "She's been wanting to try it for weeks."

It serves to get worse for Robby. You're really trying to test his patience — play on it more. Prodding and poking seems to be your method to get through dinner, like you're trying to find a bruise on his skin and press at it for a reaction; for proof it's sore. That you make him sensitive like he makes your overly so. Your hands slip around his shoulders, sweetly squeezing them on your return; you adoring gaze across from him while you free your foot from your heel and rub it up against Robby's calf, sometimes sneaking its way up the leg of his trousers to tease better; around your fork, you moan and then tell him it's just 'so good, Michael’ before offering him a taste.

The use of his real name should've been the first sign, but it's not. Robby is too busy going over the last week in his head. Lately, you've been all over him and he's yet to figure out what has made you so horny. Robby tracks your cycle, so he knows you're not ovulating. For certain, he knows you're not pregnant and there's no reason he can think that will make you more hormonal, practically begging and gagging for him. You're just so desperate for him this week. Every chance you've gotten to corner him, you take. He lets you. Robby has no arguments. He'll like to know why — if there's a specific reason — but he has neither the urge to ask in case it breaks the streak nor the opportunity.

Again, you're on him. It's not long after you leave the restaurant, after Robby's survived ninety whole minutes across the table from you in one of your particular deviant moods. When you exit the warmth into the crisp evening chill, Robby's blazer-jacket is thrown around your shoulders. Shockingly, it's longer than your dress, where it falls around your thighs. It has Robby laughing, playfully scolding you as he tugs it down once more. You kiss him for it, arms looping around his neck to plant a loud, smacking one on his mouth.

"Thank you for tonight, baby," you say. "I had a good time."

Under the blazer, on top of the stretchy material of your dress, Robby plants his hands. They're firmly on your ass, squeezing with his fingertips every couple of seconds as if to still check you're real and under his touch. His mouth descends on your neck. "How you going to repay me?"

With the kisses to your neck, you stretch it to be longer. You give Robby more of it — more of you. Your hands grip tighter at the hair at the base of his head. You thread your fingers through the short length and you feel less guilty for the tugging there because the hair is much thicker at the back. Yet, both of you know even a balding Robby won't stop you from tugging at the front when he's buried between your legs, making heaven out of your core.

You gasp out breathily as he sucks at that one spot that makes your eyes flutter shut, rolling back in pleasure. "I have my ways," you promise, and Robby knows too well that it's the honest-to-every-god truth.

Maybe it's selfish. But when the glasses are away, so is your motivation to greedily seek your own high. You still get it. You're still very keen to grasp at it —achieve it — but, while they're off, you're not so blinded by what you want. It's clear to you that, when Robby takes them off, he's not thinking the same twisted thoughts you are about them. He's not craving the same release through them. The glasses are for Robby, but they get you off — not him.

What gets Robby off is simple. It's you.

The elevator up to his apartment is an odd sensation. It slews your need, bringing it up to drop it, suddenly, to the pit of your stomach. The mirrored walls are cold to the touch. Robby has your back flush with it as he makes out with you. His mouth worships yours, tongues battling and then blending together while your leg is hoisted around his waist. Bent at the knee, you lock Robby into you. There's no discretion anymore. Your dress is completely scrunched up at your waist, serving more like a top than it is a dress. Your wet thong is getting sucked between your folds, eaten by your glistening labia. It stands absolutely no chance at surviving this encounter with Robby. You're creating a wet patch through the material that is scarcely covering your intimates and rolling it onto Robby's crotch.

You can feel how hard he is for you. It's pressing into you. The outline of his engorged, furious dick finds the warmth of your sex even through his trousers. He searches for it; finds a blissful, ravenous solace in it. Robby rocks into it and swallows every moan of yours with his mouth. He muffles their loudness. As one of his hands digs into the pillowy underside of your lifted thigh, that wraps around him, the other is planted beside of your head. His palm connects with the mirror, smearing his messy, sweaty prints while he uses it to close you in. Your space is his. He dominates into it, into you. Robby uses the solidness of the elevator to cage you in; to rock his clothed cock a giant your damp core.

"Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters into your mouth.

The elevator stills. It jolts to a stop, and it nudges Robby's budge further into you. "Ah-eekh," you whimper sensitively. You feel the floor beneath you cease its vibrating, jutting movements as it reaches its designation. It seems to signal to the both of you that you can't stay where you are, as much as you'll like to. If you ride the elevator down again, there's more of a chance that getting to Robby's floor will be the only interruption you'll have.

A ding is followed by the doors opening. Robby drags himself from you with a sloppy, searing kiss. His beard scratches at your chin, and you're certain any makeup on the bottom half of your face has been kissed off. After your legs slips from its hooked position around him, Robby is tugging your dress down again, but the job is harder when your legs tremble and shake from the close contract. From it, the clambering and being shoved up against a wall, roaming each other desperately, his blazer is found on the floor. It's just a casualty in the heat of the moment.

But Robby collects it up now. He lowers himself, trailing his hands from the hem of your dress down the back of your thighs and calves. His touch is feather-light, enticing, just enough to have you arching your back off of the wall to have more of it. Robby grins up at you, eyes staring in awe of how your head tips back and your teeth chew down into your bottom lip; head so fucked with how he'll next shape your body to his. Kisses are distant and placed up the front of your legs now. Those hands grip your dress again. He tugs when he's eye-level with your needy pussy, just the slit and your hole concealed from him; the colour of your thong changed darker because of how wet you are. When you're covered again, your careless dignity shielded away, Robby cheekily kisses your mound through your dress.

A shaky, extremely unsteady breath leaves you ragged. Your chest rises and falls frantically. It's all trapped up in your ribs, burning from desire. As Robby stands up fully, over you again, you say while your pussy is crying, "You're evil."

"Sue me," Robby huskily says, that condescending encouragement to his tone making your legs weaker. "Better yet, I'll ask my landlord for the footage from that camera," he half-threatens, crowding you as his head makes towards the black dome in the corner of the box with its little, blinking red light. His hand aims for yours, more so curling around your wrist to pull you out of the elevator finally. He walks with you, pliantly moving you along with him. "—And I'll let you use it in court, show everyone just how evil I am to you, sweetheart. Might have trouble getting anything but a hung jury."

You lull over his words. The very, not real threat he gives you that makes your thighs run together, more than already do. The skin there is starting to irritate you. While the dress has been a phenomenal idea, it tortures you now like Robby does. You won't feel as bad if it's a beard-burn between your legs instead, but it's not, and you want the control now. You don't like in the space of you forcing a huge, needy kiss on Robby in the restaurant has turned you inside out and made you a pathetic, weepy mess for him. He's not even wearing the glasses anymore; you shouldn't be so bendable to him.

He gets his door open, keys jangling in his hands, and you delight with the idea of regaining the power. Maybe it's childish. Maybe it's not a good enough reason, that you have to prove to yourself you're not as easily-gotten, weakened to Robby. That you also can make him the same.

This time, it's your hands on his waist. From behind, your fingers dig beneath the leather of his belt. You push your chest, your heaving breasts, flush to his back, and against him, you whisper, "Don't need a hung jury." You make your fingers walk around, following the band of his belt, until you reach the buckle. There, you slither your hand lower. "I have you."

Your heels clip torturously slow as your round him. Keeping your touch over this erection, caged by his trousers, you send your boyfriend a devilishly smirk. The door is barely shut when you start undoing the buckle of his belt, skilfully loosening it. "You..." Once you're free to continue, your fingers pull the zip down. "... Are..." Your hand slips into his trousers, under the waistband of his briefs. That smile of yours grows as your palm connects with his dick, wrapping around his fat girth; your thumb swipes across its leaking head. "... Plenty," you finish.

Robby is whimpering at your touch, whining as his hip jut forward to get more. Out of his mouth comes a small plea, "Don't tease. Be good to me."

You nip at his throat. "That's what this is, baby. Always good to you."

With that, you sink down. Robby's back knocks into the door. It's shut, not locked; the peep-hole is visible to the left of his head. He stumbles while you get down on your knees. You don't complain. You don't groan. What you give is a soft, tiny whine when you yank at the opening of his trousers, further exposing him. His dick slaps up against the bottom of his stomach — angry, pulsating, needing attention from you. You touch it again, hand wrapping around the base of his shaft, and Robby thinks he might die if he doesn't feel you soon.

A strangle moan leaves him, and you swipe your thumb over the head again, down the very sensitive slit. You peck at the same spot. "Hmm, so pretty, Robby," you hum. Your lips are soft against his raging penis, planting more kisses on it, on him, tracking all the way down to where your hand grips him.

"Fuck me." His head collides with wood, hard, and Robby has to lift his his fist to his mouth to muffle his grunts. He bites at his knuckles just as you lick back up, all over the undersize of his dick, over the largest vein that protrudes violently from how much blood is rushing through his penis currently. "You're the liar," he hisses at you, "you're a fucking t—tease."

Giving his tip another kiss, you look up at Robby. You flash him a perfectly faux-innocent look extenuated by batting your lashes. "Don't know what you're talking 'bout, just wanna treat you nice, Robby," you say. "Take care of you like you do me."

"That's not— Oh, fuck!" Robby's rebuttal twists into another moan, louder than the previous ones. "Shit." He feels your tongue swirl over his tip, flattening to lick up the pre-cum leaking out of it. "Shit, you're..." His hand shoots down to your head, weaving his fingers through your hair, as you take him into your mouth. It's so warm and wet inside of it that Robby can't do anything but wince and whimper on finding something godly, on earth, kneeling down in front of him. "You're so perfect, so g—good to me."

Aching yourself, you run your free, non-dominate hand down your own body. It finds a place between your legs, spread, and you move your thong aside, exposing yourself to cool air to Robby's apartment. The wetness drips out of you, smothering every inch, and it's the most erotic, self-indulgent lubricant you have on offer. As your tongue circles around the bulbous head of Robby's, sucking a little, that hand of your gather up your creamy, obscene wetness. You rub your clit while it's down there, moaning around Robby's, sending electrifying shockwaves of pleasure up him.

"Come on, sweetheart, need more," he says, instructive until he senses you're hot and distracted. His eyes look down, at you. He relishes in the sight of you on your knees for him, the tip of his dick looks so at home in your mouth, but Robby sees your other hand is busy. You're playing with yourself, and Robby gets jealous. His palm curves to the shape of your skull and there, with your roots clutched between his fingers, Robby tightens his grip. He retches you back. His dick slips from your mouth with a sloppy pop. "What are you doing down there, huh?"

Your head is angled up at him. Your swollen lips part realising how Robby can easily move you with his grasp on your hair. It's because of the experience. Because he know how not to pull on your hair by its length. Robby goes for the roots, clawing them into a locked fist, as to have total control over where you go; which direction; left or right; up or down. Right now, he does it to get answers. He bears down at you, greedily wanting to know how making him feel good turned into you making yourself feel good when he likes to do that.

You clench when what you say comes out as a pathetic plea, "It's for you." You withdraw your hand from between your thighs and reveal how it glistens with your arousal. "Me for you, Michael," you softly say, wrapping that sopping hand of yours around his dick. Now, when you move your hand up and down, it does it with ease. It glides, no tugging whatsoever, and you smile at the loud moan he lets out. "Wanna make you feel real good, baby, let me make you feel good."

The sight of your smearing more of you all over him, working him up, has Robby groaning deeply. His grip on your hair slackens, letting you get on with what you want to do — how you want to treat him so kindly — his thoughts buzzing with why you've been wetter than ever; why it's like someone's unlocked a tap and you're just free-flowing now. You've never been crazier, more desperate for him. Robby feels he’s reliving the honeymoon period of the first month of your hookups where you were both insatiable for each other.

Your eagerness can't be disputed or denied. As you take him into your mouth, Robby's head initially tips backwards. It thumps into the wood of his front door. When you start to bob, as well as rotating your hand up and down his dick, Robby hisses. Like you do, his teeth plunge into his lip. He's trying to muffle how loud he can get with you, not because he wants to but because of the location. His front door isn't so thick, but the ropes of slobber you leave over him are.

His mouth drops open. Through your lashes, you look up at Robby, showing him just how much you love it; how much more of him you take down. Distinctively remembering to breathe through your nose — not to panic, enjoy this — you relax. Your head angles to the right, favouring it as you feel the pulsing tip of Robby's dick press into the cheek of your mouth. He can see it. The sight of how you smile, then, hum, and go to the centre again, both wicked and focused on making him come undone on your tongue.

"Oh, fuck me," Robby curses. His fingers are threaded in your hair again. "That's it, that's so good, honey. Keep going, keep doing what you are doing."

The praise makes you take him deeper. You feel him enter the back of your throat and now you use your hands to grasp at Robby's jutting hips. He fucks his dick into your mouth, too. You meet them with your mouth, opening wider to accommodate his thrusts. They're growing harder, more forceful. You do your best to make yourself pleasurable for him. Your tongue flicks up and you rarely let most of his cock slip out of your mouth anymore. You keep your movements short, consistent, nearing on that happy-tail leading up from his shaft to navel. Your nose brushes it, and Robby's hold locks.

He hears you gag once, and his hips jerk forward. Robby holds you in place. His skill from before, his handle of your roots, returns. He guides you deeper, to take more of him. All of him. Your throat seizes when it feels Robby's dick protrude. Saliva slips out of the corners of your mouth, drooling down the length of him, pooling stickily in the hair that curls around his penis.

"Fuckkk— Fuck, feels so good," Robby groans, and he makes you gag around him for a second time. Your throat flutters. Robby thrusts harder, swallow jabs into your mouth, causing your eyes to fill. They're wide, teary and lustful. You're swarming with crude desire as Robby groans and lets a hand slip from you to hit the door behind him. "Fuck."

His loosening lets you withdraw. You're not choking on him anymore. You slip your horrendously wet mouth from the bottom to the very top. Your hand returns to his shaft. You grip tighter. Your touch locks around Robby's cock, so slippery, so magnificent as it looks furiously close to a release. You circle you tongue around him again while your hand works up and down, almost slipping from how soaked it is.

From above, Robby stares down lewdly. There's an uncontrollable hunger storming behind his eyes, scorching down at you. It burns you, but it has you continuing. Your stunningly wet mouth descends on him again, and a rough moan rolls out Robby. He thrusts into you again and fills with the idea he's corrupting the sweet, little sunshine that your fellow colleagues think butter can't melt for.

"Look—Look at me," Robby instructs you, having to catch his breath at the start of it. "Eyes up here. Hey, hey — on me, honey," he says, a couple light taps delivered to your cheek. Instantly, it gets your attention. Your eyes swim with large, juicy tears. They drench your lashes, black mascara smudging underneath making him coo. "Right here. Yeah, that's perfect. Shit," he lets out a sharper hiss, as he coaxes you to go deeper while you keep your wet, doe-eyed stare on him — locked on Robby.

That does it for Robby. His hips splutter. They jerk cruelly, irrationally. He loses the control he has as he feels himself release. With a louder, more guttural moan, twisting beautifully into a series of needy whimpers, Robby cums down your throat. Your mouth serves to catch it all. It fills as you pull back slightly, sucking fiercely around the tip to rinse him of all he has to give. The whole load. You take it, swallowing around him, bobbing your throat as you don't waste a drop. If any slips away from you, it's a miracle because you consume it all like you've not been fed for days, for weeks. You're a woman starved just like Robby is a man famished of any substance. You're his substance.

His head rocks back again. You hear another thump. This one is duller, relieved almost. Then, Robby lifts his head again. His gaze is foggy, blurred by his own tears of great, overwhelming satisfaction when it lands on you. You and your merry disposition for bending him to your will and giving him such an amazing release. To add to it, you stick your tongue out; let him see the remnant of his sticky, white ejaculation over it, smearing with your saliva. It's gross and sick and pulls that disgustingly, sex-mad part of his brain forward. He loves this side of you. He loves this side of him — that craves this. You. And when Robby sees you roll your tongue back into your mouth and swallow, your heels peeking out from behind you and your dress bunching up, Robby knows there isn't ever anything better.

Too many instances happen, all of them you lose out. Every time you get close, Robby gets rid of the glasses. While the sex has been crazy-good, hitting the right spots and satisfying you both massively, you can't help but think it unfortunate. By a slither, an inch, you miss out on your fantasy. You guess that's why it keeps happening — why you can't get over yourself and this specific want of yours eating away at your insides, stirring up messily. If you can just get the glasses to stay on, then maybe you won't be so needy; so silly at work to think you can soon drag off the chief attending to see to the sopping heat between your legs. If you get it out, if you can act it out, then you should be good.

That presents itself to you most amazingly the next night. You've just come out of the ensuite, after lotion-ing yourself all over, to spot Robby intently reading a medical journal. Like required, his glasses are on. Sitting up against the headboard, he looks so cosy and at peace. His chest is bare, hair-speckled and on show. As he reads, his glasses tip forward, but don't slip. To you, it's a beautiful sight.

And, lord, do you want to ruin it.

Do you want him to ruin you.

The attention he gives the essay is rightfully yours. The final straw to your self-restraint snaps. It reminds you of the pencil you broke and all the underwear you've soaked this week. It's not fair to yourself that you've burrowed down these strong, throbbing thoughts of how much you're attracted to your boyfriends. You can't keep denying yourself this — this version of him.

The glasses.

It happens swiftly. You're sliding off your cheetah-print panties before you have the chance to wreck another pair. You leave them where they drop and, not bothering to tread over to the side of the bed that's unofficially yours, you climb over Robby. Your straddle his thighs, your wet core skimming the happy-trail that peeks out from under the sheets. Whereas this is what you've done for the last handful of nights, the lack of a barrier between you makes Robby cock an eyebrow up at you.

"What did I do to deserve this?" asks Robby, half-genuine, half just wanting to get this sleep-cami of your off just like your underwear. He brushes your hair over your shoulder, pressing a kiss to where the trin strap to your top sits. His thumb drags it down, and Robby murmurs against your skin. "... Deserve you, huh."

His hand travels down to your upper waist, finding a comfortable place cupping the swell of your breast. That same thumb graces over your nipple. It perks under his touch, under the fabric of your cami. You bite down into your lip and roll your hips in a circle, telling Robby exactly what you want to happen next. What he'll want to happen next, too.

Robby knows what to expect after an entire week of this — of you pouncing and begging and making it feel good for the both of you. He's ready for this. Gearing up for his favourite source of entertainment — the best way to end the day — Robby puts his book aside. He goes to the same with his glasses, getting ready to place them in the same spot, but your hands are over his. You stop him, lean in and nip at his mouth.

“No.”

He's puzzled by the remark. “No?”

“No," you repeats. Your breath gets hotter, closer to pants as you direct them into his mouth, between the open-mouthed kisses you give him. “Keep them on. Please," you beg, "I want them to stay on.”

It dawns on him, then. Something clicks in his brain; a cog is positioned correctly and he can see it working right in front of him. When this started, how it's progressed, how brazen you're becoming by beginning this without underwear right now. “Wait, honey…" His eyes scan you over, "—is this…" He considers you more gently, less inclined to still be circling the pad of his thump over your nipple. His voice drops deeper when he asks, "Are these what have gotten you so worked up lately?”

You don't feel so shy, but it's still what you exude for him right now. “Hm-mm," you hum, nodding small before you draw yourself nearer. When you note how he looks at you through his glasses. It's palpable. Injected into your veins. You're crying below again. You think you might cry, too. “God, Robby, I’m so turned on by them," you confess like ripping off a bandaid to get it all out of you. "Every time I see you’re wearing them, I want to jump your bones.”

It shocks him. “Jesus," he says, and runs a hand over his beard while he shakes his head side to side. He soaks all this in as you soak the hair at his navel, where you're seated.

“They turn me on so bad," you sulk, a pathetic display while you're straddling him. "I have to walk away from you at work because I get so wet. I've got a whole load of washing to do this weekend just for underwear." Every complaint is a secretly concealed compliment to Robby's ear. When you say them, he's tinged pink. "Can’t you feel it now?" you asks, rolling your hips again, sliding your slick through his happy-tail and over his groin. "Can you feel how wet you make me?" Growing hotter, wetter, you take Robby's hand in yours and direct it towards where you crave him most. "Feel me, Robby. Touch me.”

Robby can already feel you as you moisturise the hair of his stomach and down past where the waistband of his bottoms are, gradually leaking further. Yet, when you extend on your knees and raise to give him more access, to hover about him, Robby feels just how drenched you are. You guide his fingers down between your thighs, sliding them in the slick that's spread over you, and you let him take the prerogative to draw his index around your clit.

“Oh, fuck. Sweetheart," he says, pitched deeper again when the affectionate nickname passing his lips. "Is this really all for me?”

“Uh-huh," you reply, nodding profusely. Your breathing heaves. Your chest carries them like there's a laboured struggle. You lean in and kiss his left cheek. "All…" his right, "for…" the corner of his mouth, "...you," finally you say with a kiss slanted to his actually mouth. You push your lips against his — bruising, pining, whining as you give up all your poured honey to him. "You and those glasses. Keep them on.”

The grin he has won't stop growing. There's mischief in his eyes, sparkling, teasing, full of want for you. "Oh, ho-ho," he utters out confidently. “The glasses stay on, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip, afraid of getting too excited. “The whole time?”

“The whole time," Robby confirms, "if that’s what you want.”

Delicately, your fingers toy with the temples of his glasses. You push them further up his nose, then, you trace your pinkie down the bridge of his nose. “I do. I really, really do," you say. "I want you to fuck me wearing them, Robby." You lock your grip on him, more determined now he's going to give you what you want — what you've been craving. "I want to ride you while you look up at me through them. I want to go down on you and have you see how much of a mess you make me." As your arm loops around his neck, pulling both your chests flush with each other's, you tell him, "I want you to eat me out and I want you to see every twitch, every flutter, every bit of shine on me. I want you to see how turned on I am for you. I want you to see how I’m your girl.”

His stare is dilated, blown wide in aching hunger. His want for you sends a tremor through his voice, speaking it against the sweaty column of your throat. "My dirty, dirty girl," he says into your skin, inhaling you in, trapping you within his own arms.

As he nips at your neck, you whine, "Just for you."

"It sounds like it," bristles Robby, honestly honoured while he takes over your circular motions over your wildly beating bud. "It's what I wanna hear." He adds more pressure — works in rougher, faster flicks at your clit — and you let out a strangled yelp. You feel Robby's smirk against your collarbone, and he proudly proclaims, "So is that," before he drags his stare up at you, admiring you from your sternum.

It's enough for you to take charge again. This has all been about you. Your sick fantasy. Your seek for a very specific pleasure. Now you're getting it. Robby is his glasses. The readers are staying on because you've asked. You're requested. You've commanded. The least you can do for yourself is live out that in reality if not for yourself but for Robby. Those insecurities about him being old, about him aging, that's a distant memory of a man minutes ago; before he knows his young, hot, pliant-for-him girlfriend finds him sexier in them. That you're dripping for him in them without him ever being aware of the power.

Your hands pull at the sheets. You tug them down as Robby sits up more, propping up out of them. They gather underneath you, past his crotch, where you want to settle. But it's not time yet. Robby's using your lifted position to push his pyjama bottoms down. He can't kick them off like he would've liked, but it's not as if you're willing to let him do anything. You're on top for a reason.

His dick springs up in excitement. He's rock-hard for you, for the steamy confession you've offered up for him, and Robby watches through his lenses as you reach down. His hands have to move; he can't be rubbing pretty, little fast circles on your clit while you lower yourself down on him. His aching tip looks a nasty red, begging for attention, for a home in your warm walls. Yet, you don't give it to him straight away. Instead of giving in right away, you settle hovered above him even if Robby may be aching for you to do more immediately.

You tease him — and yourself first. Feeling your pussy already dripping, practically begging with every beat, gives you an unabashed confidence. There's not such thing as shy when you're locked on Robby, eyes full of crazy want for you — enlarged by those damn glasses. You bend your knees a little more; where Robby holds the base of his leaky shaft, your slickened folds just grace his tip.

"Oh, fuck."

It makes you smile to reduce such an intelligent, revered man to a whimpering, urgent mess beneath. Wanting more of it — more of his desperate need for you — you guide yourself a little lower. The head of dick parts your folds and is welcomed by your glossiness. You swipe yourself over him, pressing down lightly, slowly. You let out a sharp moan as the tip nudges against your clit, then, you slide it down to your entrance.

"Jesus Christ, sweetheart," he rasps, still so overly sensitive from the raging abundance of sex you've had daily throughout the week, often multiple times. Now, your teasing feels like torture.

You kiss Robby sweetly while there's nothing sweet remaining of you. "Don't stress, baby, it's not good for your heart," you says, jesting, as you straighten those readers on his face so he can see all of you better.

"Oh, and you are?"

As you easy yourself down on him, taking his dick inside of you inch and inch, you're holding back an obscenely loud moan. You bite your lip and tell him, "I'm the best damn thing for your heart." You feel your warm walls stretch to his large size, familiarising themselves to both his thick girth, size and that magnificent curve he has to his penis; it enables the head to curls up against the front of your vagina, hitting the deep spot that makes you preen and, then, catching the other, spongy one just hook inside of you when he pulls out. When he hits that, your pussy flexes. You feel gush floor out of you, soaking yourself and Robby further, and trickling all the way down to his heavy balls.

Both of you groan satisfyingly as you reach the hilt. Robby's eyes shut and his head is thrown back. His hands can leave his dick now you're taking care of it. They run up your thighs, relishing in how smooth your skin is; how hot you burn. A gasp escapes you just as you start to move. You find a good rhythm, slow and deliberate. Every lift, bounce, slide down on his dick is matched by the shift in your breath — the devastating roll of your pelvis and the occasional thrust up by Robby. Your body buzzes, feeling uncontrollable heat; nipples stiff in the air from where Robby retches down your top. As his hands find them, he squeezes and massages your breasts, thumbs often flicking across your nipples; and you think he's a man sick with lust. Robby looks up at you like he might've actually forgotten how to exist —breathe — if he isn't touching some part of your naked body. You watch him in hazy admiration, he watches you in complete awe you're real for him.

Your hips rock back and forth, riding down with a deep, hungry urge to get there faster; to peak most triumphantly. The slick grind of your pussy on Robby's dick gets more charged, confident and wetter. The sound of sopping slaps fill the bedroom, every time you bounce and land on Robby again. He ruts his own hips in sync with yours, each thrust filling you, driving you higher.

"Oh, my fucking god," you push out, breathless, begging. Your clench around him, close, nudging that far spot inside of you.

Robby can't have it end. He hadn't even been looking at you. His eyes have been shut in pure pleasure, until now. They snap open. He feels the glasses slip a touch. "Fuck, don’t—don’t do that already," he hisses. "I need you to help me last, honey. Go further with me," he says, and he makes it sound so pretty to your ears. So, you listen. You slow your pace and unclench your walls. There merely wrap around him now. “Oh, yeah, that’s better," praises Robby. "Let her go, let her relax. Just up and down, yeah, like that. So much better— ah!”

His moan sounds painful, trapped. Your need has grown and bests you. You've circled your pelvis down greedier. It's just too damn hard when Robby's stare is bearing up at you. You can physically see the want thread through all his handsome features, only more more delicious to you because of how his readers are knocked slightly sideways.

A palm comes keen to your right thigh. It stings, and you gasp, arching your spine as a result, tipping your own head back. "Patience," Robby cautions, but the scolding just makes you extra whiny.

“Robby, I can’t. I can’t, I’m just so— I’m so fucking hot for you right now." The confession isn't a secret, but you let it hastily rush out of you like it is. "I just wanna…” You can't help this either: your warm, wet walls hugs, they clench tighter.

At this, Robby sucks a ragged breath through his teeth, through a gritted jaw. He jerks up into you, and you roll down again more eagerly. To punish you, one of Robby's hands smacks your ass. You jolt forward. Your eyes are back on him, startled, then, smiling when he's holding your gaze back.

“What’d I say? What’d I just say?" Robby coos at you, his tone firmer, heavier with a perfect balance of lust and lecture. Both his hands now hold you by the pillowy fat of your ass. He digs into your cheeks with his fingers, using them as the handle to slow your circles. "Relax. Just, relax." Gently, Robby coaches you through your next motions, "Up and down like that, just like that. You’re such a good listener, so good at listening, honey." He directs every lift and sink of you on his dick, working himself further in you. "So good to me," he pants into your shoulder, burrowing his head into the crook of you neck, inhaling deep before he kisses the same place. "I don’t know what I did to deserve you," he bites into your skin. "Treating your old man so nicely.”

“Oh, god! Yes!" you moan, feeling the extra loving push of his fingertips on your ass. You shouldn't be so turned on, so stimulated, by your boyfriend referring to himself as your 'old man', but it sends your head in to a frenzy and twists up your pussy like it's the grossest, most erotic thing he's ever said. It turns you desperate. "Robby, please." You're rocking against him more, again. "Please, s’not fast enough. I need to go fast. Let me go faster. I wanna go faster, please.”

Your pleas sound too nice to ignore, and Robby kisses your breast before he gives you his answer. “Alright, honey. Go faster. Do what you have to do,” says Robby, as he starts to lower himself down on the bed. He lays flat while you’re seated on his cock. “I’m just going to watch you.”

For some reason, that makes you hotter. “Oh, my god. Oh, shit.” Relief rushes through you, and you immediately start to move up and down on Robby’s dick quicker. “Thank you, baby, thank you.”

The muscles in your legs ache with a twitch, but you work through the pain. Nothing stops you. You moan and moan, getting more frequent the more you chase that high. They float out softly: a jarring opposite to the slapping of skin, of the drenched plapping sounds that fills your ears, and makes you drive down more crazily. You want his mouth. You want to kiss him. You always love doing that when you're close; you like him to taste your mouth as you cum.

Confidence surges through you. Your drop down onto your hands, planting them either side of his head, under the pillow he rests on. You cage him under you, smothering him with your body as it roasts alive with desire. Burning bright, your skin hovers on top of his; you can feel the hair of his chest and groin rub against your supple bareness. With a breathy pant, you connect your lips with. You don't care that the frames of his glassed bump with your face while you eagerly domineer your tongue into his mouth. Again, you feel Robby buck under you, and your lips fall apart over his with a thrilled mewl.

The new angle hits you better. Robby's hands find your hips roughly. He holds you still; forced down on his cock to the hilt, until you're groaning from how it argues with the deepest part of you. You weep. Your pussy clamps him like a vice, milking him, tightening every time he forces the pressure harder. You hear Robby groan while his breath breaks, but he keeps your trembling, twitching frame down. Frantically, Robby starts fucking up, knowing you can't move away from him because he's gripping you to him. He's rutting up into you, hitting the spot that drains you over and over like he plans to bruise it and your hips.

You cry out over him, pouring all of it messily into your heavy kisses, and Robby keeps bullying you. With his powerful, shallow thrusts hammer at the same spot. The tips of his dick jams at it; fast, consistent. He doesn't relent, and your walls strangle him as a response. They flutter and clench with a fierce vengeance. You feel your high quickly approaching. It climbs from deep within you, pulled out by Robby and from hearing his half-swallowed grunts. Your lips still chase his. Your arms weaken as they still hold you up. Your hips roll flush with his. It thills Robby massively.

He's making it happen for you. Him in those glasses, lodging you down on him without escape, glued to him with your soaked slick. Even if you want to run away from this, you can't. Robby has you. And as he nears his own orgasm, seconds away thanks to your warmth sucking him in closer, you cry actual tears. At the edge, you feel water at your eyes, and you break.

It comes at you loud and sharp. A band in you snaps; your belly tightens and you lock up. For a final time, your hips rock and grind against Robby's, and you cum. You can barely keep your waning eyes open, but you do. You set them on Robby, face pressing to his, and hold his heated gaze as you let go. To see the fogged up lenses, your lip mark in the corner, the dents from where the frames have jabbed him — it's everything you sickly wanted.

But Robby doesn't stop. He yanks you down further. You scream out and wail against his cheek, writhing as he forces you to ride out your high brutally. As he splits you cruelly on his cock, Robby joins you. The last frantic fluttering of your pussy pushes him over. Your walls suffocate his dick in, and, with a pathetic thrust up, Robby spills into you. A hoarse moan hits your ears, and you might be the happiest woman alive to have your face over his already; eyes on him.

Hungrily, you commit his parted mouth; the tense furrow to his brow; the way his tongue swipes against nothing while he cums in you. You feel it fill you and you can't get enough of it when you purposefully squeeze your walls to get a second look at it; to suck up his spend out and up into you. And when you finally feel his grip on you relent, slacken as he comes down, you crash. You drop your arms and collapse to Robby's chest, laying flat over him. He's still in you and you can feel his heart pound out of his flesh. You're both breathing ragged, utterly wrecked by the other person, but incredibly happy for it.

Casting your half-closing eyes up at him, you pepper a couple pecks to his beard, at his jaw, and then, you smugly say, "Told you I found them hot."

The laughs he lets out is constricted by your weight over the top of him, but Robby won't ever complain. He loves the feeling of you resting your fucked-out frame on his. Robby replies, "You didn't tell me you wanted to drain me dry, sweetheart." His hand gives your bare ass a soft pat, over the cheek that still stings with the harsh smack from before. He splays his palm over it now, rubbing gently, savouring you. "They can stay on all the time if that's what it's like."

It get you to moan, acutely away that he's still buried inside of you. His dick is steadily softening and you're keeping him in like Robby's a plug to stop the cum from spilling out of you. "Maybe not all the time," you say. "I can't be thinking like this at work anymore, one week was bad enough for me."

"You think this'll help, scratch that urge of yours?" he asks, his chest rapidly rising and falling under you.

Coyly, you tell him, "You might have to fuck it out me a few more times before we're due back. But, honestly?" You don't have to consider how this has turned out for you; how any perverse thoughts you have are silenced, drowned out by how you're just buzzing from that high. "I don't care, I feel too good to care right now." You plant kisses to his sweaty, hair-covered chest. "I feel really, really, really good."

A grin breaks out over Robby's face, pride beaming from him, and he comments, "If only I could submit you for my patient satisfaction scores."

"I don't know, might be not suitable for work," you return, sending up a dazzling smile up at him.

Lovingly, Robby gazes down. He brushes your hair out of your face, dampened by sweat. He goes soft on you as he says, "Yeah, best keep this between you and me."

Yet, you're equally soft for Robby. You're pretty sure you're halfway to worshipping the man after tonight's performance. "I'd like that," you says.

There's a subtle shake of his head, disbelieving on all your actions and words for him. Robby feels this tight knot at his chest as if to tell him he doesn't deserve this; that he shouldn't get too attached. He already know it's happened for him. He's long gone, but it doesn't mean he's always so vulnerable with you. Sometimes he shrugs off tender moments with a joke, like now. "Besides," begins Robby, "I can't have everyone knowing my girlfriend gets turned on by reading glasses."

You try not to get upset by his minor withdrawal; the same insecurities that shone when he first came back with the glasses, a very physical representation of his age. You won't let it fester. When you cup his face, you guide Robby to look down at you and meet the sincerity in your eyes. "No, I get turned on by you in reading glasses. It's you — you're who I'm hot for."

And that knot is easy worked away. You've uncoiled it instantly with a warm smile, eyes full of admiration and an unmistakeable honesty in your voice. Robby hears enough lies at work; he sees what it's like to not see the full-picture and have to pick at it until you find the truth. But, with you, you give it without pressing, without any hesitation; and Robby thinks he loves you for it.

Very earnestly, Robby tells you, "You might actually be all my fifty-three years of birthday wishes rolled into one."

It excites you. That killer smile of yours is growing brazen, confident once more. A playful lilt honeys your tongue while you ask, "You wanna blow me out, Robby?"

"Yeah," he answers, fast, committed. Robby nods like you've just handed him yourself as a present for him to unwrap and, right before his mouth descends on your for another kiss, he vows, "Yeah, I do."

taglist @finco99 @thesandbeneathmytoes (if you wish to be added, let me know but make sure your mentions are allowed. this is a side blog so i cannot follow back)

You were right in the middle of the bustling ED when it hit you: a heart-dropping realization that sent you back on your heel.

“Robby.”

He stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of your voice, turning his head just enough to acknowledge you.

“There’s a trauma coming,” he warned, his tone clipped as he resumed his stride towards the double doors.

“We have tooth fairy tonight and I don’t want to stoo by the ATM,” you blurted out, jogging a step to keep up. “Do you happen to have any cash?”

Without missing a beat, his right hand dropped to his pocket, palmed his leather wallet and tossed it straight your way.

“Grab some for you too. You should always have cash with you.” He ordered. 

You caught it, barely, fumbling it against your chest before clutching it tight. You had to bite the inside of your cheek hard to keep a full-blown smirk from spreading across your face. Fucking hot.

Robby didn't look back; he walked straight into the trauma room, wheeling the gurney past the threshold as the heavy glass doors swung shut, sealing away the chaotic hum of the rest of the floor.

You always secretly loved seeing him command a trauma. Combined with the casual, arrogant flick of his wrist that had just launched his wallet at you, you had to swallow hard, fighting for a shred of self control.

Through the glass, he caught you looking. Gawking, more like. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at his lips, followed by an entirely too smug, devastating wink. Then he turned right back to work, extending his hands to guide, to command and—you were entirely, 100% sure—to show off. You loved how big he looked through the glass, how effortlessly imposing he was when he was entirely in control.

And, in sharp, aching contrast, you loved how a man that massive, that dominant, was so completely, willingly used to letting you steer the ship. How he’d yield his power to you without a second thought. He had just thrown you his fucking wallet, for crying out loud, trusting you with everything he carried without a single hesitation.

Taking a long, shaky breath, you flipped open the little leather folder, scanning the slots for a two or a five-dollar bill. There was nothing smaller than a twenty. But as you flipped past the leather flap, something else caught your eye—an old Polaroid your niece had snapped on your last family Christmas together.

Mila was barely two months old then, safely cuddled against Robby's chest, while Isaac stood right in front of you, your hands resting gently on his small shoulders as you all smiled in matching, coordinated holiday sweaters. In the clean white border at the bottom, written in sharp black ink and unmistakable handwriting, were three simple words: Get us back.

Your throat tightened and your eyes flooded with hot, unbidden tears.

“Did he forget to pay child support?” Dana teased, materializing right behind your shoulder with a clipboard tucked under her arm.

You snapped the wallet shut, blinking rapidly to clear your vision, and turned to her with a practiced, bright smile. “I completely blanked on the tooth fairy and was looking for some loose bills. Do you happen to have two dollars?” You grabbed Robby’s backpack and left his wallet in the front pocket.

Dana narrowed her eyes at you, taking in your flushed face. “You’re cryin’ over the tooth fairy? Honey, get a grip.” She wiggled her eyebrows knowingly, digging into her pocket to pull out a crumpled bill.

You snatched it from her fingers, already pivoting away to hide the waver in your expression. “Just charge him.”

Dana chuckled richly behind you. “Oh, I will.”

"miss honey, come in," robby sighs as he removes his glasses to rub at his eyes.

"you know, the kids call me miss honey. you can just call me 'honey'," you quip without missing a beat, hips swaying as you circle the desk to hop onto his desk.

robby releases a long suffering sigh, still rubbing at his eyes although he snags a peek of exposed thigh when your skirt rides up a centimeter or two. "miss honey, please."

the nickname itself had nothing to do with your real name but a happy accident when you've shown up on his door a year and a half ago with the full intention to just sell girl scout cookies with your niece. your niece and victoria had hit it off instantly, tugging you and her inside just around the same time robby had been waiting on a nanny from the agency to arrive.

one thing had led to another and robby had been taken instantly with how quick you were able to work with his kids. victoria, a genius in her own right, had been able to make a friend her age with little interference. trinity had found her match with you and your quick wit. dennis found his voice when you give him the support he's been seeking.

sure, you're unconventional and perhaps prettier than the nannies he's been interviewing but your lips had tasted like honey when the kids had locked you into a closet thinking you could be their new mommy.

when victoria had eagerly called you 'miss honey', the nickname stuck.

"alright, alright. what is it now?" you sigh as you absentmindedly push back his hair. by now, robby knows better than to swat your hands away.

"there's a hospital and foundations gala happening this weekend," he replaces his glasses back on, leaning back in his leather chair. "i know saturdays are usually your day off but i was hoping—"

"aw, dad, why can't you bring miss honey with you? you can make uncle jack watch us instead!" trinity crows, sauntering into the office with a little grin that tells you and robby that she means trouble.

"because uncle jack is attending the same gala," robby answers.

trinity smiles like she's gotten exactly what she wanted. "then maybe you could leave us—"

"you three alone? absolutely not. miss honey will be staying here and watching you."

you raise a brow, legs crossed temptingly. "on my day off?"

"there'll be a shopping spree in store for you the following day, miss honey."

"throw in a movie date with you and i'm sold."

"... deal."

———

the gala goes by swimmingly. as in, he and jack schmoozed up to high-profile investors and stuffy rich folks for exorbitantly priced donations with still a shred of their dignity left. it's more than they can say the last time they attended one of these things.

"want a drink before you go?" robby asks as the town car rolls to a stop in front of his home. jack hums, unbuttons his tux jacket and loosens his tie with a nod.

"sure, why not."

both men enter to a dim living room with just the light of the TV illuminating three sleeping children while the credits roll for finding nemo.

(victoria loves the movie, especially after jack confirmed that it's the most scientifically accurate disney movie made. trinity and dennis won't admit that they love it just as much.)

the four of you are curled up together on the long sectional, you in the middle with victoria on your lap, trinity and dennis asleep on either side of you. you're halfway to dreamland when you look up to see both men staring. jack, looking like a tired but doting uncle who comes in to gently pick up dennis, and robby (who has an odd sense of deep longing in his eyes that you refuse to acknowledge) who carefully lifts trinity into his arms as well.

you smile and gently maneuver victoria to easily carry her up the stairs first with robby and jack following. both men disperse to tuck the kids in while you enter the last room down the hall to tuck victoria in yourself.

"love you, mom..." victoria mumbles as you bring the covers up to her chin. your heart gives a resounding thud as you stifle back your tears.

"good night, sweetheart," you whisper and press a kiss onto her forehead.

"don't let... don' let trini take my snacks," she mumbles one last time as she curls into her side, hugging her stuffed animal to her chest before sleep finally pulls her in. you bite back a soft chuckle.

behind you, robby smiles at the sweet moment before his eyes catch onto your backside again, your silk bathrobe doing very little to disguise your perky ass. a self-satisfactory smile before he sees movement in her peripheral; jack has joined him and he's also staring at your rear.

"that's my nanny," he mutters with a sharp jab to his friend's side.

jack chortles under his breath.

"seems like she's becoming more to you than that."

thank you for reading ! this is just a little brainworm from after binging the first two seasons of the nanny but my inbox is open if you have any ideas or blurbs you'd like to see between nanny!reader and robby!

Another shift down, Robby mentally reminded himself. Another day closer before he’d be walking out those doors and learning the endless sights of the road. He was officially three months away from his sabbatical. 

Every time he walked into his garage and admired the bike, he spent months reconstructing, he told himself to hold off. There was a buzzing noise in his ear during shift change recently, with the anticipation crawling. Eventually it would be his last for a while. Longer than he had been gone before.

Despite the fact he was tempted to go on his trip earlier, he knew there were responsibilities he’d be ignoring if he did. He never would have opened the reinstatement paper for Langdon to repeat his last year of residency due to ‘unforeseen circumstances.’ He never would have witnessed the renderings of the shiny plaque commemorating their efforts in the wake of the PittFest shooting. He would’ve also missed the invitation for the farewell party hosted by Princess and Perlah for Collins. 

He would also be oblivious to the close proximity you shared with the night shift attending by the nursing station. 

If anyone were looking in his direction, they would have noticed the quick double flick of his head as he walked out of Trauma 2. It was close to 8pm and by this time; you would have made your way out. It was rare you stuck around late. Robby knew from the few times you two ran into each other in the parking garage elevator.

While discretely keeping his eyes on the two of you, he noted how you leisurely leaned against the counter. One elbow resting on station while holding a coffee in the other. A clear cup with orange lettering. Shen was listening intently to you ramble about something. Your eyes fluttered and brightened as you continued with your story. Shen didn’t tear his eyes away for one moment.

Robby tried to make out what he could from across the station. He pretended to be engrossed in the patient board, arm crossed and head craned back; but if anyone paid closer attention, they would see his eyes fleeting back to you and Shen.

“So the tinman does have a heart.” He heard someone mutter from behind him. He twisted his neck to either side before seeing Santos come up on his right with an amused smile. She had on her jacket and one strap of her backpack slung over her shoulder.

He furrowed his brows at her, feigning naivety. She motioned over to the sight of you now laughing at something Shen said. Robby smiled awkwardly, “I don’t think she would appreciate that.”

Santos snorted, stuffing her hands in her pockets. She leaned back and forth gracefully. “She’s chill with it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Robby breathed out with a chuckle. There was a slight resemblance between you and his intern. He wasn’t surprised you two could hit it off under the right circumstances and if Santos could learn to trust someone outside the workplace, then he was in greater support of it. “Chill with the idea that my residents consider her a heartless individual.”

“It’s a joke, Dr. Robby.”

The small rebellious streak in her eyes simmered when the two looked over once more. Shen had put aside his ice coffee and digital chart as he showed you something on his phone. Your shoulders lightly pressed together, and your head leaned in closer. It could have been attributed to the loud sounds of machines and staff walking by, but it seemed scarcely intimate for you. 

“I’ve seen them hang out more.” Santos acknowledged, crossing her arms to mirror the stance of her superior. Robby hummed lightly while still observing the newfound dynamic between you and Shen. “Javadi caught them once at a café walking a golden retriever.”

Robby shook his head. There was no plausible reason to be discussing a hospital staff’s personal life—let alone their romantic one. If you wanted to go on dates with people, even those within the hospital walls that was fully within your rights. There wasn’t much overlap between your positions and if you continued staying at PTMC as an attending, there wouldn’t be any concern of a power imbalance, despite being a couple of years older. 

“I think they could work. In their own weird way.” Santos concluded. The sound of Whitaker calling her name pulled her out of the parasocial analysis of her colleagues. It also ruined the illusion Robby was starting to make up in his mind.

With Santos disappearing from his eyeshot, his mind wandered back across the nursing station. He saw Jack pat Shen on the shoulder, mumbling something incoherent. Compliant, Shen pocketed his phone. Once Jack stepped away, Shen collected his things, still speaking with you. There was a smile on your face as you let him brush past you, attending to his duties. You walked in the opposite direction and Robby willfully saw himself moving as well. He kept his head down to remain inconspicuous.

When the two of you rounded the center by the behavioral rooms, Robby saw the slight raise of your eyebrows with a small grin. “Robby, are you avoiding going home or do you just live here?”

“I could say the same about you.” He mused, hands hiding in the pockets of his blue zip-up. He shrugged, shying away, “You aren’t typically found this late.”

Taking a careful sip of the coffee, you hummed, “You kept giving me patients to visit.”

Robby chuckled, shaking his head at the playful blame. It was the current dynamic the two of you settled on. Playful banter that only made sense to the two of you. The past month has forced you two to spend more contact outside the hospital. With the review from Admin, there were reasons for the two of you to continue texting and calling. 

The review had closed a week ago and Robby thought there would be a drought after. With the blow up between you and Mrs. McGuire and that of your own colleague, Robby was not sure you would trust yourself to be human in the workplace. Watching you, talking with Shen was seeing the white shell of an egg crack. The yolk wasn’t pouring out, but steeping out through the crack as the part of yourself Robby had seen briefly came to fruition under Shen’s graze.

“I apologize then.” Robby mumbled, scratching the side of his beard while turning his face away.

“I’m messing with you, Robby.” You responded with a slight whisper, before walking over to one of the workstations. You put down the coffee before briefly logging in.

Robby was staring at the back of your head, and he saw you pull up the chart for the patient in North 4. He carefully stepped closer, leaning forward slightly to capture some of your attention. “Have you heard anything?”

He saw the pinch of your brows as you continued typing. He then placed his hands on the side of the desk beside you, leaning in to keep the conversation private. There was enough space between the two of you, compared to how you stood with Shen. Robby didn’t think you’d be fine with an intrusion. “From any of the places you applied?”

You lightly opened your mouth ahing as it hit you what he was referring to. In response, you shook your head. “Still awaiting a response from Presby and Mass General.”

“And what about here?” Robby dragged the words, hoping to ease the conversation slowly. 

There was hesitancy in your fingers. Although you were already stretching them in between keystrokes, your hands paused completely before continuing. Carefully licking your lips, you nervously laughed. “I am working on it.”

You eyed him from the corner of your eye, holding back the curl of your lips. Robby shook his head, “I’ve noticed. I’ve been eagerly expecting an email from Admin about my thoughts as ER chief.”

“What do you plan to tell them?” You asked easily, while keeping yourself physically busy.

He could see how interested you were in the response, but something still held you back from taking a leap. PTMC was more than a safe choice, in his opinion. There was a lot of work done outside the hospital that you could benefit from. Educational seminars, academic work, even humanitarian efforts. Robby didn’t have time to smile for the cameras, but you could definitely do the work better than him.

“That this hospital has more to lose than gain if they didn’t hire you.” Robby admitted shamelessly. He didn’t have anything else planned, because that was the only truth Admin needed to know. 

He knew they would dig for any liabilities to hiring you. During the internal review, there were a lot of questions of who failed to do what, but he knew they were covering everything that was pertinent to document. Although upset from the publicity that came from the incident, and the fact you had been assaulted while attempting to do your job, Gloria was slightly more uptight than usual. Nothing new in Robby’s eyes, and nothing that should concern you about the hiring procedure.

‘That’s generous.” You commented with an even tone.

He struggled with the same acceptance as you did. With your recent streak of bad luck, you were having an even harder time accepting accolades for your work. Robby didn’t mind reminding you, especially if it meant you’d give yourself grace to make a decision meant to benefit you. “I’m not the only one who believes it.”

With raised eyebrows and a crooked smile, you finally turned to him, staring up to meet him in the eyes. “Did Caleb send you to sniff out my intentions?”

Robby chuckled with a toothy grin, one hand scratching the side of his beard. “No, I guess we just happen to think alike.”

You finished typing a couple more sentences before logging out of the computer. You spun the chair lightly, standing up beside him. He took one careful step back, but there was still little space for anyone to interfere. “Like I told Caleb and Shen, I will submit a formal application for an attending position. I just want to test my options first.”

You shrugged, grabbing your coffee. “I don’t exactly look forward to packing up my life after finally getting rid of all my boxes.”

He saw you shift slightly, ready to leave, but something kept you in place. You stared at him thoughtfully, “Truth is, I haven’t exactly done anything to prove I’m worth keeping around.”

“That opinion is subjective.” He remarked, lightly grinning to prevent you from disheartening yourself.

“If you say so,” You scoffed, pushing the chair into the desk, one hand still grasping the back. “Caleb has tried. Shen and even some of your residents.”

“At the end of the day, it’s my decision to make.” 

Offering him a tight lip smile, you slipped around him, barely brushing his shoulder. 

The Pitt was at a standstill for once. No one would dare say the Q-word aloud, but everyone was in silent agreement of the fact. There was a lull in traumas and they were making steady progress with their patient in chairs. He thought they were surviving for now. It was only 4pm after all.

He was sitting down at the nursing station, getting some charting and other administrative emails done. It was boring to say the least, but he had put off enough of his duties. He knew he needed to get done as much as he could before leaving for his sabbatical. 

Some of it though, didn’t pertain to the work at PTMC. He had a personal interest he currently endeavored himself to prioritize. Making sure his residents were well equipped for their next phase in their education—and although you weren’t his resident (let alone a resident)—he felt as responsible for your future. 

After everything that had occurred in his department under his guise, he owed you that much. 

If everything with Richman hadn’t occurred, you wouldn’t feel as insecure as you did. You were under the notion that this hospital wouldn’t want you, and Robby wouldn’t tell you, but he felt you were blinded by your own narrative. A narrative that was self-sabotaging.

He knew Caleb would notice. While preparing for the internal review, they had a moment alone and Caleb had confided in Robby what he hadn’t told you. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen someone as driven and enamored with her patients as she is, and I don’t think I could trust anyone else to teach the residents besides her.”

When Caleb smiled, Robby knew it was the truth. 

Robby didn’t argue that fact. He could trust in you to advocate for your patients. You’d fight him over the right plan of care if necessary. He learned to respect that fact, challenge it when necessary, and relent to your decision when you were right. If there was anything Caleb could equally respect, it was that.

It would be a challenge for Caleb to relearn how to navigate without your help.

Robby continued searching his inbox in relation to you and a new emergency psychiatrist. He didn’t have much of a powerful say as to whether or not you’d be hired for the position, but he knew Gloria would want his input; especially considering he wouldn’t be here after you started as an attending physician. They would need to know he can trust in someone to navigate for three months without his presence.

He didn’t find anything when he searched your name in the search engine.

“Hey Robby.”

When he lifted his head, he heard Lupe approaching him to where he sat. When she mentioned your name, that piqued his interest more. “I have a girl, Stephanie Robles, in chairs looking to speak with her. I tried calling for her, but got nothing.”

Robby sighed out heavily, leaning back in his chair. “I can call her down. Did she state the reason?”

Lupe shrugged, “She said she was told to stop by if there was ever an emergency. Poor girl looks like she’s been through it.”

He furrowed his brows at that. He was wary about the sudden visit. With the aftermath of the Richman case, they were all told to be on high alert for anyone trying to sneak in a statement; but Robby doubted this was the case, from the way Lupe put it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. “I will let her know. Put Miss. Robles in the family room for now.”

Lupe nodded, stalking away with urgency to attend to her duties. Robby clicked on your contact, bowing his head slightly to obscure the outside noise. It rang a couple of times before clicking to life. “Hi, is there an emergency?”

“Sort of.” Robby started off, noting the serious tone in your voice. “Someone came in chairs looking for you by the name of Stephanie Robles. Sound familiar?”

“Yeah, is everything okay?” You huffed out; he could hear wind gushing through the speaker as if you were speed walking.

“I’m not sure. Lupe said she didn't look so great. I had her put Miss. Robles in the family room for you.” Robby informed, standing from the chair to walk over to the family room. He thought it’d be a better idea to meet you there before letting you walk in alone.

“Perfect. I’m on my way down.” You rushed out before hanging up.

There was urgency in your voice and based on what he heard, you were rapid in making your way down. He had only stood by the door for a couple minutes until you came over, practically striding. He had his hands in his jacket pocket, watching you carefully. Your eyes were focused on the room, ignoring his curious looks. 

When you caught the brunette girl, curled on the couch, clutching her knees close to her chest, you sighed. The relief was perceptible from where Robby stood, and he was even more interested in what your connection was. With your hands on your hips, you finally acknowledged him. “Thank you. I’m sorry if I missed any previous calls, I was in a meeting with Caleb.”

He hummed, pulling his hands out to rub them together. He would ask what the meeting was regarding, but there were other pressing matters to question. He watched Stephanie, before returning his gaze on you. “She hasn’t been here long, but Lupe was right. She seems like she’s been crying nonstop.”

You frowned, obviously personally afflicted by the information. Even if you wanted to tear your eyes away from the solemn girl, you couldn’t. Something was compelling to keep a close eye on her. Robby hesitated for a moment, before he got the courage to ask. “How do you know her?”

Chuckling nervously, you faced away from the door to focus on Robby. “I lead a support group for survivors of traumatic events like PittFest. After that happened, I thought this would be a great way to connect with the community since I moved.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. He thought the idea was good. The city had been through tragedy before and the only thing that reunified the affected communities was the unison of people. He could see from the way you spoke that it meant a lot to you personally. It was evident in how you cared for Stephanie like she was more than an attendee of the group.

“I didn’t know.” Robby mentioned, shaking his head. His chest ached with shame. Had you not trusted him to tell him as much? 

Furrowing your brows, you smiled. “Not a lot of people do. It’s one of those things I wanted to do for my sake.”

“Why’s that?”

There was a brief pause. You sighed, thinking for the appropriate answer. He knew there had to be a reason you didn’t bring it up. The two of you had only recently become friendly, but if it was only professional on your part, it wouldn’t be sacred. You readjusted your badge on your collar. “I guess I had to prove to myself that I wanted to do Psychiatry. Not because I lost the ability to do what I dreamed of doing since I was ten.”

Had he met you under less hostility, he wouldn’t have doubted your passion. He always knew the patients were a priority, even when he thought you were overstepping the ED to do so. He might have seen it differently at first, but he was convinced now. 

“All the more reason for you to stay,” He joked, smiling and he could feel the wrinkle around his eyes.

You playfully rolled your eyes, letting your hands fall to your side. You peeked back inside the family room, sighing. “Thank you. I will reach out if I need anything.”

He nodded, taking a step back. You twisted the handle of the door, peeking in first so as not to alarm Stephanie. Robby could see her sit up and when her eyes landed on you, she almost burst into tears of relief. You closed the door behind you and he could make out the muffled voices. He lingered, staring through the window, to make sure nothing immediately alarming were to occur.

You approached her on the couch, taking the spot beside her. Wordlessly, she fell into your arm, letting you embrace her while hiding her face in the crook of your neck. That’s when he walked away. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, and he felt the moment was too intimate for him anyway. 

While he was passing by the North station, he caught wind of Dana approaching him. She tossed her hands, grinning. “You do realize we still have people in chairs?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you ran this ship.” Robby joked, pumping his hands with sanitizer. 

Dana leaned against the north station, one arm resting on the counter. “How else do you think this place stays afloat.”

“And I greatly appreciate everything you do.” Robby assured, cheesing harder while shaking his head. He observed around the north beds, noticing most of them full except a couple. Then his eyes went back to the family room, desolate from the outside world, the perfect place to isolate from the travesties waiting outside. 

Dana noticed him staring off somewhere. She tried following his line of sight with raised eyebrows. “Everything alright, Cap?”

He shook himself, facing Dana with a tight lip smile. “Yes. Do you mind keeping tabs on the family room?”

“Sure. May I ask why?” Dana questioned, not as defiance, but genuine concern with the way his voice quieted.

He put his hand on his hip, rubbing his forehead with the other hand. He sighed out your name, “She’s in there with a visitor, who seems distraught over something. I want to make sure there are eyes on the situation in case of anything.”

Dana agreed, her furrowed brows relaxing. In a motherly fashion, she examined him up and down with an approving grin. “Okay, I can do that. You know, it's nice seeing you two get along.”

He snorted, narrowing his eyes at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I remember when you two used to want to bite each other’s heads off.” Dana chuckled, endeared with the memories like there was something fond about it. Robby was personally glad the two of you could work in peace after he resigned to the concept of a chaotic department. “If she stays, it’ll make answering consults easier.”

Dana patted him on the shoulder before brushing past him. That was an understatement. He kept dreading the idea of having to familiarize himself with someone new, assuming the hospital found someone appropriate for the job. Even then, there was still a gamble at risk. Any doctor could look impressive on paper, it was their bedside manner and teamwork skills that mattered most.

You had paid your dues, and more to gain his respect along with everyone else’s. In his mind, there was no replacing you, and he wanted you to see that before you decided to run off again. He still had some time to do just that.

Robby had meant to keep an eye around the family room. When he did pass by a couple hours later, you were nowhere to be found. With a few back to back traumas, he wasn’t on the floor as much as he wanted to be. You must have slipped away a while ago. It was nearing shift change, and the chances of catching you before you left was slim. Robby always stayed later than necessary, but he had to make sure the night shift was calm to give him some peace of mind.

He had finished up with a trauma almost ten minutes ago. Jack was there watching the patient until Surgery took him upstairs. Robby was making rounds, checking patient rooms and around the hallways for anyone from the day shift. As he finished his rounds, circling back to the nursing station, he caught paramedics transferring a patient in.

Shen followed alongside the bed with Ellis. Robby paused, listening to the obscenities the patient was yelling. Shen and Ellis were attempting to get a report from the paramedics, but the man somehow yelled louder. Robby saw them walking into the open trauma room, and under the light, he saw the restraint on the patient.  

Without hesitation, he followed behind a nurse, slipping into the trauma room. He was able to see the restraints more clearly. Shen noticed Robby standing by the door, with a concerned look on his face. “What happened?”

“This man assaulted an officer during an arrest and almost clipped me and my buddy here.” The paramedic announced, hesitating to transfer the patient onto the gurney. There was rattling as the restraints were tugged, echoing through the room.

“Methamphetamine intoxication. Classic signs of excited delirium.” Shen followed, blinking every time he heard the rattling noise. The patient continued yelling and trashing, even with his legs and hands restrained. 

EMS and Ellis were exchanging vital signs. He was burning up. His heart was beating too fast and his pressure was sky rocketing. Without a second thought, Robby was gloving up. “Okay. We are going to have to make this quick.”

“We should chemically induce him.”

The response from EMS was drowned out from the sight of you coming in from the opposite side. The force you had pushed the door told him you came running down. “How’s the patient?”

“I didn’t know Psychiatry was paged.” Robby announced, trying to make his way towards you. The paramedics stood in between you and him.

“EMS said he was experiencing excited delirium.” You yelled over the man, watching him still thrash and yell. Grimacing slightly from the noise, you focused on Shen. “What did I hear about chemical induction?”

“We have to transfer the patient now before he goes into cardiac arrest.” Shen explained calmly. He was standing back from the patient, waiting for any indication of the next move.

Robby knew they needed more hands to transfer the patient. While he was still on the EMS gurney, his nurses were doing what they could to get initial vital signs, monitoring him before the worst were to happen. Robby was preparing to call for ketamine, enough so to induce him lightly. They couldn’t treat him if he kept bolstering.

“Just wait.” You called, extending both hands. 

“What—“ Shen asked, furrowing his brows at how professional you sounded. It was like you were called to intervene. Everyone in the trauma room watched you skeptically.

“Let me try something.” 

Robby couldn’t stop you though. You were now standing at his bedside. The EMT’s had stepped back, refusing to stand in the way of a doctor. Bending at the hip, you were close to the patient. He was still screaming profanities, circling his head to look at anyone in the vicinity.

“Hello,” You spoke up, loud but not demanding. He had heard you, looking you in the eyes before looking away. “You’re in the hospital.”

There was a pause and all Robby kept focusing on was the rattling of the binds. It was like a death march, and you were too close to the danger. He should be standing in between you and the patient, because the last time he had failed to, you were hurt. There was a domino effect of issues after, and he could’ve prevented it. Even though he slipped his way close to you, he still didn’t pull you back.

“No one is trying to hurt you.” You reminded the patient. There was nothing intimidating in your presence. It almost soothed Robby of his worry. 

You had easy control of situations, always alert and calm when necessary. The switch between methods was seamless and when Robby heard the patient’s voice quiet, and his bound wrists and ankles ease up, he truly believed you were a miracle worker. 

But Robby had experience with chaos. What seemed unpredictable sometimes wasn’t.

In an instant, he saw the patient’s right hand pull at the restraint, even more aggressive than before. That's when it all played out like a movie. The part tied to the gurney popped off, and Robby jumped quickly. He wrapped an arm in front of your body, over your chest, pulling you back quickly. You hadn’t expected the action, tripping over your feet as his mass pulled you in the direction of EMT’s, who also stepped back.

With an arm free, he winded it back, hitting the monitor one of the nurses brought around to get his heart rate and blood pressure. The metal crashed to the floor and a couple of nurses along with Shen attempted to hold his arm back, restraining it again.

Shen eyes flicked between you and Robby, who still had an arm around you, trying to keep you away from the chaotic environment. One of your hands ghosting his arm, convincing yourself of what just occurred. Doors were opening, with more nurses and security coming inside to attend to the emergency. 

The patient was transferred with the added staff, everyone holding onto a limb to keep him in place. The minute he was put on the hospital gurney, the binds were adjusted rapidly, permitting him to thrash without harming anyone. 

When Robby concluded the area was safe, he dropped his arm, resting his hands on his hips. What the fuck were you thinking?

“Are you hurt?” You asked, raking your eyes over his exposed arm. He had the sleeves of a gray undershirt rolled up his arm. He sensed a burning sensation on his arm, the impact of the leather irritating his skin.

Before you could dote over him, he pulled his arm away, and stared at you. “Out.”

The command was demanding without being loud. Shen and Ellis were watching though, and the hardened stare in his eyes told him he was peeved with the way the situation went. You opened your mouth, but he strided past you, brushing shoulders. He held the door open, watching you expectantly. Without argument, you followed.

He made sure to stand in front of the door as you two stood outside the trauma room. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“He was responding.”

“No—“ Robby cut in, shaking his head vigorously. “He was intoxicated.”

Both your hands fell to your side, head cocked slightly while you stared at him with raised brows. “You can’t be sure he wasn’t responding to me.”

“I know excited delirium.” Robby let out a dry chuckle. 

He was annoyed. More so of the potential of a situation than your blatant attempt at doing your job. Had he not been there, had he not seen what was coming undone, you would’ve been struck again. Robby knew you did your job knowing of the potential risk, so it didn’t make sense why’d you throw yourself into the danger.

“He already assaulted an officer. He wasn’t deescalating.” Robby recited, clasping both hands behind his head. He couldn’t look at you without thinking of what could’ve gone wrong. He was more than annoyed. “What were you trying to prove back there?”

When the question stroked you, there was a pause. You had stopped glancing between him and the patient. With your sights straight at him, you were stunned. “Nothing—“

“You stood too close to an agitated patient.” Robby replayed, hoping the situation would alarm you as it did him. Why didn’t you care?

“What are you trying to make up for? Richman?”

You glanced away then, tensing your jaw instead of attempting an argument. It was futile, but he rather heard he was wrong; have you berate him over an absurd accusation than be right for once–because if that was the case, then you were looking for danger. As a punishment, or worst, retribution for what you might’ve seen as shortcomings. 

Sighing, you shut your eyes briefly. “Everyone keeps telling me I did the right thing. Even Admin didn’t tear into it during the review, after it cost them some publicity.”

Robby bit his tongue. He wanted to shake you by the shoulder, wake you up to reality. No patient would be like Richman, and after what Admin considered a ‘freak accident,’ there was no reason to put blame on anyone. The doubt and lingering questions you didn’t ask about you staying as an attending in a few months made more sense. There was still a cloud lingering over you and you hadn’t addressed it.

“But what if they’re just telling me that because I only had a broken nose and nothing worse?”

Robby could see your skin shiver. All that was left after was faint scars on your hand from where the scratches were. He would see you absentmindedly touch or gawk at it. He could understand the impulse, but now, he knew it was just an awful reminder. 

He shrugged, frowning. “It wasn’t a failure on your part.”

Robby imagined hearing those words. He heard it from Adamson, Dana, even Jack (when he was feeling wise). It seemed redundant at times. He was set on the type of man he was. Not worth the hassle of worrying for. He tried to make up for it, as if everyone were holding it against him. He was sure some of them were, but he did wish for the reminder at times.

“I don’t think anyone sees it that way. Not Admin or Caleb.” He listed off, self-assured because he had to be. For your sake. “I don’t see it that way.”

With a blank stare, you wrapped your mind around his words. He knew when you were listening or not. It was like your brain actively tried to read into words the way he’d assess a trauma in the midst of blood and chaos. You didn’t have to read into anything because Robby had meant it.

A small grin grew on your face. “You’re not giving up.” 

He crossed his arms, glancing down at the sensation tingling in his arm. There was much, just red patched under the hairs on his arm. A mark from the impact. He chuckled at the implication of your words. “I don’t plan to, no.”

“I’d like to know I’d be leaving my patients and staff in capable hands.” He responded, glancing up at you curiously. Maybe he could pull it from you, but the situation was like pulling teeth. You were fighting the truth.

“No pressure.” You joked, looking back at the patient.

“I don’t think it’s anything you can handle. I’ve known that since the day I met you.” 

With a raised brow, you bit back the coy smile tempting to spread. “Does flattery tend to get you everywhere?”

“Not without some effort.” He shrugged.

There was something mystifying, like the idea of toying with something no longer professional was more than entertainment. You two had tried to keep work about work. Even when the arguments got nasty, it was all still professional. That was until he spoke with Mrs. McGuire.

He could try to tell himself that the conversation they had was professional. That he was offering support for his colleague because that was the unspoken rule, but it didn’t feel like just a professional obligation. For Robby, it was the most personal he had been with a patient. After what happened with Leah, he had vowed to never treat with a personal affliction on his sleeve.

There was nothing objective when Jake came in the bed of a truck, cradling Leah and pleading with her to wake up. He didn’t follow his obligations when Jack argued about the amount of blood he was trying to supply to her limp body. And it didn’t feel impersonal when Jake refused to look him in the eye after notifying him of Leah’s passing.

Since then, he hadn’t heard of Jake, and he couldn’t blame him for it; but Robby promised to leave his baggage at the door.

Except, that day when Mrs. McGuire bordered the line of smiting you for doing your professional obligation, he was infuriated for you. It felt like no matter what either of you did, it didn’t please anyone. You, who had always maintained healthy professionalism with the fellow doctors and genuine empathy with patients; ideal professionalism. He almost envied it. 

Robby was known to lash out in a bad mood. Langdon could attest to it. Dana picked it out the second she saw it. Jack would jab him, in hopes to get his point across. Yet, you didn’t let yourself be known by anyone else. Even with the quiet displeasure of how quick your life detoured, you did it with the same dedication. He didn’t see you lash out that resentment to anyone else, and he wondered why couldn’t do the same.

“I got a response from Presby.” You commented, gently gnawing at the inside of your cheek.

He cocked his head slightly, the grin gently coming off as he anticipated elaboration. “What did they say?”

“They made an offer. Still waiting for a couple more before I make my decision.” You shrugged. Would it be so simple to uproot and move? Presby wasn’t too far, but it was like moving to the West Coast for Robby.

PTMC was nice, despite all the shit Robby would complain about. Someone who was articulate and methodical as you could survive. Even when he itched to uproot and leave the dust the horrors he had seen within the walls, a piece of soul didn’t feel complete. “You said you had a meeting with Caleb earlier? Does that have something to do with it?”

You opened your mouth before closing it again. It wasn’t a shock that he picked that up. Truth was, he was relying on his assumption to be correct; because if it wasn’t, he might have to put in more effort. “If you must know, yes, I made an official submission for a permanent position. Still has to go through all the official channels first.”

His chest deflated and suddenly, relief. It was a step. He knew Admin would have a response before some of the other hospitals you could’ve applied to. Most of his correspondence with Admin and Caleb was looking for a psychiatrist to help with the load from the ED. “Perfect. I’ll be looking forward to the email.”

“Don’t get too excited. You’re not the only deciding factor in this.” You warned, chuckling with the sight of his crinkled eyes. 

“Well you already have Caleb’s stamp of approval.” He shrugged, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I’d say his opinion carries some weight.”

“I don’t doubt it, but all they're doing is making an offer.” You clarified, shaking your head. “Nothing becomes official until I say so.”

“Why did I get a page for a trauma?” You called, jogging over only minutes since the page came your way.

Robby was already standing outside of trauma 2, hands on his hips, as he seemed exasperated. He motioned his head to the inside of the trauma room. When you stared through the glass, you finally saw the young male--no older than twenty--laying on the gurney. He was obviously distressed, tossing his head from side to side, tears falling down his cheeks unrestrained.

What stood out most to anybody looking was the mangled look of his left leg. The bone was protruding out and it seemed almost impossible to reattach and salvage. You frowned at the sight, clearing your throat then turning back to Robby. He sighed, “19-year-old, Jason Bergs, Motorcycle vs SUV. Partial amputation on his left leg from the accident.”

“Looks bad.”

“That’s not the worst part. He’s refusing treatment because he’s an athlete on a scholarship.” Robby sighed, keeping his voice controlled, but the circumstances were not great. 

He was a victim in an accident, too young to be expected to make a heavy decision without counsel. Robby knew from the moment he was wheeled in that he was a patient who would need extensive treatment. The sooner the possible the better, but no one had expected him to fully reject it, when it could very much save his life. “Park had come down, and said there is a high possibility of an amputation. That's when he started rejecting treatment.”

“Not surprised.” You responded, keeping an eye on the patient. Inside, Whitaker and Mohan were becoming a bit restless with the verbal rejections he was making. Garcia was even in the room, taking a back seat as she restrained herself from making an obvious remark. “Does he have any relatives?”

“Dana is contacting them, but I don’t think they’ll make it before the inevitable.” Robby sighed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

You remained quiet for a moment. Something was oddly familiar in the situation. A young, aspiring individual working hard to accomplish what they had spent years aspiring to do—then have it ripped from their possibilities. He was fighting reality. Robby knew if the kid saw it from the clinical perspective, he would understand the gravity of his physical condition, but he was overwhelmed with the fate waiting for him.

“So, what’s the concern? That he’s incompetent to make rational medical decisions?” You questioned, entering into the clinical aspect of your involvement. 

Robby shook his head, crossing his arms. “He made comments about preferring to die rather than amputate his leg. He even told some of the nurses to stop administering the pain medication.”

It was a cry. He wasn't wailing for his parents, or for them to get rid of the pain, he was begging for them to keep the one mangled limb attached. Robby couldn’t make the executive decision, and he didn’t want to provide false hope, but even he could tell what the chances were. Most people would focus on the pain, but while being a teenager with a physical dream, it meant ideally keeping all limbs.

You widened your eyes in horror. “You’re thinking a suicide risk assessment? I think the situation is too dire to perform that—“

“In order to send him up to surgery, we need him to at least agree with the procedure.” Robby interrupted, passionate that came with his predicament. He was disheveled from the arguing back and forth with an emotionally distraught patient. “Garcia doesn’t feel comfortable transferring if he proceeds to be volatile and Park won’t operate until the patient consents.”

It was only 2pm, but he could use a break—or at least some assistance with his current issue. He was exhausted. You stared at him with uncertainty. Time was of the essence and he needed to exhaust all his options, ASAP. Robby chased the look in your eye, moving his head slightly to remain in your line of sight. “Look, I know I’m asking for a lot, but I could really use someone who could empathize with his current situation.”

You glanced at him one more time. He was being earnest with his plea. Robby as of late, didn’t find a reason to argue. It was like the trauma of the Richman cases bonded you. His empathy wasn't pity or just convenience, it was a reaction after watching your challenges. He had watched you be hard on yourself time and time again. He could oppose every judgment you made about yourself, or he could help you see it the way he and your attending do by providing a stage for you to perform.

You pushed through the doors first, holding it for Robby to follow behind you. Heads spun in your direction and something like relief washed over them. Whitaker and Mohan were still on the bedside, their voices quieting. You motioned them over with your head. “Has there been any progress?”

Mohan shook her head while Whitaker fidgeted with his hands. She sighed, “He is still refusing the treatment. Garcia said she can’t wait until he dies on the table to operate.” 

Robby glanced over at you. While you let out a small sigh, you acknowledged the three of them, slowly making your way to the bedside. You pulled over a stool, to be leveled with him on the table. Sitting down, you noticed him continuously stare at the ceiling. “Hello, Jason.”

“I already said I don’t want surgery.” Jason groaned, his forehead dabbled with sweat. “Not if you’re going to cut it off!”

His voice boomed off the walls. You didn’t flinch. Robby knew you were typically unfazed, even when you had reservations about a case. His body was tense though, already playing out every worst-case scenario from where he stood by the doors. 

With your hands visible on your lap, you sucked in a breath. “Let's slow down a bit.”

“My concern right now is you’re in pain.” You mentioned, speaking softly yet firmly to capture his attention. He had labored breathing, and apart from the machines, you were the only audible person in the room. “I understand you refused the pain medication. Can I ask why?”

“Because I know you guys will do the surgery once I’m knocked out.” Jason accused, spitting the words out with spite. 

“The pain medication is meant to block the current pain your body is experiencing. They can administer a dosage that will keep you awake.” You explained, “And trust me, no one here wants to go against your wishes. We are here to aid you in the best way we can.”

Jason's breathing became heavier, a mix of the pain and resentment of the situation. He was in between a rock and a hard place—except there was no visible escape that benefited him at all. “Which means cutting my leg?”

You bat your eyelashes. Robby was now heavily focused on your reaction. Something had struck on your heartstrings, because for a brief moment, you had looked away from him. He imagined you envisioning yourself on the table. From what you’ve shared, the weight of your diagnosis was more than any ambitious surgeon could handle.

There was a choice for medication, which would provide a comfortable life, but you never want to live comfortably. The excitement of being a prosperous neurosurgeon had been stolen from you, and even though Robby was convinced Psychiatry was your calling, he was sure it stung.

“Look, I’m not a surgeon, but what I can say is our surgeons make the best assessment with the most desirable outcome.” You assured, leaning forward to try and reach into Jason’s reason. He was too emotional. Too invested in the future to acknowledge the problem he was currently in. “They aren’t making judgments lightly, and if they think amputation is necessary, it’s because all other options have been exhausted.”

“But Jason, this doesn’t mean you can’t have an equally good quality of life afterward.” You continued softly. Robby grasped his arms tighter, feeling his own chest constrict within itself.

“You can’t tell me it gets better.” His voice wobbled. His lips were trembling and he was fighting the rest of his tears. His cheeks were still stained, but he was withholding himself. “You don’t know what this feels like.” 

If time weren’t an issue, Robby was sure you would’ve sat there and told him everything. About how you had wanted to be a neurosurgeon since you were 10, but life had thrown you a curveball that made it impossible. He could see you hesitate with the decision, before you sagged your body further. “You’re right. I have no idea what this feels like.”

“But I do know what it feels like when your life changes so suddenly that you don’t recognize yourself anymore.” You assured, nodding your head to try and remain professional. Nurses and the couple of residents in the room were staring. Robby’s weighty gaze burned on your skin more than the rest.

He was the only one aware of what you were alluding to. It was an intimate detail that told everyone why you were closed off and only clinical in the workplace. It wasn't because of your displeasure of your work, but because you were preparing for horrible fear to repeat itself. 

You rubbed your hands on your slacks. “And maybe it won't get better at first, but with time, there are still endless possibilities for you to make the most of your life.”

Although shaky, Jason was taking evener breaths, he was still in obvious discomfort. “I won’t be able to walk anymore.”

“Not the way you did before.” Robby intervened from the foot of the bed. He still had his arms crossed. He looked away from you before you could blatantly notice his staring. “But with rehab, a prosthesis, and a lot of work, there is a very real chance you can walk again.”

“And what if I can’t play soccer?” Jason questioned, choking back tears.

Regardless of whether he could see it or not, you smiled softly. “Then we help you figure out who you are besides soccer.”’

He started nodding his head, more breathless than before. Mohan asked him if they could administer pain meds and he finally agreed. You stepped away to allow them to work without interruption. Robby noticed how you strayed off in the corner, watching Jason more agreeable to the treatment. 

Robby had saddled up beside you, staring at you thoughtfully. Keeping your attention on Jason, he positioned himself in front of you. “I don’t think I could’ve convinced him without you. I know Mohan was racking her brain with every method taught in med school.”

When you finally looked up at him, he had a soft smile. His crow’s feet made him softer, and he was genuine with his compliment. You shrugged, offering a closed smile. “He needed someone to tell him the truth, and someone to tell him he could survive it.”

“I couldn’t have done both either.”

His eyebrows twitched. He wanted to add something, but the door across the trauma room opened, and Garcia wandered in. She looked down at the patient, then at you and Robby huddled in the corner. “How are things looking here?”

“Jason, do you consent to the procedure?” Mohan asked, standing over him. From the corner of the room, Robby and you saw him catch his breath.

He nodded vigorously, “Can that doctor come with me? I don’t want to be alone.”

Garcia, Mohan, and Robby looked for you. Taking a step forward you went around the other side of the bed, putting a careful hand on his arm. “Of course. We have someone contacting your parents, so they should be here soon.”

Jason gasped lightly, the tears streaming down his face again. Garcia, rigid and detached, pulled out her spectra link. “Surgery is a go. I’ll get the transfer team down.”

She turned her back to the patient, speaking in a hushed voice. You stared down at Jason's leg. Then, looking up from his leg, Robby raised his eyebrows at you with a silent question. You gently pulled away from Jason, walking back to Robby. “Are you sure about this?”

The last thing you needed to do was reassure him, but he felt morally responsible since he dragged you here to pull him out of a sticky situation. If the case was too emotionally charged, he wouldn't blame you for pulling away. God knows there were times he should’ve.

“I’ll stick around until they get him in the OR.” You whispered back, checking back to Jason over your shoulder. “Once he’s out and awake, I can do a proper suicide risk assessment, just in case. I’ll work with his case manager to follow up if anything of concern comes up.”

Robby agreed silently. Behind him the door opened and Santos stuck her head in, looking up to Robby. “Are you busy?”

Before he could respond, you put a careful hand on his bicep. He glanced down at your hand before meeting your eyes. “We should be fine.”

“The transfer team should be here in a couple of minutes.” Garcia noted, putting her spectralink away.

Pausing for a moment, he took in Jason’s calmer body language. He was redirected to you when you pulled your hand away. He gave one firm nod before following Santos out of the trauma room.

Robby groaned, stretching his hands over his head. The clock was nearing the time night shift would be coming in, but they couldn't come in any sooner. His feet were achy and there was a kink in his back from when he transferred a patient earlier. He tried stretching as much as he could, but he couldn’t get rid of it.

He had spent all day on his feet and he was waiting eagerly for Shen to come in. While staring up at the patient board, he mentally analyzed what the day shift had weeded through. It wasn't a lot. The patient board was still lit up with a long list of patients. He was only glad he was almost on his way out. 

The sound of doors sliding and wind gushing in hid under the noise of nurses, doctors, and techs passing around the ED. Robby didn't move his head until he caught a familiar figure walking towards the central station. Jack trudged in, carrying his backpack with one strap. Robby crossed his arms, furrowing his brows. “I thought you had tonight off.”

“I did.” Jack confirmed, he slipped off his backpack, putting it on the desk to dig for his stethoscope. “I switched with Shen. He had some last minute dinner plans or something that came up.”  

Robby raised his eyebrows, a bit surprised by the news. Shen was punctual, taking his new responsibility as an attending seriously, even with his Dunkin. He didn’t take days off, except the one occasion he was sick and Robby told him to stay home. He especially didn’t make last minute switches in schedule. 

“I think the kid has a new girlfriend. He’s been acting stranger than usual.” Jack offhandedly said, adjusting his badge on his shirt. He approached Robby with a small smirk. “I’ve noticed him hanging around that psych fellow. Do you know if she’s single?”

Robby froze. Why did Jack think he knew anything of your intimate life? Because you worked on the day shift? It was a premature assumption, that Robby was somehow looped into your personal life. He couldn’t have been the only one you got along with, considering some of his residents seemed fond of you. It would be absurd to think he was the only one who knew anything concerning you.

If there was any truth to Jack’s insinuation, Robby would also like to know the truth. There wasn’t ample opportunity for you and Shen’s schedule to align; and if he was willing to take a night off, there had to be something serious between the two of you. 

Jack stared at him weirdly, his smirk settling wider on his face. “You good, brother?”

Before Robby could respond, Dana came up beside Jack, looking at the two attendings.”EMT’s en route. Two victims, GSW after a robbery attempt.”

Jack immediately reached over to grab gloves from the desk. After Jack yanked some out the box, Robby followed in suit. Jack stared at him, watching him slip them on. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll leave after this one.” Robby assured, both of them walking over to the ambulance bay. Jack had yelled out to a couple of the residents, telling them to wait on stand-by.

When the double doors opened wide, there was a slight breeze that hit them both in the face. It was only a couple minutes until the first ambulance parked in front of them. Jack advanced first, waiting for the back doors of the ambulance to open up. EMT’s announced vital signs, and the scared teenage boy moved his head in bewilderment.

“Where’s Gabby?!” He called out. Jack and Robby noticed the blood stain on his pant leg. It had already been cut to access the source of the bleeding. “Please tell me she is okay!”

“Who is Gabby? Was she with you when you were shot?” Jack questioned while they brought down the gurney. He was grasping onto the handles, leaning over to speak with the kid. He had a wide eye stare of someone who witnessed something they shouldn’t have at his age.

“Yes! Please, you have to tell me where she is!” He exclaimed, his lips trembling as they began wheeling him inside.

Robby and Jack heard sirens approaching, coming in loudly. They both stared at the direction it was coming at and Robby waved him off. “I’ve got it, Jack!”

The ambulance parked behind the other, and Robby rounded his way to the back. The doors clicked open and the EMT in the back stood up. He heard the voices, describing her blood pressure, the source of the bleeding, and her current heart rate. As they lowered the gurney, he saw the semi-conscious teenage girl. Her brown hair was splayed around her face but what concerned him was the centralized bleeding coming from her abdominal-chest region.

“Are you Gabby?” He asked, staring down at her face. She was stirring a little, her words slurred as she attempted to stay awake.

It was a punch in the gut. The resemblance between her and Leah. Even Matthew, the boyfriend, had the glossy, wide eye stare Jake had sitting on the bed of a truck. When Robby finally saw Jake after endless texts and calls trying to locate him, it felt like breathing for the first time. Then he saw Leah, and he knew something that Jake didn’t know. 

The gruesome loss. The blood stains and the coldness touch of life giving up. 

He wanted to keep Jake from that, and even when things didn’t work out with his mother, there was a bond between them that worked because of it. All of that went away once Leah was pronounced dead. Robby became the person he always was due to the cost of his job. 

That’s why when Gabby was pronounced dead, his hands trembled. He didn’t cry. He didn’t have enough tears to do any of that. Instead, he stood in front of the plaque thanking the frontline first responders who aided during the PittFest mass shooting. It was recently installed and Robby hadn’t been there for the unveiling, obligations be damned. He didn’t need the reminder, but Gloria kept insisting it was one step towards healing, not regressing to the painful memory.

Robby tried steadying his breathing. His eyes skimmed the engraved message, but he was hardly reading what it said. All he knew was he didn’t need ‘thank you’s’ for failing. It was immoral in his opinion. 

“Hey, you’re here pretty late.”

He turned his head at the sound of the voice. It was approaching, and when his eyes landed on you, he noted the satin dress hanging around the curvature of your body. You stood out, mostly because it wasn’t everyday a woman sauntered around in a beautiful dress.

Rubbing at his jaw gently, coarse hair scratching his fingers, he hummed. “So are you, it seems.”

You stopped beside him, but instead of looking at what he was staring at, you kept your eyes on him. “There was an emergency with the patient we transferred from here earlier.”

“Are they okay?” He asked reflexively. He could vaguely remember sending patients upstairs. The whole day had become a blur and he couldn’t distinguish what happened before this last trauma.

“Right now, they are.” You responded curtly. There was a lingering question ghosting your lips. He stared down, avoiding the way your eyes were burning holes in him. “Are you?”

He didn’t even bother to respond. There was an understanding that neither of you had to say what was on your mind, because the other picked up so clearly with what wasn't being said. You were acutely aware of what was wrong without seeing him as often as the rest of his staff. Some of them did check in, but nobody lingered their eyes on him like they could offer salvation. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked quietly.

When he finally met your eyes, you seemed anxious for an answer. Maybe it was your professional nature, always trying to figure out someone’s mind before they even opened their mouth. Yet, he didn’t feel scrutinized or cornered enough to be defensive. He was aware there was gentleness he missed, and it lured him in.

“You don’t have any plans after this?” He motioned to your dressy attire. 

You stare down at your dress, laughing. If you were tired, he wouldn’t have known how put together you were; unlike him, where his body was driven by exhaustion. “I did at some point. Canceled them when I realized I wasn’t going to make it.”

“At this point, I’d rather go home than to some fancy date.” You sighed, your hands falling lazily to your sides.

He stood still, letting your brush past him to the elevators off to the side. His eyes followed the movement of the dress, noticing it swayed lightly. You looked back at the lack of sound following you. “We can both drown out sorrows with some beer and wine.”

Robby hadn’t thought you’d welcome him inside your home. He had expected to go to the bar by the hospital. Quick and easy. Except when you sent him for the address to your apartment, he was taken aback. He had it in his recently searched location on his maps app, because he had dropped off ailments for when you were sick. He didn’t realize the two of you were close enough for that. He could count the amount of times he had been to Dana’s house with one hand—and he considered her a confidant.

He followed behind you, memorizing the path from the instructions you gave him. He noticed the new ‘Welcome’ mat outside your door. Walking in was a small hallway you led him down, before turning right to where your living room and kitchen were.

It was cozier than he expected. He wouldn’t have known you had just unpacked. There were filled bookshelves, plants, and a decorative rug that made the apartment feel like home. You motioned to the couch, “Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to change out of this.”

You motioned your arms to the satin dress you were wearing. He had noticed it the entire walk up to your apartment. It was hard to ignore. Not that you stood out in a bad way, but it was different from your usual attire. The last time he saw you wear a dress was when Caleb had set you two up for a blind dinner date. He spent a long time thinking about you in that dress as well.

“So a date?” Robby called out, dropping his bag beside your kitchen island, making his way around. 

“Yes. Caleb is always telling me I need to open up, be more social!” You responded from somewhere in your bedroom, he assumed. He rather stood awkwardly, unsure whether he should sit down or wait for you to come back.

 He had stared at your living room, drinking in all your decorations. A couple frames, flat screen TV, and coffee books on the oak center console. He heard a door close behind him, and you had a small grin on your face. “I agreed to go on a date with a guy. I should’ve known that it wasn’t going to work out.”

Robby nodded, noting the sweats and tank top you were wearing. You wandered over to your kitchen opening the fridge. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket, coming up to the island to lean against it. “Is he someone from the hospital?”

When you turned to face him, you raised an eyebrow at him, curious. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

You extended a canned beer at him. He took it grateful, cracking the seal to break the awkward silence. He noted the second can in your hands, following his action. “Sure.”

He took the first sip while you hesitated, “So, what happened today?”

His eyes were now on his feet. There was a lot that had happened, but he couldn’t put it into words. It required too much context that Robby wasn’t comfortable sharing. It was like asking him to open a Pandora box of all his misery. It was bound to be messy and more trouble than anyone asked for. Your handles cradled the beer, but made no movement to drink it. “I heard about the trauma. Two teenagers, right?”

He furrowed his brows when he gazed at you. The art of you knowing was a mystery to him. You shrugged, “I ran into Kiara before I left. I assume it didn’t end well.”

“One of them died due to the extent of their injuries.” Robby responded, coldly calculated, protecting the source of the grief. He didn’t want to lay it on too thick just yet. He didn’t want to scare you away yet.  “She was a 17 year old girl. Gabriella Lopez.”

You took a sip of the beer. He kept twirling the can in his hand, as if he were looking for the best position to hold it. He could see you in the corner of his eye, the way you continued to admire his side profile. “And the other?”

“He had a couple of grazes on his leg. Abbot stabilized the bleeding.” Robby sighed out, immediately picturing Jake. Despite being told to sit down, to stay away from the chaos of the red zone, he had tried to make his way to Leah, seeing the horrific sight of Robby performing CPR on his girlfriend. What should’ve been a fun time at a festival became a horror show and Robby wondered if Jake had the same type of nightmares.

“The worst thing to happen to him was losing his girlfriend.”

Robby’s composure was unraveling. He assumed he didn’t have any more tears to cry but he felt his eyes tearing up. He faced his head away, trying to hide the shame that had been metastasizing in him. You had put the beer done, rubbing them against the fabric on your thighs. “I’m sorry.”

He frowned, repositioning his head in a direction where he could slightly see you. “What for?”

You crossed your arms. “I guess this brought up some bad memories for you.”

That was an understatement. He bit back his tongue, sucking in a sharp breath. You continued after a beat. “I’m guessing something that happened during the PittFest shooting.”

The accuracy didn’t fail to amaze him. You knew him without him having to say a word. It was a relief to be seen without the effort. He was tired of trying, and with your steady stares and words, he could just let himself trust in you to figure out the rest. “Look, you don’t have to talk about it now, but whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

That caught his attention. The firmness in your suggestion. He lifted his eyes, his eyelashes slightly damp from the few tears that sat on his eyes. You planted a hand on the counter, leaning in slightly. Offering a small smile, you drank up his expression. “You didn’t fail anyone then, and you didn’t fail these kids today.”

Coming out of your mouth, he could believe that. He wondered if this was the type of comfort you provided to your patients; or if you had softened for him with the time you spent working with him. He was unrestrained now, and he could confidently say you had managed to break down the wall he thought he put up months ago.

He sniffled lightly. There was still some rosiness on your cheeks. He could tell it was blush applied that you hadn’t taken off. “This date of yours, was it with Shen?”

You didn’t question the redirection. With the corner of your mouth curling, he sensed you liked him questioning his observation. The beers the two of you were drinking had been forgotten. The buzz in the room had nothing to do with alcohol and neither of you were fighting it. “And if it was? He’s single. I’m painfully single. It’s an ideal situation.”

Ideal. Not desirable. It sounded more like a step in a 5-year plan and less of a choice driven by the heart. He didn’t know what romance tasted like with you, but he could imagine it being like this. Banter under the warm kitchen lights, pretending not to notice a spark burning up into a flame. “But not what you want?”

You hummed, straightening his back. The action brought the two of you closer. If he moved just an inch, your chests would touch. Something about that thought made his chest warm. “I don’t know what I want, Robby.”

“Michael.”

He saw the twitch in your brows. He put down the beer still in his hand, “We’re not at work, so you can call me Michael.”

“That hardly seems professional, Michael.” 

When the name escaped your lips, it sounded like a purr. You must have known what you were doing, tempting a man with low inhibitions. Anyone who spent enough time with you would feel the tension, and being alone in a room was asking for the burning sensation of heat.

“I think we’re past that.” He responded, his eyes tracing every curvature of your face. The space between your lips and nose. The curving of the corners of your lips.

It was an imposition on his part, to be so close in your intimate space. There was a reason he hadn’t been let in the door before, but today, something must have been different.

You were still leaning against the counter, your hands making no movements. His hand was curled, resting on the cold marble. He tried to focus on that sensation to hide the buzzing bodily heat under his scrub and long sleeved undershirt. It was impossible.

So when you leaned in slightly, he was picking up on something that was unrestrained from you. Stripping you of the title you put before what was personally you.

And he didn't know how to process the sensation of your lips on his. Suddenly, the warmth was an extension of your body latching on to him and even though your chests were still inches apart, he could feel it radiating lower in his body.

You detached yourself, staring at him through your lazy eyelashes. A part of you must have regretted it, but the surge in Robby to continue the connection was fervent. He pressed his body against you, bringing your lips back together like some battle for control.

He pushed you up against the edge of the counter, hands cradling your face. God, he couldn’t remember the last time he had even had a simple hook up. The twitching of his cock had made it apparent it had been a long time. 

Soon both your mouths were opening, tongue and saliva mixing like some cocktail of previous suppression. He could taste the lingering barley from the beer, but the sensation of your hands gripping his shoulders was more intoxicating than the alcohol.

His lips kissed down your neck and your breathing was heavy. You craned your neck farther back, giving him access that felt illicit.

“Do you want me to–”

“Don’t stop.”

That was all he needed to hear. He was helping you yank off your top from your head, momentarily pulling away only to continue a trail of his DNA down your chest. His warm breath gave your skin goosebumps and it was until his tongue licked your pebbled nipple that you made an audible moan.

His hands had caged you against your kitchen island. When your hands pushed against his chest, he forcibly pulled himself away. 

“The couch.” You jerked your head, pupils blown. 

He was walking backwards, letting himself be guided by you as you helped him out of his scrub top and what he wore under it–tossing it aside to decorate the floor instead of his body. All he felt was the back of the couch, stumbling down onto it. You crawled onto his lap, slotting your knees on either side of him. When your lips connected again, it was hard for Robby to decide whether he wanted to focus on your hands traveling down his chest or the taste of you.

Your hands were making quick work of his button and zipper. His hands grasped your before you could unzip it completely. “Are you sure?”

In between the feverish kisses, your lips were smiling. You affirmed, “Just fuck me, Michael.”

He groaned, lifting you to stand. He barely hovered over the couch, just enough to pull out both his pants and underwear to pool at his ankles. While you slipped off your pants and he kicked his shoes to the side, he caught the cute lacy print of your underwear, seemingly one half of a lingerie set.

With amused eyes, he craned his head back while you settled yourself back on his lap. “Did you wear those for Shen? Hoping to get lucky?”

“Shut up.”

You smashed your faces back together. It was hard to distinguish who was more eager. 

With your bare chest flushed against his, your fingers grasping at the ends of his hair, his hands gripping onto your hips, it was a blur of movements. He was bridging your pussy near his throbbing cock. It was almost standing with a mind of its own from how desperate he had become in five minutes. 

This had to be a record for quickest erection in his fifties. 

One hand traveled down between your bodies and his thumb immediately found itself on your clit, rubbing small circles. With the material of the lace against you, it added more pleasure. Your mouth was agape as you attempted to keep a steady breathing. Robby was enjoying the small whimpers that came with your breath ghosting his cheek. 

“Are you that desperate?” He chuckled lightheartedly. The pad of his thumb could feel a dampness and he had to assume you were already wet before his fingers got anywhere near your pussy.

“Don’t act like you didn’t want this too.” You whispered, before burying your head in the crook of his neck.

Seemingly still aware of how to use your body, one of your hands tugged at his hard cock. Your hand barely wrapped entirely around him, but determined and with the premature cum on his tip, you jerked him off.

The groan that came from the back of his throat made your body vibrate. He was too inebriated to stop, but knowing the warmth of your pussy was right in his hands, his brain had other priorities.

He pulled his hand away, gripping your hips and rubbing your skin to catch your attention. “I don't have a condom.”

You pulled your hand away, lifting your head to admire the lust blown look in his eyes. “I’m clean and I take birth control.”

Robby nodded, tugging you closer. With ease, he grabbed his cock with one hand, positioning it right at your entrance. Pushing your underwear to the side, he took a steady breath at the bare sight of your pussy. It was glistening with wetness and he knew he was in for a night. Starting out slowly, his tip broke the tension first.

Your hands, that were holding onto Robby’s shoulder for dear life, tensed further. Your nails dug into his skin, but the stinging only made the pleasure better. You moaned loudly, and he suspected it had been an equally long drought for you. He paused when your walls tightened. He wasn’t sure he could push the rest of it in, but the way you looked down mesmerized, he knew he had to try.

“Fuck me–”

“Oh my god, Micheal!”

He was just thrusting the tip into you, working the rest of it in gradually. Your head was thrown back, moaning and gasping for air the further he pushed his cock inside. His own grunts and groans mixed with the sound of your bodies connecting.

“You feel so good, baby.” Micheal grunted out, completely enamored by how close he was to bottoming himself in you. The name slipped out, but in the haziness you both were in, neither of you paid much mind to the words spilling instinctively. “I won’t last long if you keep–fuck–squeezing me.”

Your back arched inward, your bodies impossibly closer. He heard the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in your apartment. He didn't need to look to know he was hammering the entire length and girth of him inside of you. His arms hugged around your middle, pulling you in to wrap your own arms around his neck.

“Michael, I’m so close–” You whined, and he swore he could feel something damp against his shoulder. Whether it was saliva or tears from the overwhelming thrust of his cock going in and out, he was pretty satisfied. He could almost feel your cervix with each push inward.

“Yeah? I’m almost there, baby.” He reassured, cooing in your ear. He was breathing in the scent of your shampoo. Something floral yet fresh.

He was lifting his body from the couch, keeping you in place while he did the work, trying to reach maximum pleasure in the position. With each moan ringing in his ear, he could sense your body was close.

“Micheal, please. Please.” You reverend

His own cock was twitching with the sounds of your quiet voice and the feeling of your walls closing in on him. He sucked in a breath, hands grasping your ribs, feeling your heart accelerate.

“Fuck!” He called out, losing his patience. “Come on. Let go.”

You both moaned loudly reaching your climax simultaneously. Robby released into you, and your body was twitching in his hands. Catching his breath, he slowly relaxed into the couch, your bodies still molding against each other. He could feel the mix of you both running down his thighs.

There was a moment while you two sat in the humidity of the two of you where it was just your hearts filling in the noise.

Eventually you chuckled, slowly pulling yourself away, keeping yourself up with your hands on his chest. He craned his head, resting it back on the couch, smiling in confusion from your reaction. You brushed some of his damp hair from his face, "That's one way to convince me to stay.”

With his cock softening inside you, he was still wasted with the sensation. Now that he thought about it, this was a long time coming. He chuckled, rubbing the back of your head. “All it took was some effort.”

“Shit.”

It’s worked its way into the map of the soles. The blood doesn’t look old yet. It looks too wet, too fresh to your exhausted eyes. You gather its in your car now, up your porch steps and outside your front door, into your welcome home mat. It repulses you, but, more importantly, it breaks you down.

The tears fall shortly after you put the trainers in your downstairs bathroom’s sink. You use the running tap as a cover for them. As sobs wreck your body, what you’ve gone through tonight becomes more clear. It’s not a hazy rush you had to get through. Blinkers on, don’t think about, just do your job. That doesn’t exist here. You’ve brought it home with you like the blood you’re washing out of your trainers. How can you not? It was a horror show. It was just like Robby said it was: the worst of humanity. It’s not often you, in the ED, get to see people on their best days, or even good ones, but, today, that you’ll count as one of the worst days of your life. You’re sure it’s the same for others, too.

You wash at your face before you go upstairs. You tell yourself to get a grip and force the tears back. If you’re going to kiss Romi, like you promised, you don’t want her to see you upset. You don’t even want her to be close to your body right now; these scrubs that have seen death and carnage. But you have to check on her. Hers in the first face you want to see. And yet, when you reach her door, you can’t bring yourself to enter while covered in tonight.

Instead, you watch her.

Just watch her.

For a while, you stay in the doorway and admire her sleeping figure. It looks like she’s tossed around and has been thrown into bed with how she lies there, arms thrown up above her head and face smushing into the pillow. It manages to bring a smile to your face, a soft one. You know you can’t kiss her right now. You feel too dirty and she’s too pure. You don’t want to risk rubbing whatever’s on you onto her innocence, tainting the moment with Romi you’ve been building all day from the time of death was called on a child, but, for now, you can watch her breathe and knows she’s safe.

Eventually, you pull yourself away to go shower. Once you’re clean, only then, do you go in; past the door with your daughter’s name on it. You sneak across her pink, carpeted floor and settle down on a patch of it at her bedside. You kiss her head, soft, just enough pressure for Romi to smile in her sleep. There, on her floor, you sit and admire her over. You’re watching Romi like you’re amazed she’s real. In awe, you monitor her breathing carefully. How many parents heard their child’s stop today, in the span of your shift? How many were close to losing them? The thought of it terrifies you. It cuts at your heart, although, you’re certain it’s out of your chest and sleeping soundly now. All your goodness is wrapped up in her, bundled under a mermaid duvet and strangling her beloved, floppy bunny under her arm. The most devastating thing that can happen to her is if the morning she wakes up and ‘Bun-Bun’ is on the floor. She won’t comprehend the demons crawling around in your head as you look at her now.

It’s well past ten when you hear keys in the door. You’ve been away from Romi’s bedside for less than thirty minutes and your scrubs are in the washing machine — tablet and detergent in, just waiting for Robby’s to join. You’re right to wait. You’re right to leave the porch-light on. You’re right that he’ll stop by.

There’s a couple steps before the turn in your staircase, following the corner of your house. You sit on there with a glass of wine in your hand. You’re not really drinking it. It’s wine, so you can excuse it by saying you’re just nursing it, but you both know it’s not true. Robby knows because he barely finished the beer he shared with Jack and a few others in the park before he was walking home, then driving to yours.

“I needed to see her.”

Your eyes meet the sorrow in his. You’re a matching pair. You save your, ‘I know’ for another time. You tuck it away safely the same as you tuck Robby into your home. “Shoes off, give me your bag.”

He does exactly what you say. Robby doesn’t speak while he obeys. He’s too broken. His tiredness is bone-deep, and he can surely argue that he can do it himself. But here you are offering, caring for him the way you do the patients in The Pitt. Robby wonders if you think he’s ill like they are. He wonders it himself after tonight, after he choked.

When you have his belongings, you tell him, “Go on up.”

Robby does as you say again. He leaves his boots by the door and his bag in your lap. Your glass of wine is forgotten about. You leave it in the windowsill by the stairs while you go into the downstairs toilet. In there, your now-clean trainers are resting on the radiator to dry, and you start to clean Robby’s boots. Like yours, there’s blood on his soles; over the cuff of his shoes. You’re lucky they’re leather. If they were suede, they’d be ruined. You wouldn’t even bother cleaning; they’d be going straight in the trash.

You don’t cry again when you’re watching the blood wash away. It swirls in the running water and circles your drain. You make sure to clean it with a piece of tissue and flush it afterwards. You’re not having the risk of Romi finding blood in the room she washes her hands before breakfast, lunch and dinner. Things like that scare a young child. Hell, they scare you. But Romi knows what your job is — what Robby’s is — and she knows it’s not always safe. She understands it can be dangerous. You remember the fear in her brown eyes that time you came home with violently burst capillaries in the white of your eyes after an aggressive patient strangled you. You’ve got the feeling Romi’s expecting something vile like that after you didn’t make it home for bedtime. It doesn’t sit well with you.

It doesn’t with Robby either. None of it does. What happened tonight, he can’t ever explain. He doubts he’ll be able to tell Romi years later. It’ll just be a story he never tells, that he’ll keep locked up until it kills him. Like Nick Bradley. Like Amber Phillips. Like Mr Spencer. Like with Dr Adamson. Working the anniversary is a mistake, Robby knows now. He’s captivated by the anguish. He can’t outrun it. It’s in him. It’s part of this day forever now.

“I did that, too.”

The sound of your voice breaks him from his sombre trance. “Huh?”

“When I came in to be with her, first thing I did was watch her breathe,” you confess. “Watch her chest rise and fall. I had to make sure it wouldn’t stop on me.”

Out of Robby comes a fragile, small, “Sometimes, I don’t think she’s real. Sometimes, I think she’s a dream of mine, that I’m going to wake up and she won’t have existed.” His gaze stays on her as he tells you, “The worst part is when it happens and I’m all alone. I’m at mine and she’s here, and I can’t watch her breathe. I don’t know she’s real.”

An ache knots at your chest. You can’t deny the separation has you thinking all sorts of depressing things too. The first night Robby had Romi alone, and the house was quiet, you slept with the television on; you were just grateful Robby took your call, in the middle of the night, to talk about Romi. He never calls you crazy when every so often you get the urge to phone him when Romi's at his to check in. He calls you sweetheart and tells you something funny or smart or brilliant Romi did that night.

“Come on,” you say, “you can use my shower.”

He’s shaking his head at you. Again, his eyes are on Romi, but they travel to you while he speaks. “No, I don’t want to put you out,” Robby justifies. “I’ll just stay here for another minute and then I’ll head out. You need sleep anyway.”

“Robby,” you say. “Shower here, please. I want to hug you, but I don’t want to do it when you’re still in those.”

It’s enough to shake him loose from the idea he has to leave. You’re giving him reasons to stay longer. God, he wants to hug you too. He wants to grip you tight, bury his face in your neck and never let go. After today, he wants to hold onto you — and Romi —forever.

You take his hand. “Come on, I wanna wash my scrubs,” you excuse. “I’ll do yours while I’m at it.”

Right now, despite it being where his mind goes, Robby doesn’t bring up the implication of your words. How he can easily be swept up by this meaning you’re allowing him to stay — stay longer, anyway. First, he’ll shower; then, he’ll wait for his scrubs to be washed and dried. He ignores the sensible part of his brain that tells him he has plenty of scrubs at home, that he doesn’t actually have to wait for them to dry before he leaves, and you doing this doesn’t mean he stays. Robby switches his reasoning off because he doesn’t want that right now. He wants you. This. Him being able to shower in the bathroom attached to his old bedroom. You nearby. Just you in general.

Neither of you seems to mind there’s no privacy between you. What is privacy to two people who’ve known each other as intimately as you have? Robby doesn’t flinch when you enter the bathroom behind him. You’ve got a t-shirt and sweats in your arms, placing them down on the closed toilet seat. They’re his, but Robby considers them yours. You stole his clothes so much that he recalls choosing to leave some behind for you; he doesn’t tell you how he took the last of your perfume with him when he moved out, calling it a fair trade. He keeps it in his master bathroom; has done since the split, but you never have a reason to go into it, so you’ll never know. He knows about these, however, and you know he knows.

You gather out a fresh towel from the linen closet while Robby starts to strip down. Every move of his is tired. It tells you exactly of his exhaustion. You feel it, too, especially tonight and you will again tomorrow. Because what sleep are you getting tonight? How will you close your eyes and not see red stain behind your lids?

As the shower starts to run, and Robby steps in, you whisper, “Take your time.” After you scoop up his scrubs, you leave. The bathroom door is left agar by you, but you make sure to shut the bedroom one when you go downstairs. You don’t want to wake your mother, who currently sleeps in the guest room, or, worse, Romi. It’s the excuse you give yourself to why you invited Robby to shower in your bathroom and not the family one across the hall. People are sleeping in your house; if you close Robby in your room, it serves as a separate space. Another world. A parallel plain. Somewhere safe for the pair of you to exist in loneliness, misery and tragedy together.

Half of you wonders how much of it is true when you return to the bedroom, after putting on yours and Robby’s washing, and find yourself at the foot of the bed. You just sit there. The door is shut again. You’ve brought up two glasses of water; your wine in still on the windowsill at the bottom of the stairs. It’s not long until the shower stops, maybe twenty minutes, and Robby is joining you in the clothes you had laid out for him. The collar of the t-shirt is damp, so is his hair, which he then rubs the towel over, sadly thinking it’s dry enough for whatever abhorrent thoughts are tucked inside his head.

And, awfully, your own mind slips too. For a second, you’re not thinking about the mass-casualty and all the blood anymore. You’re wondering if Robby thinks you’re weird to have collected up his underwear with his scrubs to wash as well, that you now know not just from the outline through his sweats but because you choose to do it to him, that Robby’s not wearing anything under the sweatpants he wears. Still, there are some boundaries between the two of you that remain.

Robby stays on that side of the room, a couple metres away from where you are. He sits down on the stool to your vanity. “I had to talk to Leah’s parents before I left,” Robby tells you, and you think you can hear his shattered pieces rattle together. The survivor’s guilt spikes in him. “She had my ticket. I gave her my pass, and I knew that as I had to tell her parents that we weren’t able to keep up with the blood loss, that a bullet had tore through her heart.” His voice becomes thinner. He squeaks while tears consume his eyes. All Robby has his guilt eating away at him. “Jake hates me. He blames me for Leah dying. For not saving her. And you know what,” he sniffles and wipes under his nose, “I’d blame me, too, if I was him.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” you say it confidently. Robby’s not looking at you. He’s keeping his drenched eyes from you, shielding himself from the humiliation of breaking down. He’s mortified it’s happening again, and you can see him fight the inner-turmoil. You rise from where you’re sat. “You’re not responsible for Leah dying, the person who shot her is.”

Robby can’t hear the logic. He grows too weary with his self-flagellation. “I couldn’t save her, he’s right.”

You won’t listen to it anymore. It’s not just an entirely hopeless feat that he’s given himself, but it was absolutely unfair. Robby is tearing himself apart with a responsibility nobody should have to carry, least all all him. You’re in front of him to stop his self-harm. “It wasn’t possible to save her. You’re a doctor, Robby, not god.” Your fingers lift his chin so you can look at him; pin your eyes to his tearful ones. “You can’t save everyone.”

“I was supposed to save her,” Robby sobs, and it wrecks you. “I was supposed to save her for Jake. He trusted me to do my job and—”

“And you did,” you cut in. “Robby…” Both your hands come up to cup his face. “Please,” you say. “You did your job. You did more for Leah than you did anyone else on that hospital floor, okay? I saw it. Everyone saw it. Even Jake.”

Robby hisses at the mention of his step-son. He’s in pain, rolling around in it, reeling from how he thinks he failed.

“Jake learnt tonight that, yeah, you aren’t a hero, but you don’t pretend to be,” you say to him. It sounds harsh, but, right now, you think what Robby needs is brutal honesty from you. “None of us are heroes. We’re definitely not treated like we are, anyway. And Jake’s just a boy. He’s a scared, frightened, hurt boy, who thinks the worlds of you.” You grip Robby’s face harder when he goes to face away. You force him back to you. “Who will still think the world of you when he isn’t so scared or frightened or hurt,” you assert and it almost sounds like a promise.

Your ex-husband can very nearly trick himself into believing it if it isn’t for the haunting words of Jake’s that toy in Robby’s head currently. The thing that sets him off again. The too real, too close to home reminder that makes Robby go cold. “He told me to fuck off. To fuck off because I’m not his dad.”

Inside, your heart clenches. Fatherhood has always been a sensitive topic for Robby. You know this better than anyone. You’re the one with his kid. You’ve had too many deep conversations, long and late into the night, where Robby’s opened up about how he once envisioned his life. It wasn’t ever the way it was with you, especially not how it ended. You weren’t what he saw for himself. Robby wasn’t what you pictured for yourself either. But it’s what you both have and it’s not a regret to either of you.

Maybe how you ended is.

“Oh, Michael, lovey,” you softly say, your fingers scratching at his skin through his beard. “Well, that’s anger for you. That’s a teenager. That’s a hurt, angry teenager, who has just gone through the scariest night of his life, who’s had his first, most devastating heartbreak.”

You’re easily giving Jake the benefit of the doubt —because it’s what he deserves. It’s what Jake needs: someone to defend him privately, in rooms he’s not in. Most importantly, where it lands on Robby’s ears. It serves nobody to be cruel, dismissive and utterly destructive to an already pierced relationship. The broken man in front of you is someone who deserves the same treatment also.

You do promise Robby this time, “It won’t last.”

His tears are starting to both dry and well up again the longer Robby looks up at you. You’re not distant. You’re not something out of reach to him. In fact, you’re in perfect reach to him. When Robby realises that, his hands begin to twitch. He flexes his fingers down the length of his thighs, aware of how you’re between his parted legs. Even without touching you, your own hands just on his face, it feels intimate to Robby. In the sanctuary of what used to be a room you both shared together, Robby reacts to how he craves more. To savour this, with you. And his large hands find their way home to your hips.

First, they rub at your sides through your loose shirt, then, his roaming causes the material to lift. Bare skin peaks out, just a slither, and Robby is ravenous for it. His thumbs circle the exposed flesh until, gradually, his warm palms are pressed to your skin. Now Robby’s hands are under your shirt. They hold you closer. They're splayed over as much of you as you're giving him in this moment. that you're allowing him to have. He pinches the left side of your shirt between his thumb and lifting a little. Robby leans his head forward in your own hands. His rests his forehead to your front. just below the valley of your breasts. And Robby buries himself there.

A kiss is planted to your stomach. and your eyes flutter shut. All of it feels too raw. too sore. As Robby lays another kiss to your clothed stomach, lower now, you wonder if you should let this continue. It'll complicate things. It'll throw a wrench into the co-parenting you have down. Romi is at the centre of this and you have to think of her first. This is the biggest, most head-fuckery of a mixed signal you can be giving your ex-husband.

Lord, he’s not even your ex-husband yet. Neither of you have gone to a lawyer; have petitioned a court for legal separation. In your head, you know that’s probably actually the biggest, most head-fuckery signal you’re giving Robby. By not really divorcing him, by keeping Robinavitch as your last name, you tell Robby every day there’s a chance he can be back here, in this bedroom, being held by you, holding you back, as your husband.

You should stop it. When Robby places a third kiss, you should stop it. You don’t. You let Robby carry on peppering kisses down your stomach until he reaches where he’s lifting up your shirt. His hand holds it up and his mouth is on your naked skin next. There’s no longer a barrier between you and him in that one spot. His kisses are open-mouthed, slow, sensual. His teeth nip at you slightly, and you’re whining at the sensation.

“Robby,” you say, and you hate the fact it sounds like a moan. It’s weak. You’re too pathetically pliant at just a few kisses. Your head starts to shake. There is still some resolve left in you and it begins with your daughter’s name. “We can’t… Romi… It’ll be too confusing for her. It’s confusing to me. Robby,” you say. “Robby.” He doesn’t stop. In his defence, you haven’t told him to. You have to find strength first, against the delicate kisses your ex is working up your bare side and stomach. “Robby, no. No.” You’re shaking your head again and pushing him away on top of it. “No, no, we can’t. We can’t.”

As he glances up at you, your ex-husband looks wrecked. Robby’s eyes are hazy, full of a hunger that only you can feed. His pupils are blown wide. The black of them swells when on you, making those sad, pretty browns appear darker. You’re certain they are. You can’t say yours aren’t the same. You can see them reflected back you and you spot how you’re wavering. This can take the pain away. A handful of kisses and you’re sure you feel less broken than you did when you first came home.

The same passes over Robby also. His brain is swimming in grief. He feels it’s drowning him and his head keeps bobbing under the water. You’re the only thing keeping him afloat. For you, Robby is coming up for air. He’s trying to tread water. Robby can think of several moments like that he’s had only today, where water had gotten into his mouth and his legs stopped kicking. It was triggered most in that room. In pedes. Among the cartoon animals painted on the walls. Where Mr Spencer passed away with his adult children at his bedside and where Robby had to make the choice to let Dr Adamson die.

After the latter, the Robby you’d come to know, then, love changed. He got dark after the first anniversary; broken after the second. Robby was lost in it, and he lost you after. Lost this. You in his grasp; you in this bedroom, this house you bought together; calling you his wife and hearing you call him your husband; raising Romi together under the same roof. Robby has lost it all, and he’s realised now he is in mourning because of it. To help him cope, Robby speaks the first thing that allows him to stay above the surface. Earlier he told people it helps in the first stages of loss; now he’s aware you’re his loss.

“I love you.”

You feel your mouth part. Your lips slip open and your eyes well up. When is the last time Robby told you that? When is the last time you felt it?

“Thank you,” he says next. “Thank you for today. For being a great nurse and hearing me when I said I needed you. For making me take the time to talk to Romi on the phone right before we got slammed, because you knew I needed to hear her voice. Thank you for putting that photo of her by my desk, above my computer, after we lost that nine-year-old drowning victim today. Thank you for telling me that Jake’s hurt and scared, because, honestly, I feel the same right about now. For… For…” Robby’s voice catches painfully, “Thank you not taking her away from me.”

That’s the part that makes you react, but it’s not what Robby wants. “I would never take Romi from you…”

“I know, I know,” says Robby gently. He’s tender with his tone. He’s tender with you. His mind goes over the next step. I forgive you is what’s next. Robby has to think carefully about what he says for this because the last thing he wants is for it to sound like he’s accusing you of something. Or his thoughts have before. But Robby wants to finish this. There are things he wants to forgive you for — things he has already forgiven you of. “Let me… I forgive you for…” Robby takes a very real, very nervous swallow. “For wanting better than me. For not sticking this out with me, for giving up. Because…”

Robby closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Because it’s what you had to do. I forgive you for everything you had to do, even if it hurt me, even if you said things, did things, ripped my heart out of my chest and it felt like you were chewing on it every time you walked into work. I forgive you for switching to the night-shift when we first split, I forgive you for switching back to the day-shift, then flip-flopping back-and-forth, back-and-forth, all while it drives me fucking insane because I have to wait until I get the schedule to see if your face is something I’ll be seeing all throughout my day or just for ten minutes.” His voice is charged, fully warped with exasperation. He’s frustrated and hot-headed and stubborn to a fault because he knows he won’t have admitted this if it isn’t for today, for the practice of reconciliation his mentor taught him chipping away at him. “And I forgive you for not knowing which is worst.”

He uses this time to catch his breath. The next stage is the hardest. Robby clenches his jaw and bites his tongue. “Please forgive me, too, for shutting down, for clamming up. For not letting you in even though you begged. You begged me, sweetheart, and I let you,” he recalls cruelly for the both of you, tears blurring you from him, “and I— I caused you to let us go because I wouldn’t let myself be broken with you. I was too broken for you. Please forgive me for thinking that and for being angry at you. For all the comments I make about how Romi could have both her mom and dad back if you just let me come home, that I make you feel guilty for that and I play on it because, yeah, I want you back. Forgive me for that, too,” he pleaded helplessly. “Please forgive me for breaking your heart. For being the one to make the first crack in our marriage and then blaming you because you were brave enough not to wait around for the whole thing to shatter.” Robby takes a pause, holds your gaze and says, “Please forgive me for not working through it with you when that’s all you wanted. If I had, things would be different. We would be different. I,” he finally puts, “would be different.”

Silence has you gripped. His words have you fixed to the spot. Robby paralyses you and you’re wavering. There isn’t a shift between you and him, but a slip happens either way. You don’t need things to change tonight. You’re not even sure they ever will change, but hope flares in your chest that it will, that Robby will. It sounds like he will. He feels like he’ll continue to lay down on his sword for you, to stay here with you.

His hands are still on you, on your skin. Robby stares up at you. What you see is honesty shining in his eyes; devastation in his soul and it oozes out of him in pools. It runs out of him straight into you. Robby’s touch moves with it, travelling slowly over your sides and around your back. He’s reeling you in and you’re caught in whatever web or trap this might feel like tomorrow. Robby’s trapped in your snare too. He has been for years, hooked on the drips of affection you give him; whether it be a reassuring hand on his shoulder, a smile over his charts at work, a hug hello sometimes during drop-off and pick-ups. Now, it’s this. His chin nuzzles against the top of your ribcage, staring up at you from the bottom of your covered breasts with brown eyes you can sink into. His hand puts mild pressure onto the small of your back and causes you to arch into him. Robby is so close.

You’re breathing slow. Your breathing hitches. It’s too late now, you’ve softened perfectly for him. The body that’s yours no longer feels like it’s holding you up —that’s Robby’s job. You’re without bones. You’re just flesh and blood and it aches for him. Every inch of you belongs to Robby in this moment, just as you’re certain he belongs to you. Anything you want, he’ll give you. But there’s only one thing you want now and that resolve you have left, that pushed him away before, is fading fast.

You love him. You’re thankful for everything he’s just said. You forgive him for what he’s done to you, across you and mistakenly for you. You’re just hoping he’ll forgive you for what you’re about to do to him, to each other… Please.

“Please,” tumbles out of you as well. It’s vocalised. You hear it come out and he hears it land on his ears. Your hands pet at his head, at his still slightly damp hair. You cradle him to you and find the weak strength to lean down. Before you know it, you’re kissing Robby.

It’s not his mouth on yours, it’s yours on his. You’re controlling this. He’s at the direction of your will, and you’re just willing this to happen.

The grip you have on him slips into his hair and you tug. It’s causes Robby’s mouth to part with a breathy, “Ah,” and a tsk when he realises your tongue licks into his mouth deliciously. It’s fun, playful; a jarring difference to what brings you together, what has happened tonight. There’s an extreme hunger to Robby. He’s finding his way to devour you. His kisses are harder, much needier than yours. Robby has wanted it longer. He wants revenge for that feeling that’s been tormenting for fifteen months since your split.

His hands are up your shirt now. They’ve made their way up and around the blades of your shoulders as you lean down into him. The two of you haven’t stopped kissing. You’re too scared to let your lips leave him — stop moving with his — in case rare sensibility hits you and you have to say ‘we can’t’ again. That thought terrifies you now when Robby’s touching you again after so long and you’re folding into him.

You step backward, stretched to keep up with the open-mouthed kisses, and you knock his legs together. Robby’s confused by the action, but when you slink down into his lap, he’s not. Robby is on you once more. His steady hands come down from your shoulders, after his fingers traced the expanse of your skin, and he pulls at the length of your shirt. You know what he wants. You want it to. That fear you have goes from your eagerness to keep going. Plus, if Robby gets you topless, you can work on doing the same to him.

It’s a sharply inhale as you part. You let Robby quickly yank your shirt up over your head while your fingers grasp at his own, the shirt you gave him less than ten minutes ago. The speed of which you do is shocks you because, before you know it, your flush to Robby’s bare, hair-speckled chest and your lips are hot on his again.

You’re messier now. His hot breath pants over your face and in your ear. Robby starts to track his kisses on your jaw and neck, down the column of your throat. Those kisses get wetter, louder, more heated. His saliva sticks to your skin and, god, do you want more of it. You want everything. Tangling your arms around the back of his head is easily done. You crave Robby closer now. You’ll stitch yourself to him if you can find a way. And you want to. As your head tips back and your mouth parts with the first moan of many you’ll have tonight, all rational is lost. You’re in this now. You’re in this moment. All you can think, breathe and kiss is Robby.

His mouth meets your naked breast, causing your pulse to jump. This is the wettest kiss yet. All of the slick of Robby’s tongue is curling around your nipple. It’s warm, loving; you can just feel the top of his teeth skim over where you crave roughness. Robby teases your nipple into his mouth while a hand holds the swell of your opposite breast. The thumb of his hand traces over the the other nipple. It pebbles under his touch, and Robby rolls your peak between his thumb and index finger. He flicks it twice, and you let out this drawn out moan.

“Oh.” You’re a hushed whisper in your own bedroom, upon his lap, where the bludge of his cock stirs. You can feel the heavy shape of it through his sweats and through your thin sleep-shorts. They’re too thin. You’re starting to feel your dampness create a wet spot in the centre. You’re leaking too much already, and all he’s done is kiss you and play with your nipples.

It’s all you need.

There’s a string of saliva that spread across your chest when he moves to pay attention to your left nipple now. Your right is soaked. It’s covered in Robby. You gasp at the sensation of his fingers toying with the slippery nipple that’s been in his mouth before, for longer. It breaks down your resolve further. Impatience is leaving you while the horniness fogs your brain; while Robby whispers out, “Good girl,” against your chest.

It has you going. You’re drenched below, and you need Robby to know. You need him as helpless as he’s currently making you. Your grind down on him. He grunts around your nipple, the nipple he’s got his lips around and is sucking into his mouth, that his tongue is soothing over and his teeth tease. Your centre is pressed down on him. There’s two layers between your pussy and his cock, and you can feel the stiffness of it as your roll your hips and drag yourself down over him. Your mouth fills. Warmth pools in your belly, spreading lower, exactly where you need him.

All you’re doing it panting and whining while Robby makes you a mess. “Robby,” you whimper. “Robby, please.”

“'Please'?” Robby likes the sound of that. His voice is dark, husky as it vibrates over your increasingly sensitive skin. His mouth is working its way up again, up the length of your tipped back throat. You coo at the feeling of both the tip of his nose dragging against it and his beard scratching at you. The friction is a good burn, and it’s eased by how you can feel him smile against your skin just before he nips at your neck. “You begging me now?”

You are.

You actually are.

Part of you should be disgusted at yourself for falling well and truly down this hill with Robby, but you don’t mind it so long as he's just as desperate as you are. You have to make it even.

“You’re loving this,” you say, as you return your head to its normal position. It’s not falling back anymore. You’re not giving up access to all of your neck and chest while you hold onto Robby’s shoulders for support. Not anymore. Your hand slips between you. “You’re loving having me… in the palm… of your… hand.”

Trailing out, building up the anticipation, your words are whispered against his ear and make the moment your hand lands on Robby’s crotch more perfect. You palm at Robby — at his dick. You feel how achingly hard it is under your touch and you smirk when it’s his turn to feel powerless to you. When Robby grunts then whimpers, you think heavens have opened. You feel like a god.

The freedom is grants you is enough for you to take control of him. You feel the thick, bulbous head to his throbbing penis through his sweats and you rub until you’re smiling wickedly. There’s a subtle wet spot forming at Robby’s own crotch, under your hand, where you’re touching. The damp sensation melts into your hand. You suck his earlobe into your mouth and bite down. Robby winces when it happens and his immediate reaction is to jerk up. You feel yourself squirm on top of him. But you can’t lose by Robby’s accidental thrust up into you. Your hand adds more pressure, the heels of your palm rubbing at Robby while he hisses your name as some of warning prayer.

“Come on, sweetheart, no need to play dirty here,” Robby tells you. “I want you too badly to tease you. I want you so fucking much. Want to be inside you already.”

As you attach your mouth to that sweet spot beneath his ear, you know it’s to cover an embarrassingly loud moan at what he says. But it’s works. You’re satisfied to know Robby’s patience is fast waning like yours already has. Robby doesn’t like not being in control either, so it’s worse for him than you. He wants equal turf. He knows exactly where that is. He peers at it over your shoulder right before you palm him firmer again and his teeth fix to that same shoulder of yours he just glimpsed over.

His large, gifted hands track around your thighs. You think he going to grab at the plush flesh of your ass, to dig his fingertips into it until he leaves either a dent or impression. Robby always likes it when your bruise a little and he can see where he’s been. Yet, that’s not what he does. Robby locks his arms around your thighs, and you die to feel the constraint of his muscles flush to your legs. Before you can let out another moan, you’re up.

Robby’s up. He’s kissing you again. You’re carried several strides away from your vanity and dropped to the bed. Your bed. His bed. Once, your bed together. All of it is pressed out of you when Robby is. Those hands that held you up are yanking at your sleep-shorts. Shoving them down to find you bare and drenched for him. Robby inhales, slow. He engulfs your scent, the aroma of your heat. You’re burning up for him as he puts tiny, little pecks up the inside of your legs, not yet parted them. He’s taking his sweet time with you, and you’re close to thrashing about to get a slither more attention.

“Michael…” slips out of you. If he’s toying with you, then you’ll toy with him back. You know the power you possess when you first-name him. You’re one of the few people who use it. You’re the only one to use to against him, especially like this. “Michael, please. Do something. Anything. Touch me. Eat me. Fuck me stupid. I don’t care, just do something before I lose it.” You’re lifting yourself up and grabbing his face away from giving your thighs those torturous kisses. “I’m losing it.”

You glimpse that greedy, cocksure half-grin he gets when he’s entirely too confident. Robby even gives a breathy chuckle at your neediness, an action that some spiteful part of you wants to shove him away for and make that vanity chair of yours a new voyeur seat so he can watch and not touch, but his mouth descends on yours next. His hand has cupped the back of your head and Robby pulls you in for a passionate kiss. His tongue dominates yours. The force behind it has you weak, and that part of you, that might have put him in a chair across from the bed, knows it would’ve ended with you inviting him back when your fingers don’t feel like his; when your vibrator isn’t hitting the spots that Robby hasn’t in fifteen long months since your split.

His lips are still on yours. They slant to the right of your mouth, then, your jaw, then your neck again. Lowly, rumbling against your skin, Robby whispers, “Lie back. Let me care of you.”

Your brain spins. You’re dizzy from him, shaking in anticipation of what’s about to happen. You’re dripping. Soaked. You feel your own slick smush between your legs, at the top of your thighs. It doesn’t disgust you, and the last person who will be disgusted is Robby. He loves this stuff. He loves seeing the flooding reaction he gets out of you. He drinks it up like a sponge. This is the stuff that always got him going more. It is now because you can feel the angry shape of his erect cock up against your calf as he sinks down.

Eyes holds yours while he kisses your body. It’s like Robby refuses to miss a favourite spot. When one is delivered to your engorged breast, just skimming your glossy, hardened nipple, you moan and arch your back. You shiver when he reaches you hipbone and the soft pouch above where your pussy is furiously begging for attention. His kisses stop for a beat. Robby runs his palms down, past the tops of your legs and find their way under. He grips just beneath the back of your knees, kissing the other side of it before he parts your legs.

Glistening, your hole leaks for him already. Your vulva is covered in your own arousal, having built up in your make-out session and his expert way to peak your nipples; you grinding down into him to speed up the moments that lead to this. A growl is stuck deep in Robby’s throat. He feels it travel from the base and get trapped in the back of his mouth. “Oh, she’s still so pretty,” Robby says of your drenched, slickened pussy. He keeps getting closer, inch by inch, tortuously slow much to your impatience. He puts another kiss to the inside of your upper thigh, licking softly when he realises it’s damp too, but his eyes — they remain on you, on her.

He drags a finger down her. He started at the top of your vulva, above your clit, and gradually swipes his finger through your folds. A broken, “Uhh,” moans out of you, and you buck your hips to feel more, to have more, to get it.

“Looks just as needy for me as she always did,” he observes, as his hand that’s not teasing your wetness snakes under where your leg is lifts. Robby winds it around and curls his palm over the back of your thigh, spreading your legs further, digging in. “Bet she missed me. I missed her, so much,” Robby shares, just as he circled his index around your weeping hole and dips in with his final remark.

“Oh, yes,” you hiss, feeling the tip of finger poke through. He slips it in deeper, curling towards the front. “Oh, my god, Robby.”

His smirks knowing he’s melted you. He’s got proof of your puddle leaking down his finger that angles in and out of you. More strangled moans are elicited out of you, and Robby soon follows it up to get louder ones, ones from deeper parts of you, when he adds a second finger.

“Fuck, shit, yes, yes.”

You’re purring even before Robby sets a pace. Two fingers plunge in and out of you, over and over and over again. The best part is when he adds his tongue. The pleasure you feel electrifies you. As you bite down into your bottom lip, Robby sucks at your clit. Your hand grabs at the sheets either side of you. You hold it tightly, squeezing as your walls do his fingers. Your pussy is so wet, it squelches. It cries for Robby as it clenches. The sound is obscene and gratefully contained to your bedroom. It’ll be mortifying if it isn’t so hot. Robby worships the sounds, too. It’s his favourite one, especially when you’re moaning for him; his name just keeps falling out of your mouth, over your lips.

You cum hard and fast, and Robby doesn’t stop. It’s not over for him. Even when your thighs clench around his head and you try to scooch away, retreat up the bed to get away from him, Robby’s arms are looping under and around your thighs again. He uses that leverage to yank you back. His broad tongue swipes at your folds more furiously, down towards your beating hole. It whirls around it, sinks inside, and Robby laps at you like he’s starving. You cry out in pleasure. It catches in your throat.

Somehow you find the strength in your shaking, tingling arms to lift one. Your hand lands on his head after you reach down between your legs. You tap at his him. You tug at his hair. “Rob—Robby, stop. I can’t. Enough. Enough, I— Oh, my fucking god! — Yes!” Your grip tightens on the short length of his hair. You tug harder as you grind down on his face. The tip of his nose catches your clit and you bite harder on your lip to stifle a scream. Your head thrashes to the side, mouth parting when Robby continues to work his skilled tongue in you now with his two fingers stretching your hole wider for him. “Yes! Shit, you’re so good at that.”

He hums against you. You feel it echo up into you. Robby is so close to being fully inside of you that you’re crooning while his tongue does the work. He swirls it around as his fingers curls upwards, harshly hitting that sweet spot inside of that that makes you loose any sense of things that aren’t pleasure. You’re sparking alone with it. And when Robby persists with an urgency to get you there, to climb higher, you’re soon mewling before a second orgasm heads your way.

“Fuck, I’m— I’m cumming,” you say with a moan so loud that you have to let go of Robby’s hair to slap a hand across your mouth. You feel yourself let go. Complete bliss envelops you up and your legs go weak. They buckle and you lose the ability to keep your head up. It falls back against the pillows and your throat is so damn dry compared to his.

When Robby is satisfied — him, satisfied, despite that being all about you — he releases that hold. His grip slackens; it loosens around the plump meat of your thighs, and Robby, as he lifts his own head, meets your foggy, love-drunk gaze and wipes one palm over his mouth. He swipes your arousal into his beard. It dampens the coarser hair. If it’s softer tomorrow, that’s the magic of you. He proves it after he shoves down his sweats immediately, faster than ever has before because he’s afraid you can stop this at anytime. There’s a slap when his dick stands fiercely erect, hitting his stomach, and Robby crashes his lips back on yours. His hand is at the back of your head, holding you in place while he kicks the sweats down to his ankles and off. Robby is over you again; you can feel what’s between you.

“Pr—Protection,” you muster, because, honestly, you've not too far gone to remember that safe sex is paramount.

But it had Robby hesitating. He blinks at you, down at your face that under his; your naked body trapped under his own now. “I didn’t bring any with me.” He shoots you a tired smile and a rough laugh as he honestly tells you, “I didn’t think I was getting lucky.”

“Shit.” The condoms in your drawer, they’re his. Yours. They’ve been there for over fifteen months. Longer perhaps. You don’t know if they’ve expired. What you do know is the pining in your system is making you lose responsibility. “Fuck it. Go raw.”

Your desperation has never been clearer to Robby. His eyes widen briefly, stunned at the risk. After Romi, you took every precaution not to have a second accidental pregnancy. Now, you are one step away from begging, dripping, if it means Robby is not in you in the next ten seconds. He kisses you again. Robby makes sure his lips are moving with yours, in perfect sync, when he reaches down between you both and finds the base of his cock.

It’s instinct to him. An action he’s done countless times before. Robby never stops kissing you while he guides his dick into you. Even as both your mouths part with soft, needy moans, Robby still classes it as kissing you. His breaths go right into your open mouth. He pants into it as he sheathes himself in your wet warmth.

“Fuck,” he says, and he’s slowly sliding his dick all the way in.

The stretch is delicious. You let out a moan so pornographic that you’re convinced in another life this is what you and him are meant to do forever, all the time, for a job — over making seriously ill and injured people feel better.

“Oh, my god, Michael.”

“That’s it. Say my name. Say it, sweetheart.” He withdraws his length, almost pulling fully out. The tip is still in you, toying with your pulsing hole, then, Robby pushes back in. He sinks firmly into you, and you both grunt into each other’s mouths as your walls flutter.

“Michael.” He does it again. He rocks in and out, and you’re gripping at shoulders to attach yourself to him. “Oh, Michael.”

Something about this being one of the few times you call him 'Michael' has him thrusting harder. His best is the only acceptable response. “Yeah, baby, it’s me.” Robby’s head burrows into the crook of your neck. His forehead presses against it, half-shut eyes on the sweat that glistens across your stomach. “It’s me.” From this angle, Robby peeks at where your two bodies connect. He can see himself enter you. In and out, in and out; and at a pace that has you rising your hips from the bed. He can see it, but he feels it more. How warm and wet and responsive you are. “God, you feel so good,” he groans. “I’ve missed this, baby. Missed you. You’re perfect. Perfect. Nobody better.”

He starts to pick up the pace. His hips snap forward and you cry out at the impact. Your back arches up off the bed to feel him be so rough with you. Robby thinks that position of you is an advantage to him. An arm of his slithers under your back. He holds you up and to him with it. The pair of you are flush again. You’ll be forgiven for thinking this makes you one. From it, Robby is back to a rhythm he recognises with you. He rocks into you. The curve of his dick is delectable, you swear you’re drooling out the corner of your mouth. Then, Robby hits two spots inside of you: dragging the head of his dick against a spongy one when he pulls back and then bullies back in deep, driven into extra sensitive one next your cervix like he’s on a mission to bruise it.

“Oh, my— Fuck.” You let a series of strangled mewls. “Shit, Robby, right there. Right there.”

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” His nose tracks down your sternum, between the valley of your breasts. He nips at the side of your left one. “I got you, I got you.” Robby peppers kisses on your chest and collar as he grunts. “I know, baby. Fuck, those pretty, little sounds you make drive me crazy,” he pants at you, while he makes his way back up to your face. He smiles at you, drunk on lust for you. “Thought I was never gonna hear ‘em again. I’m so lucky.” Robby sucks at your jaw. “I’m so lucky.”

His repetition has you in a haze. Your hands cup at his waist, then, his ass. You dig into his cheeks as you force him to make those thrusts hurt. You want to hasten his actions. “Go faster,” you whisper.

Robby starts to plough into you. It’s not just faster, it’s deeper. It’s perfect and exactly what you need. You’re moaning wildly now. “Fuck, Rob— Michael! Michael! Michael!” Panic hits you. It’s frantic as it pounds through your blood. Your clammy hands work their way home to his face. You lift his head out from where he’s pinned to your neck. You grab at his bearded chin, eyes blown wide in sopping hunger. “Kiss me. Kiss me.”

He obeys. Of course he does. Robby won’t risk messing this up. He’s got you now, he’s not letting you go. Part of Robby wonders if he’s dreaming; if this all just a big, extremely vivid dream he’s had after knocking out after a couple beers on a truly abhorrent day. After today — Jake, the mass-causality, the teen with a fentanyl overdose, an accidental drowning of a kid, too many deaths — Robby’s convinced he can hallucinate that his hands are touching yours. That his fingers are threaded with yours while drills into you. It’s akin to dreams he’s had before, filling his head while he sleeps. The only reason he knows it’s not is because your nails claw at his shoulders like you want to draw blood and the heels of your feet dig into the small of back to dive him down further. A broken cry comes out of you when he reaches and thrusts at that spot that makes your eyes roll in the back of your head.

Skin pressing into skin, Robby is on fire. His body has never worked better than when he's fucking you. He’s alight with insatiable need. Roasting as he pants into your mouth and his teeth clash with yours. The bed that you once shared holds the weight and the force of how hard he’s fucking you. Robby’s only doing that to make it feel more real. Every time his hips thrust, yours chase that thrust. He’s sharing your bed again. He remembers going shopping for the frame and mattress prior. Your joke about which was better to have sex on messes with him now. Robby uses it to distract himself for blowing too early. He goes over the day in his mind. You both went on about how noisy the headboard would sound as it furiously knocks into the wall — that’s why you chose the upholstered, thick headboard. You tested every mattress for its firmness and its ability to muffle the sounds of him fucking you into it, meanwhile, your daughter sleeps down the hall. This one has always been good to you both on that front — because you and Robby were never quiet.

And that upholstered headboard, the one you specifically wanted in that plum velour fabric so he paid extra for and got made-to-measure, Robby now uses as leverage. His grip snaps to it and Robby has it tightly in his grasp as he uses it to fuck you harder. He crashes his hips into you, it’s super charged. And cruel. It allows him to roughly drill at that spot again.

Over and over.

In and out, at a brutal pace.

You clench around him again, and Robby beams. “That’s it, you’re almost there,” he says like is a huge victory for him. “I can feel it. Let me feel you. Let go, sweetheart.” His face brushes up to your temple, pressing an open-mouth kiss to your cheek. His breath is hot on your face. It fans over you while he whispered out his instruction, “Let… go.”

You listen. Your body listens. It never stops when it comes to Robby. His instruction is gold. For the third time, you contract around something belonging to Robby. This time, it’s his dick and it’s the most perfect thing to ever be inside of you, making you feel things you’ve only ever felt with him. He’s made for you. You’re made for him, and you’re a vice wanting to milk him dry.

“Ahhh-eghhh, fuck! Oh, my fuck.”

Robby feels you pulse around him. Your warmth draws him in tighter. When you clench and lock and flutter; a thick, creamy rim around the girth of his cock, and Robby touches the edge as well. “Fuck!”

It happens together. An explosion. You’re sparking alive. Your body shakes and your vision spots white. Robby’s hips jerk forward with his orgasm. His pace stumbles, and he thrashes out of the routine that got you both there. He comes undone the same as you do. While you cum around him, trembling, Robby spills inside of you. You feel it fill you up and you don’t care because this is the greatest you’ve felt in months. In a year. In fifteen lonely months. You shake and shudder and you swear you can’t feel your face until Robby is kissing you again.

Your lips are numb. Tingling. And both you and Robby are breathless as your bodies give out like everything else. He collapses on top of you. You wonder how his back is holding up as he finally lets go of yours. Your legs loosen from around him as well. You can’t keep your heels digging into him forever. Robby can’t stay inside of you for the rest of the night, but you won’t put it past him if he tries.

You’re willing to try also.

The breaths you share are erratic. Your chest rises and falls fast, laboured. In the moments after, post-pleasure, you’re not totally sure you’ll ever catch your breath again. It happens. It will eventually happen, because you’ve come down from these kind of amazing highs with Robby before, but you’re savouring it while it lasts. You don’t care that your skin is sticky — that Robby’s is too — as it draws you both closer. It makes you the same. You’re just two people, connected by your parts, and that makes you one. One being. One entity. One collection of atoms that have collided with each other.

“Fuck,” Robby says again and, then, he’s laughing in awe. His eyes shine with disbelief. He wonders if some part of him did imagine this; he’s not completely convinced this isn’t a dream. The only way he knows it’s real is when he tried to un-bury himself from between your legs and your pussy acts as a vice once more. It locks him in, and Robby can’t deny it where he wants to stay too. He’ll die here if you’ll let him. It’s a good place to die. To Robby, who denied he was religious earlier today to one of his med students, this is heaven. You’re a god-given gift and that sex was the best of his life. “Jesus Christ,” he utters, thready, physically exerted from what you’ve just done. “That was… Amazing. Just like I remember. Better than I remember,” he corrects after a small, barely there beat.

“Uh-huh,” is you’re only agreement. You're not sure you can add more; your voice is too ran-through and used up currently.

A groan leaves Robby while he eventually slips out of you, and you whimper at the emptiness. But you’re not empty. The remnants of Robby are dripping out of your pussy. You feel it gush like Robby has taken away the plug; and beneath you now, rolling down between your cheeks is both ropes of Robby’s cum and your flooding wetness. The slick sensation of stickiness blends with wet spot on your sheets. If you aren’t still so turned on, you’ll be repulsed. You’re not. You gag for the feeling.

You’ve missed it.

You’re missed Robby.

Tears brims your eyes. They sting and swirl, and you’re wanting to cry after such a massive wave of too many overwhelming feelings. The bed rocks on the side you’re not on and you’re reminded you’re not alone, so you can’t cry. You see Robby’s completely bare frame track over to your bathroom. It’s a sight you’ve seen many times before, but rarely through tears. You feel one slip from your eyes and roll horizontally down the side of your cheek to the pillow. The tap’s running, you can hear it, and you swiftly wipe the fallen tear away. You push back any sign you’ve upset yourself by reminding yourself that you miss Robby, that you miss this with him and having amazing sex with him.

He returns with a wet rag. He’s cleaned himself up, he’s coming to do the same for you now. It’s sweet, thoughtful. It’s Robby. Your Robby. It’s something he just does and that sensitive pull, that’s made you cry once, returns. You can cover it better, however, when he cleans you and you whine at the touch. Especially when Robby murmurs to you, “I think I was too rough with her.”

It brings a laugh out of you. It’s cosy and wraps your ribs up in a blanket rather than a cage. “I don’t know, I think I can safely say she enjoyed it,” you express teasingly. A coy smile dances on your lips. “Oh, sh—shit,” hisses out when Robby does another thorough wipe of your most sore area. Then, you’re laughing again. Your palms cover your face, the heat of your inflamed face burns brilliantly. “My god, I can’t believe we did that.”

“I, for one, are very happy we did that,” he claims, and you’re made acutely aware this is triumph for your ex-husband. You’re not stupid to pretend he hasn’t wanted this since your split. There’s been 'almosts' before. None this big. None that come close to ending like this. The closest Robby has gotten before is his hand cupping your clothed mound and his hardened groin pressed into you. Today’s loss and tragedies served as the perfect catalyst — bouncing off a point — to be end up with Robby crawling up next to you in your post-sex bliss. “We’ve still got it,” Robby tells you, a tender kiss place to your bare shoulder.

The least surprising part of what’s happened is how you find comfort in the moments after. In that sweat, musky heat is perfectly hazy over you. There’s a barrier between you and reality. It befalls the pair of you. You and Robby. Together, once more. So long as you’re in this bed, lying in the wet spot, sticky sweat blending with his, limbs tangling while he holds you, you can stay. Robby can stay.

But it doesn’t last long.

You and Robby exist for ten minutes outside of what happened. Until you can no longer smell sex in the air. Until your breathing recollects. Until the barrier is broken and that wet spot doesn’t feel so wet anymore. Your sweat isn’t pricking at your skin and his isn’t dampening more of you. Robby still holds you, but you know he can’t stay the night like he’s planning to.

There’s an excuse already playing in your mind, circling around, getting the wheels turning. You’ve both had sex to be able to say you’re human together, that you’re alive. It’s only now a problem come morning and Robby’s still next to you. His side is pressed up against yours, one arm snug around your shoulders, folded over your bare chest with delicate fingers just skimming over your breast still. The weight of what’s been done starts to crush you. This is going to mess up your arrangement. The co-parenting plan you’ve nailed for your daughter.

Romi.

Her name starts to chant in your head. You feel like a monster. A well fed, thoroughly pleased and excellently fucked monster. Your hands drag down you face as she shame washes over you. There’s a pit in your stomach at what you’ve done. The thing you silently begged for Robby to forgive you for is right on the tip of your tongue, the tongue you’ve had in your ex-husband’s mouth not ten minutes ago.

“You have to go.” It leaves you and you hate yourself for it. “I don’t want to risk Romi waking up and finding you here, in my bed.”

A real, genuine laugh rumbles out of Robby. He cranes his neck down to be able to see you properly. “You’re joking. You’re kicking me out?” His eyebrows lift. “After that? After all that?”

The corners of your mouth quirk up along with his. You find the same humour in it as he does. “Don’t do that,” you say while you shove at his chest. “You know why I said it. We can’t risk confusing her. She’s a creature of habit on the nights she doesn’t see me come home.” It’s routine, and you recount the cycle for him, “Romi gets up and she comes in here to check I’m home and awake, and she snuggles with me until her stomach growls and she demands breakfast. If she comes in here and sees you—” you poke at his hairy chest, “what do you think she’s going to think?”

The smug smirk on his face annoys you. Robby’s glinting with mischief when he replies, “That daddy came home, too.”

You want to laugh. You have to really fight it back. “Robby, please. No joking.” Rolling onto your side, you face your ex. You stare up at him and meet his eyes and that very real smile on his face, that, soon, you’ll wipe off. “You know I’m right about this.” You remind him, “We have rules in place. Boundaries.”

“And we broke all the rules and crossed every one of our boundaries last night,” Robby counters back at you. For now, he’s smiling still. The skin by his eyes is crinkled. He’s happy with himself until he isn’t happy with you. His expression falters. The victory he won might be lost in ten minutes. “Jesus Christ, you can’t just kick me out. This is my house too, sweetheart, my name is still on the lease. In fact, my name is still on you as well,” Robby chooses to recount in this moment.

The laugh you’ve been holding back chokes out of you incredulously. “You know why that—”

You don’t finish. You don’t get to finish. The strong argument you have is swallowed up by Robby with a kiss. His arm around your shoulders locks; it brings you in closer to him. Your hand falls to his chest as Robby continues to press his mouth to yours. He kisses you harder. He forces all his hopes into these, trying desperately to sway you around to him like he has done earlier.

When his lips finally leave yours, a “Fuck,” whispers past yours.

That smirk of his is back. His grin is bearing down at you like he’s proud his point is proven. “Exactly.”

“Fuck…” Your head is angled up at him and you grind your jaw mildly, “you, Robby.”

He takes your thin threat, that’s wavering by the second, and pulls you to be completely flush to him. “Moan it next time, I might believe you,” he says into your ear. “Because the only thing I believe right now is how if I slip my fingers between your legs, I’ll find just how much you want to keep me in our bed.”

“It hasn’t been our bed in over a y—year…” While you speak, Robby manages to cut you off. His free hand, the one not trapping your body to his, cups your centre. His middle finger parts your folds and he finds that pretty, little bud of yours with extreme ease. “Oh, my god.”

“There? Right there, yeah.” Robby plays with you. The tip of his finger rubs circles around your clit. He doesn’t even need any lubrication to make those fantastic, electrifying circles feel smooth; you’ve gotten wet between the clean-up because of how turned on you still are. “I can feel you wanna go again, baby. This perfect pussy of yours is soaked and that’s not the sign you want me gone…” he says confidently. “Not yet.”

It’s a yelp that causes you to struggle to get his name out. It splits on your tongue. It catches in your throat, the only dry part of you. “Rob—by.”

The circles change. It’s not his finger toying it your clit now. His finger has slipped down and, along with his index, enters you. What’s circling your beating clit is the pad of his thumb and it’s wonderful. It’s got just enough pressure, just enough coarseness, to make you mewl again.

Again, Robby’s mouth hovers over yours, which parts with a silent moan. “I promise you, I’ll help you get off now. Then, I’m going to fuck you again,” Robby asserts to you, and you know he’s not lying. “And I’m going to remember to wake up an hour before our kid does, because I know she’s a creature of habit too and that girl of ours hasn’t woken up before six since she was a toddler or unless she’s ill— Is she ill?” asks Robby, and you shake your head. You pant into his mouth while those fingers move in and out, in and out. He curls them up against the front wall of your vagina, and Robby says, “And she hasn’t been a toddler in a while, so.” Robby’s fingers work harder. They thrust into you slower, more forceful, and Robby delights when you moan directly into his mouth. It drives him on. He gets a resurgence of authority over you. “So, I’m going to make sure I wake up an hour before six and I’m going to fuck my wife again. Because if I’m walking out of my house, then, you best believe I’m doing it after I’ve had you twice more and I’ve slept tonight in the bed that we bought.”

A raw whisper wrecks you, “Okay.”

Robby’s brown, lust-fuelled eyes land on yours. He holds you glazed stare while he checks, “Okay?”

You become too eager. You’re nodding fast as your walls flutter around his fingers and he adds speed to how he swipes your clit. “Okay.”

“Good. Now cum,” Robby orders, and you obey with a long whine that he captures up with his lips again.

It’s a problem for you. True to his word, Robby does precisely what he tells you he will. Unlike last night, this morning feels riskier, too dangerous. What happened before, the twice he had you in the dark, that’s kindling compared when daylight arrives. This is playing with fire. And Robby encourages it. He stokes it. He tends to the flames like he wants to be caught, like he wants to traumatise your child when she discovers years later that her daddy wasn’t ‘play-fighting’ with mommy at all and ends up in therapy because the sight of his naked ass while he drills into you isn’t one she can push back into a box once it’s out.

The clean-up after is swift. You shower again. Less than eight hours ago it was to get rid of the stench of death and blood that clung to you. Now, it’s because you covered in Robby. He offers to shower with you, but you turn him down because you’re cutting it too closely after he spent twenty minutes teasingly eating you out when you both woke up.

You think if you go in the shower, Robby will take it as your invite out of here. Your quiet way of pushing him out and along. However, Robby either doesn’t get your hints or is actively choosing to ignore them. The latter seems more like the Robby you know, but any ire you hold for him when you see he hasn’t left yet disappears when you spy his helpfulness. You exit the bathroom to find a now-dressed, in the same clothes you gave him last night, Robby has stripped the bed and remade the bed for you.

Shaking your head, you mention, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“We’re less than fifteen minutes from six,” Robby tells you, “I saved you a job.” He shrugs off his good deed like it’s nothing. He’s stripped and changed this exact bed hundred of times before. Robby thinks he’s missed the chore so long as it’s this bed he’s making. So long as it’s you he’s making it for. Committing himself to that, silently in his head, Robby travels over to your freshly showered and now dressed figure. His arms snake around you, hands settling on your lower back as he hugs you to him, acting like what you have between you is romantic. “Because I’m guessing you don’t want our daughter to be snuggling in the same sheets we ruined last night.”

“I want no association between last night and our daughter,” you inform him, bordering on serious. There’s still, however, a playful lilt to your words. But it doesn’t linger long. “Unless,” you start, “it’s to rehash our boundaries.”

Something about the mix of the three times you’ve had sex in the recent hours, how you’re allowing his hands to venture lower even now and how Robby never quite takes you wholly serious in moments paired with the first two anyway, causes him to find humour. He jokes with you, “Ah, the boundaries. And rules. Let’s not forget the rules. I seem to remember you said something about rules, that we broke,” Robby points out, reminding your exactly of how it all went down.

Still, you don’t waver even if your head spins with all the lewd memories of what you two did in the bed behind you. You accuse him right back, “You broke.”

At it, Robby guffaws. “Me, alone? By myself?” He’ll be laughing at you if it doesn’t seem so mean in this moment. “I broke the rules without any help from you?” His brows lift above enlarging eyes and his head bobbles side to side as he considers what memories he has of his own flashing in his head as he looks at you. It makes him double-down on his teasing. “Well, I have a different recollection, but I do remember doing most of the work," he says, ducking down to conclude the last part as a husky whisper in your ear.

You shove at his chest. It lands with a hard thud. “Ugh, you pig,” you curse him out, disgust clipping at your tongue, as you go to shove him again.

Yet, Robby’s quicker. He predicts you’ll go in for a second hit and Robby grabs your wrist first. His hold burns. It fiercely winds around your wrist and Robby yanks you back to him, forcing you to collide with his large chest. “I liked doing most of the work.” His eyes pin you to the spot, unflinching. “I will do most of the work every time in the future if we talk about this, properly.”

The last part clenches at your heart. This is the part you dreaded when you let your body silence your mind and take control. That you prayed Robby would forgive you for. At the way this is going, you know there’s plenty of forgiveness he won’t give you.

“Robby, there is nothing to talk about,” you say, as you try to let your ex-husband down gently. “Last night, while it was great—”

“Amazing,” he cuts in. That smile of his is back and he’s nodding far too much, the way he does when he’s hiding just how upset or frustrated he is. “I remember amazing was used.”

It’s making you exasperated. He’s making you feel crazy for defending yourself — for arguing against this. You hate the feeling so you throw back at him, “By you, yes.”

Craning his neck back, Robby bears down at you. He questions what you’ve said, your words, your slightly wavering responses. “You don’t think it was amazing? Because we can run this back right now if you…”

“Stop.” Your eyes are clenched shut. What happens is a yelp, halfway to scream. Your palms are laid flat to his chest and your push, just a little, just enough to have him pause. “Stop. Robby, please.” You shake your head and fight how your tiredness makes you want to drop your head right in the place where your hands rest. But that doesn’t happen. You don’t do what your body tells you to do now because you can’t quieten your mind anymore. “I don’t want to have to do this with you now. Not when Romi’s about to wake up. Not when we’ve had this same conversation before.”

“But we haven’t—”

“Yes, Robby, we have,” you interrupt, arguing once again. “And—”

“Last night was different,” Robby defends, harsher. "It was different than the times before. What I said." He’s like a whippet with it. He’s too quick and what he’s bringing up shuts whatever you want to say down. “You’ve heard that from me? Because I promise you, you didn’t up until last night,” Robby avows to most definitely. “What I said to you—Jesus fucking Christ, I opened up to you,” he now accuses. “I said I love you and I apologised for all those things I did.”

Hotly, mainly because you feel targeted, you retort, “Did you?” It stills him for a moment. The shock pierces Robby, and he drops his stake on you. His touch, too. “Did you apologise, or did you ask me to forgive you? Because there’s a really big difference.”

Robby shaking his head at you, mouth pressed in a thin line. “That’s not fair. Last night—”

“—Last night was hell,” you intercept. It paralyses Robby. He stumbles back, stunned despite how well last night went in his head. But that’s not what you’re referring to. You’re putting everything else together — the things before the two of you. Your hands clasp together in a prayer and you say, “We had both gone through so much, seen too much, and we found comfort in each other, Robby. That is what happened.” You think you come on too strongly. You’ve been too harsh with him. You can see it now as his eyes start to fill and your guilt spreads. You reach for him. “Robby, I love you. Listen to me, I love you,” you tell him sincerely, as you grab at his face, fingers scratching through his beard. “I care about you. I care about you so much. I don’t regret, I—I just can’t…” You trail off, weakening, as tears brim your own gaze. Your defeated hands fall from him. “I can’t go there with you again. We have Romi to think about.”

There’s reluctance in him; it’s easy to find. Robby wears it all over his features, threaded through every line. His eyes have only looked this sad and broken twice before: the day Adamson died and the night you told him your marriage was over — and he didn't fight it. It’s probably the same as what Robby thinks about now because he looks off to compose himself, to not give too much of himself away just like he did that night. Although, you’ve already seen it. He made himself vulnerable to you last night, you saw the worst of it leak out of him, and now Robby has to pretend he had plug it again. It feels a lot like drowning to him.

So, he nods and, in distress, Robby runs his hand over his beard. “Right,” he sighs.

“She comes first, Robby,” you tell him, not that it feels good, not that you want this.

But Robby repeats it for you so you know he’s heard you, so you know he’s respecting your choice. “She comes first.”

Your throat tightens. Your eyes swim with tears, and you whisper, “Thank you.”

The two of you go quiet. Your bedroom doesn’t feel as loved anymore. Its space feels as though it is sucking you through a vacuum-pack and you can’t breathe. Robby must share your feelings because he sucks in a sharp breath and struggles to release it.

When he looks at you again, finally looks at you, he looks resigned. He knows he’s lost that victory, the one he celebrated too early. “I should go,” he says. “Romi will be up soon.”

“I’ll… make sure I get those scrubs back to you,” you reply, unsure if you have anything else you can say to him. Nothing you have will make this better for Robby. You’ve just snipped his last rope to the life-raft.

After a beat, Robby says, “Thanks,” and then, he breaks for the door.

You don’t know why you can’t stop yourself from following him down. In your arms, you have the proof of last night. You hold the laundry basket with sheets, covered in both you and Robby, completely aware that you can’t leave them in that room. Your room. You can’t go back to bed and pretend Robby wasn’t lying with you in it forty minutes ago. You can’t wait to hear the front door shut from that spot either.

Robby finds his boots where you left them in the downstairs toilet. They’re clean. He thanks you for it again. The wine you didn’t finish still sits in the windowsill where you left it. It makes you feel sick. You hate the remind of unfinished things. It feels like poking a stick at your marriage, at your love for Robby. But he’s never loved you without Romi being here. He didn’t love you enough to do what he did last night when you begged him for it before, where you screamed at him to open up and Robby firmly padlocked the door on whatever ate him up. It’s the reason you’re here. It’s the reason he’s not here. It’s why he’s leaving the house you once shared together.

“Mommy?”

Behind you, your head goes back up the stairs. You hear Romi’s little voice, all tired and sweet. In the middle of the staircase, Romi slumps down in her rainbow-striped pyjamas, rubbing the sleep from her eyes while holding on tight to Bun-Bun’s leg. Her confused, tiny face looks so innocent as her stare drags from you to the front door, which is open, and Robby stands beside.

“Daddy?” Romi blinks twice, checking, too much like Robby. She realises he’s real and she’s not dreaming him up. “Daddy, what you doin’ here?”

You’re caught. Busted by a four-year-old. Your panicked lips part with an answer you’re ill-equipped to give and she’s far too young to understand.

Yet, you’re not alone. You don’t have to flounder and search for a convincing lie to tell your daughter because Robby’s already thought one up. “I’m here for breakfast, lovebug,” Robby claims, and your eyes snap to him. “Yeah, breakfast. You want pancakes and bacon, right? Plenty of maple syrup.”

He speaks it like this has always been the plan. He says it so naturally, so believably, you wonder if this is just something that’s slipped your brain. And worse, it works. Romi’s getting excited. She warms up into it, steadily losing the rest of her just woken up state to see that her daddy’s come over for breakfast.

“Really?” Romi comes down a couple more steps, a grin slowly pulling at her face. “Why you early?”

“Gotta be early to have breakfast, don’t I?” Robby returns, and it’s the most perfect reply.

Romi slips in by you first. Your hand worms around her head, stroking her frazzled curls out of her face, and you use the gentle hold you have on her head to bring it in. You lean down and kiss her forehead. “Good morning, lovebug," you greet, using the same affectionate nickname you and Robby long settled on for her.

“Good mornin’, Mommy,” Romi says to you, still half-asleep but very happy. To her, this is the single, most greatest surprise. It’s the type of thing you and Robby have done for her before, just never this early and never after three rounds of sex with your ex. Romi gives a big yawn, telling you that she needed those extra ten or so minutes you and Robby stole from her when she no doubt heard the pair of you either bicker or go downstairs. Her eyes squeeze shut with it and she holds her small hand to her mouth.

“Oh, that is a sleepy girl,” Robby comments. He crouches low and Robby holds out his arms for her. “Come here, my sleepy girl, come give me a cuddle. I miss your cuddles,” he says, as he beckons your daughter to him. It doesn’t take much for Romi to step off and into her father’s arms. There’s practically nowhere she’ll rather rest her head. And with the way she drops it straight to his shoulder, you have a sneak suspicion that Romi will drop off back to sleep for those stolen minutes really soon.

You accept that this is the next turn in your morning. You’re not getting rid of Robby so easily today, which, honestly, ease your guilt for both rejecting him and sending him to spend the day alone after a mass-casualty. He’s planted himself in your home and, because of it, you shut the door. “Guess you’re staying for breakfast,” you mutter, as you pick up the laundry basket again. “Funny how that all works out for you, huh.”

They’re behind you again. They’re following you through to the kitchen where you dump the laundry basket on the counter, a touch more peeved than you’ll like Romi to see you. Not that she sees anything past the fabric of her father’s t-shirt. You hope, as you pour the detergent into the drawer of the washing machine, Romi won’t notice he smells like you. Like this house. Like her. Like you.

“Daddy?” Romi’s tired voice pipes up, curiosity laced within.

Robby acknowledges her while he watches you fondly from the doorway. He sways with Romi in his arms, her bottom resting against his strong arms and his little arms stretching around his neck. “Hmm?”

“Shoes off,” Romi says.

“Yeah, that’s the rule. No shoes on in the house,” Robby returns softly.

With a tiny shake of her head, Romi says, “Nuh—oh, Daddy. Shoes already off,” she states, puzzled as her smaller brain tries to make sense of what her eyes previously soaked in. “Off when I come down. Off when I say mornin’,” yawns Romi, and afters she does, her eyes flutter close. She taps her father’s chest twice and sleep peacefully takes her again.

From it, you look over to Robby. Your eyes lock with his. His are already pinned to you, knowing too well that your smart daughter has noted something you both never think she will, that you think you can get away with. As Robby holds your shared child, half of you and half of him so beautifully blended, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. You scoff a laugh and exchange the washed scrubs from yesterday for the spent sheets you both ruined last night and this morning. It doesn’t matter if you draw the new line, course-correct those boundaries and create a few more rules, what’s done is done, and Robby knows that you know that.

And Romi might know it, too.

(because i heard Garcia say, “you’re gonna make a great ex-husband one day, robinavitch” and i took that personally)

Robby lifted his head, blinking slowly, trying to make sense of where he was. Duke sat a few feet away on an overturned bucket, working on his Bonneville. They were in Duke's shop. Robby had been here plenty of times before, but he couldn't for the life of him remember how he'd gotten here this time.

He forced himself upright. "What—" Robby didn't recognize his own voice. It came out groggy, yes, but also a higher register. It sounded like it belonged to someone else entirely. "When did I get here? How? I don't remember anything except—"

He trailed off. Hadn't he been on his motorcycle, last he remembered?

Duke sighed without looking up. "You know, it's a damn shame you went into medicine. You had a face cut out for TV and you wore it out at the hospital instead."

Robby's face twisted. "What?"

"Take a look in the mirror." Duke said, nodding toward one that was hanging crooked over the workbench, stained and spotted from age. 

Robby pushed himself up. He felt dizzy, and his whole body was aching, but he made himself walk the few feet anyway.

When his eyes found his own reflection, a scream tore out of him.

Duke laughed. "Never gets old."

Robby's hands flew to his face. It was his face. Except it wasn't. The jaw under his fingers wasn't the one he'd washed at the bathroom sink a few hours ago. This was a different face entirely. His own, devoid of the wrinkles and fine lines he'd grown accustomed to.

He fell back down too fast. "W-what did you do to me?"

"Wasn't me that did it." Duke kept working on the motorcycle. "I just handle what comes after."

"What is going on?" Robby panicked. 

It had to be a dream. He didn't remember getting home at all. The last thing he remembered was riding on the way home, and then a blinding white light. White light. Was this death? Was he dead? He was young again, and wasn't there some scripture about that, about turning back into your younger self when you died? If that was true, why was the afterlife Duke’s garage? Was Duke God?

None of this made sense.

While he kept stretching the skin of his own face between his fingers, looking at his youthful hands, using them to pat his body all over, trying to force sense into the senseless, Duke spoke again. "You might want to check that folder you brought with you."

Robby’s eyes went to the manila folder being slid across the workbench toward him. So this was still real life… He doubted he'd have brought his goddamn divorce papers with him to the afterlife.

"This is the craziest dream I've ever had," Robby muttered, and opened it with shaking fingers. 

There were no divorce papers inside.

There were transcripts. A USMLE score report. A diploma from Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine. A residency transfer file. PGY-1, mid-year, stamped and countersigned by Dr. Gloria Underwood and Dr. Michael Robinavitch. A driver's license with his new face on it, smiling, fifty pounds lighter and twenty years younger.

All of it under a name he'd never spoken aloud in his life.

"Who the hell is John Carter?"

Duke set down the wrench and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It's you."

"Where did you get these?"

"Same place I got you a new face. Don't ask questions you're not ready to know the answers to. Now come on, let's go. I have to get you up to speed, you don't want to be late for your first day."

By the time morning came around, Duke had walked him through his new life over a cup of black coffee.

"So, what, exactly? I'm going to be at PTMC, and nobody's going to know who I am?"

"They will not."

"That won't work. They'll recognize me from pictures, from—"

"You overestimate people's retention for your face."

"My wife works there! She'll see me, she'll recognize me. This is the face I had when we met!"

"Ex-wife."

"Hey, I never signed those divorce papers." It was as touchy a subject for young Robby as it was for the older one. "We're still married."

Duke shrugged.

Robby—no, John, now—exhaled hard. "The whole point of the sabbatical was three months away from PTMC. Why would I go back?"

"You said so yourself, you were tired of the job. The responsibility. Figured you deserved one more chance to feel what it was like to be a doctor, before it started weighing you down. Away from being the decision-maker. And away from the old ball-and-chain."

"No, no. She was never the problem. I didn't need to be away from her."

Duke's eyebrows went up. "Well, I don't know that she's clear on that."

Robby went quiet and his breathing turned heavy.

"What is this?" he asked. "Is this some kind of end-of-life thing? Is this my second chance?"

"Wouldn't call it an end-of-life thing. You're quite literally back at the start." Duke finally looked at him. "Second chance? Well. That's up to what you make of it."

──

Duke dropped him off at the hospital. He had new clothes and one bag. He spent the whole drive pouring over the documents. Whoever this John Carter was, he'd clearly been a spoiled little prick. Penn undergrad, Northwestern med school. He had to be loaded. His clothes was all designer labels, and Robby scoffed as he strapped on the Cartier Tank watch he could only imagine had been passed down across generations of men in the Carter family. Was this guy even real or just a made-up identity? 

Robby’s cover was that he was a transfer resident coming in from an out-of-state program. He wondered what this would be like. He still had all his memories and all his training as Robby. He figured he could get away with claiming EMS work before med school, if  it got away from him and anyone picked up on the fact that a PGY-1 responded to traumas like he'd been doing it for the past thirty years. 

Because he had. 

When Duke finally dropped him off, he wished him lucky and all but kicked him out of his truck.

"So... were you my... spiritual guide all along?" Robby asked him, gripping the strap of the bag now slung over his shoulder. 

Duke laughed. "Do you feel spiritually guided?' With that, he rolled up the window, and left him there. 

Robby walked into PTMC without a clue who to talk to first.

"Patient or family?" a familiar voice asked, and he turned to find Dana walking toward him.

He tightened his grip on his backpack."Neither.” He extended his hand. “My name's John Carter, ma’am. It's my first day as an intern here."

“Ma’am? Call me that again and we’ll have problems, Carter.” Dana nodded, bypassing his extended hand, and started walking, expecting him to follow. "Welcome, Doctor. I was told we'd have a new intern joining us. Someone from admin will be by later to finish your onboarding, but for now, I'll introduce you around. Come on. You got a pair of scrubs?"

Robby came out of the bathroom a few minutes later in a pair that fit like a glove. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this size. In the mirror, the resemblance of John Carter to his younger self was uncanny.

Dana ran through the tour, rattling off names and locations, important information he needed to know. “You’re not asking questions, you sure you're following?” Dana asked.

“Yes, ma-”

Dana’s eyebrow arched.

He closed his mouth. “Yes, I got everything. You’re a great teacher.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Dana then tilted her head, studying him. "You know, you look like somebody I know… I can't quite place it."

He shrugged. Told her he got that a lot.

She gathered everyone at the Central for introductions. "Alright, gather up. We'll make introductions quick. We've got patients to see."

Dana went down the line, pointing and naming. He followed her introductions by nodding his head in the person’s direction, catching a few lingering stares, trying to come off as friendly and approachable as he could.

He was introduced to Mohan, Langdon, King, Javadi, Whitaker, Santos...

"Jesus, Dana," Langdon cut her off. "He's not going to remmeber anyone's names if you rattle them off like that." 

"Sure he will." Dana turned to look at Robby expectantly.

He didn't let her down, and shyly listed everyone's names in order of where they stood.

Dana smiled smugly, and then shrugged at Langdon, "See?"

Robby's chest began loosening as rapport was established. He was called “new guy” by everyone. He already felt like he could get along with this crew a lot better now, without the title of Chief Attending tarnishing the dynamic. He could be Michael Robinavitch, the intern from twenty years ago, with them. 

"You're good with names," Cassie McKay commented. "That'll help you. Come on, you're with me today."

He trailed after her through a run of easy cases, nothing too bad. 

He'd forgotten what it was like to be an intern. It was even more fun this time around, where he didn’t have the weight of having to prove himself. This time, he had no pressure to get the answer exactly right in front of an attending, because he already knew it, and nobody here expected him to. He also didn't feel the pressure a typical intern was faced with, to perform for the sake of leaving a good impression in the hopes of getting a letter of recommendation for eventual residency applications. 

McKay was thoroughly impressed with him, and Robby felt he had to fumble on purpose once she asked if he had eidetic memory.

It was also a struggle to pretend to not know where things were. He made a point to ask where certain supplies were, or get lost as he navigated the Pitt, pretending he arrived late because he couldn't locate South 10. 

But when it came to the medicine, his muscle memory started selling him out. And he was all too gleeful to let it. He reached for a chest tube kit before anyone mentioned they needed it. It led people to start to notice. And talk. 

But he hadn't picked up on that yet, on the murmurs surrounding John Carter, star intern. He was practicing medicine again for the pure love of it. He'd forgotten how it felt from the other side, being able to practice without calling the shots, and having to carry the weight of that responsibility after. 

However, he was also just an intern. And scut work was a natural part of it. He was starting to suspect he might've gotten on someone's bad side, perhaps by being too cocky, knowing too much too soon, and he was being humbled.

At least that's what he thought as he poured two inches of lube into his fingers.

Robby hadn’t performed a rectal exam in years. 

It earned him a straight-faced "It’s a great learning experience, Carter," from Frank Langdon. A phrase Robby had used on him way to many times as his attending. 

He followed around Langdon or McKay most of the time. He stood at the foot of rounds, fielding questions lobbed his way like distracted target practice. He had to bite back a laugh more than once, because he knew exactly whose teaching philosophy this was. His own.

But he couldn't complain. It was a good life, being an intern. He was having fun. He'd nearly forgotten there was something else he was supposed to be doing here, as the magically rejuvenated John Carter... Whatever that turned out to be, he was trusting he would eventually figure it out.

For now, he’d focus on rounds.

The first patient he lost as John Carter was an 81-year-old man with a ruptured aneurysm. Nobody could've reached it in time. Robby had known that the second the man came through the doors, it didn't matter.

He was in the room with Langdon amd Al-Hashimi when it happened. After Al-Hashimi- who now that Robby was distanced enough from the situation, he could admit had incredible control of a trauma room- called a time of death, they explained to him the practice of taking a minute of silence to honor the patient's life. 

Robby stood in the circle, hands clasped in front of him, the exact way he'd taught two decades of interns trained by him to stand. 

But it was bad timing. 

Because when he turned his head, through the glass, he caught sight of you. 

This might be his only shot for a while to see you up close, to catch your reaction, to see if anything in you recognized him.

The moment of silence turned into the longest minute of his life. His knee started bouncing. Then his whole leg. He caught sight of the door, of you, passing by the nuses station and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to bolt out of it. 

Langdon, across the circle, shot him a glare. 

He didn't say anything until the moment ended, but he leaned in and intercepted Robby before he made a run for the door. "Bouncing around like you've got somewhere better to be kind of defeats the whole point. Keep it in check."

Robby’s first thought was the irony of Langdon being the one to chastise him. What came out was, "Sorry. Nerves," as he moved past him. Langdon looked at him the way you'd look at something faintly pathetic, which, to be fair, coming out of his mouth, it was.

He didn't catch McKay's smirk at Langdon. "Remind you of somebody?"

Robby hadn't gotten to you in time. He let out a frustrated sigh when he realized you had already left.

"Admin dropped this off for you," Dana said. "Now that I have you here-" She proceeded to rattle off a series of patient details that had been assigned on him. He followed, as she talked with her hands, and sprinkled in details she felt would help him when he presented to residents or attendings.

“Make sure you highlight your typical current vital signs and lab trends, yes, but some doctors, like Doctor Mohan, for example, like it when you add in a little insight into the patient’s emotional state. Take note of that. Others like McKay, you'll have picked up by now, are expecting an action list, so make sure you—”

Robby hadn't realized that he was smiling at her. He couldn't help it. Dana was the heart of this ED. That hadn't changed in the past thirty years. It all ran smoothly thanks to her. It was nice to see she was the one constant in this place. Robby changed for the worse, while she never did. 

Dana stopped mid-sentence. "Why are you smiling, Carter?"

"No reason," he said, still smiling.

"Get outta here. McKay's waiting for you." She looked at him with a glare, shaking her head.

He was assigned next to South 10 and walked in to find Langdon and McKay already there. Langdon didn't look thrilled watching him glove up.

McKay rattled off the patient's vitals and intake. Then she asked Robby what they should do.

"Him?""Me?"

Robby and Langdon's voice clashed.

"We have to respond quickly. Patient is crashing." McKay nodded, "Carter, what should we do?"

Robby swallowed. It wasn't that he didn't know the answer, it was that he couldn't expect any good to come from passing off instructions as an intern. Still, he began to speak, "We need reliable access now. He's going to need vasopressors if fluids don't turn him around. I'd place an intraosseous line so we can start treating him immediately."

"We'll go with that. Langdon, could you please?"

Langdon's jaw tightened. "Sure."

He grabbed the IO driver and knelt beside the bed while the nurses continued hanging fluids and respiratory adjusted the patient's oxygen. The cardiac monitor shrieked another alarm as the blood pressure drifted lower.

Robby watched from the foot of the bed.

Langdon lined up the needle over the proximal tibia.

"You need to change your angle," Robby said before he could stop himself.

Langdon didn't look up. "I've got it."

"Your elbow's too high. Bring it down about eighty degrees. You're pushing across instead of straight into the bone."

"I am."

The driver whined.

Nothing.

Langdon frowned and tried again.

Still nothing.

"Stop." McKay stepped in immediately, taking the driver from his hand. S

he repositioned, and made one clean attempt. The needle seated with a distinct give.

"Flush."

The saline went in smoothly.

"Good flow," Mateo Diaz confirmed.

Langdon peeled off his gloves with more force than necessary.

Robby couldn't let it go. He followed him out the room."I was trying to tell you—"

"Hey," Langdon rounded on him, “I know it feels like you graduated med school and you know everything now, but we did what you said and it didn't work. Now, back off and let the residents handle it."

"Hey!" McKay barked out, "Why don't you both catch a break and come back when you're ready to get along."

Langdon bumped his shoulder against his as he passed by. Robby headed for the ambulance bay to cool off.

And here he was thinking they might finally get to do some bonding. 

"Hey," a voice called. Robby’s gaze moved to find Dennis Whitaker, sitting on the curb, working through a granola bar.

"New guy, right? Dennis Whitaker. First-year resident."

"John Carter. First-year intern."

"First-year? Huh. You seem to know a lot for a first-year. Where're you from?"

Robby recalled his documents. "Chicago."

"Nice. Nebraska, myself." Whitaker took another bite. "How's the first day going?"

"Was good, up until about ten minutes ago."

"Yeah, I heard Langdon rip you a new one. Don't take it personal. He used to be Dr. Robby's golden boy, and now he's got a lot going on."

Robby had to play dumb. "Dr. Robby?"

"Our chief attending. He's on a three-month sabbatical, but you'll meet him when he's back."

Right on cue, Robby's stomach let out an embarrassing growl.

Whitaker laughed and pulled a second granola bar out of his pocket, holding it out. "Good for when you're on the go. Recommend you start stockpiling, you'll need it."

"Thanks."

"Sure thing. And if you need anything, let me know." Whitaker dusted off his scrubs and headed back inside. Robby watched as he did.

He really had no idea how long this was going to last. Or what exactly he was supposed to be doing here. 

But he figured the smart move was to lean into whatever part of his personality he'd gotten back by not being his usual self. 

When he was an intern, he would come across problematic residents and attendings all the time. It was a talent he lost throughout the years, but it never hurt to turn on the charm. With everyone. 

So he would give that a try. He figured it wouldn't hurt to practice with Dana first. 

He already knew, without thinking about it, that Dana took her coffee with two sugars and a splash of oat milk. Which was exactly what he placed in front of her after a quick stop by the hospital's lobby coffee shop. 

"Kissing ass already, Carter?" she said when he set the cup down in front of her. "Hate to break it to you, bud I'm not the one who makes decisions around here."

"Figured I'd thank you for showing me around this morning. And for your extra tips. They really helped. Now," he leaned in conspriatorily. “Any tips on how to get into Frank Langdon’s good graces?

The irony of him being the one to ask that didn't go unnoticed.

She just shook her head, and then in that moment, he heard a familiar voice speak behind him.

“Hey Dana," you sighed, "Have you heard from Robby?” 

You'd come down to the ED for one reason. You needed to know if Robby had actually left for his sabbatical yet, because it meant there was a chance that the bastard left for a three-month vacation in which you had no idea where he would be or with who, doing god knows what, and you much rathered he didn't do it while still being legally married to you. 

Robby turned too abruptly at the sound of your voice, he realized. It was the only explanation for having collided with him hard enough that your hand shot out on instinct to steady yourself against his chest.

“Oh! I'm so-” Your eyes found his. 

He watched the apology die on your lips, letting out a gasp in its place, eyes widening as you came face to face. 

"Oh my god." He wasn't sure you were in control of your actions, as both your hands flew up to his face. The face that had no business being this familiar. "Michael?" 

Your mind blanked completely at the sight before you, because it couldn't be. He was identical. The same lean, and softly angular countenance you knew from years ago. Strong jaw tempered by gentle features. Warm brown eyes that peered down on you with an attentive, thoughtful expression beneath straight, dark brows. Short, tousled chestnut hair. Narrow nose, and lips resting in the hint of an easy smile. They looked like the same lips that had pressed against yours countless times over the past years. Only they couldn't be. He hadn't looked like this in years. 

From behind the counter, Dana had her eyebrow raised at you over her glasses. She realized then, who it was John Carter reminded her of. It was the Robby she met when she started working at the PTMC, thirty years prior. 

In that moment, you weren't thinking. That was the only way to explain your hands cradling this stranger's jaw, like you had some claim to it. Your thumbs were at his cheekbones, searching a face that had no right to belong to a man this young and still look exactly, unmistakably, like the one you'd woken up next to for the past ten years.

He let you. God help him, he stood there frozen and let you because it had been a long time since your hands had been on him, and he missed you. 

"It's, um— John, actually. Carter." He barely got it out.

Your mouth fell even more, and you retreated your hands immediately, having come to the realization of what you had been doing. 

"Sweetie—no —" Robby recognized Noelle Hastings’ hand closed around your wrist, gently prying you away. "We can't do that. We do not touch the baby doctors. What has gotten into you, are you trying to get sent to HR?"

She pulled you back by degrees, and you let yourself be pulled, but you couldn't stop looking at him. "Doesn't he look so much like Michael?" you asked her, like it was the most reasonable question in the world.

"Michael, your ex-husband Michael?" Noelle shot him a second glance. "God, he wishes." She checked her watch, "Okay. I've got fifty minutes of lunch left, because you made me take a detour to follow up on your divorce, and your ex already left for his motocruise trip through God-knows-where. And now I'm starting to worry you might actually be losing it a little. C'mon, honey. I want sushi." She looped her arm through yours and towed you toward the exit before you could look back a second time.

You did anyway.

Robby stood there grinning after you like an idiot. His grin was big, dumb, and puppyish. It cost him nothing to produce, because for the second you'd had your hands on his face, it felt like he was still yours. Because God, he was. 

Maybe this second chance could mean a second chance with you.

Dana's voice cut in. "Nuh-uh. Don't even think about it, pretty boy."

He looked at her. "What'd I do?"

She just shook her head and walked away, leaving him there, still smiling, watching the doors you'd disappeared through.

──

Robby tried to steer clear of Langdon's service for the duration of the shift. Not out of intimidation, just a preference for fewer problems while he still had no idea how long he'd be at the Pitt as John Carter.

Trinity Santos was tasked with showing him their charting system. Robby caught it incredibly quick, which pleased her. He was completing the chart for the patient that passed away earlier, when Santos commented, "Heard we’re both on Langdon’s bad side. Don't worry, happened to me on my first day too." She shrugged. "You'll learn who's worth listening to and who isn't. Stick close to Huckleberry, though, he's one of the good ones."

He appreciated the insight.

The rest of the day went by smoothly. The one real close call came when Jack Abbot walked in for his shift. Robby got paired with him on a case. They moved well together, as they always had. It went great, right up until Robby called him "Jack" to his face, in front of everyone, on his first day.

The silence that followed lasted a second and a half. 

"Sorry, Dr. Abbot. Heard one of the other interns call you that earlier. Figured it was a... vibe." He coughed up the word he'd heard Victoria Javadi say a handful of times before. 

Jack gave him a long look. Then, mercifully, let it go with nothing but a raised eyebrow. "Go give Dr. McKay a hand."

By the end of the shift, Robby grabbed his bag and fell in with the pack of day shift heading out. He hesitated at the ambulance bay, long enough that Whitaker noticed.

He paused. “Where you headed?” 

“I—” Robby hadn’t really established this with Duke. Was he supposed to crash with him? Or did he have access to John Carter’s place? Or Robby’s own? Well, those keys were in Whitaker’s custody right now. 

At Robby’s hesitancy, Dennis asked,"You don't have anywhere to go?"

"Not exactly. My, uh— landlord mixed up my start date."

Whitaker chewed his lip, weighing something. Robby watched when the decision landed on his face. "Okay, look— I really shouldn't do this. But somebody helped me out when I really needed it, and I figure that's the kind of thing you're supposed to pay forward. I'm staying at Dr. Robby’s place right now. He gave me the key before he left, since he's on sabbatical. I’m between that place, my girlfriend's, and my own, because I like to check in with my roommate every once in a while. You can crash at Robby's until you get your spot."

Technically, Robby could stay at his own place.

For the sake of decency, Robby asked, "You sure that's okay?"

"Yeah, man. Just—" Whitaker held up a finger. "You gotta swear you're not a party animal. Pretty sure I'd get kicked out of the program if Dr. Robby ever found out."

"I swear," Robby said, feeling lucked out by the opportunity to stay in his own apartment.