i love men

Dana approaches you somewhere in the hour of 12PM. She looks at you over the rim of her glasses, all blonde strands of hair and each wrinkle in her forehead lined with concern for someone, more or less, adjacent to you. It makes you sink in your seat. You had been residing at the main workstation with three of the residents painfully assorting patient files since the CEO in his Fourth of July garb had made the announcement of preemptively shutting off all computer systems; leaving the ED without electronic health records, connected charting etc. 

(You know, all the stuff that makes the department chug on like a semi-well-oiled machine.) 

Being somewhat of a specialist in the art of expressions and the silence that comes with it, you were able to conclude that Dana Evans—the guardian of the PTMC—was not approaching you for a long-overdue chinwag. 

Quite the opposite, actually. 

“You need to talk to him.” Dana commands in her usual gravel tone. 

It makes you nervously scratch at your brow-bone. “I know. I’m getting round to it. Just after—” 

“Now.” Dana interjects. She leans her whole body into the workstation, her voice drops down to barely a whisper, “He’s acting up. Being a real Fourth of July spectacle. All this before he hops on that godforsaken motorcycle for three months. You’ve got the most Robby jargon out of all of us. Put it to use.” 

You let out a deep exhale. “Fine.”

You stand at full height and Dana gives you a half smile that was a tamer version of amusement.

Things were not fine. In fact, things were so far out of the ballpark of fine, that you would never put Robby and the definition of ‘fine’, or ‘okay’ or, overall just ‘good’ in one sentence. He was a man on the precipice of a life-altering decision that those around him would suffer the consequences that he had made; much longer after his three-month sabbatical on the road came to a screeching halt. 

The signs had been there. Ever since you had begun at the PTMC as a fresh-faced attending with a basket full of naivety. It just took a couple of years for the signs to start catching up to you. And by then, your efforts to salvage the good pieces of Michael Robinavitch, had fallen through the cracks of a prepaid tombstone. 

For the most part, colleagues would acknowledge the mental health problems that trickle down from behavioural changes from their peers, and then they’d be able to go home without the additional weight of it upon their shoulders. No skin off of their noses if they weren’t the ones paying for the extensive therapy sessions. 

However, for you, that wasn’t the case. Since—

“He’s your husband.” Dana calls after you. 

You throw a hand up in retaliation, the sizeable rock on your ring finger catching the hazy overhead light. “Thank you, Dana.” 

The reminder wasn’t needed. Everyone—including the one who married him—was well aware that Dr. Michael Robinavtich had managed to be tied down. Motorcycle and all.

You had fallen in love prior to the catastrophic events from COVID, that had been the pipeline to Robby's mental health downfall. It had been exhilarating, and sometimes still was, at the beginning of the inner workings of a relationship that was blossoming beneath Gloria Underwood’s watchful eye. All the sneaking around, keycards slid beneath clipboards, kissing on company time. The pair of you felt like giddy teenagers copping a feel. 

He proposed to you within two years. Now, you were waltzing around the PTMC with a double barrel surname that was seemingly quite the tongue twister for those who took the time to read it. (This including Dennis Whitaker who went beet red when you had corrected his feeble attempt of reciting it back to you.) 

You peer into Pedes to find him as predicted—coddling Baby Jane Doe.

Robby’s head turns as you speak, “Hi,” you tilt your head and smile softly at the infant lazily dozing on your husband’s shoulder. “How is she doing?” 

“Oh, just lonely.” he lilts. 

You nod, smoothing a finger back and forth against her cheek, “She likes you.” 

“Well…she’d be the only one.” Robby mumbles as he places the infant back into the hospital cot. You smother the growing frown on your face when he straightens to full height. “You need me for something?” he asks quietly. 

I need you to come back to me. 

You settle for, “Just making sure you’re okay. You know—After how we left things this morning.” you say, deciding to take the brunt of whatever force you may be hit with—taking Dana out of the collateral damage. 

Things had been left on a sour note in the apartment you both shared in the downtown area of Pittsburgh. The looming presence of Robby’s three-month sabbatical with his cognitive well-being balancing on the line of a fraying thread had made quite the topic of conversation over his black coffee and your nourishing choice of breakfast. Therapy was always at the centre of your tedious endeavours to ensure Robby came back to you in one piece during the early hours before work; and getting him to listen was no easy feat. 

Your last ditch attempt to undertake your husband’s reluctance to get help was thrown back at you beneath venom and animosity. It had almost given you whiplash. Robby escaped the confines of the apartment with a slam of the door after insisting that if you put more of your efforts into ‘minding your own business’, you’d be able to resolve whatever unearthed issues you had rolling about in your mind—such as your unrelenting desire to help those who don’t want it. 

The motorcycle ride without the helmet must’ve given his head a good shake, because when you entered the sliding doors of the PTMC; Robby began loitering around you enough to make it obvious he felt a little guilty on how he had left things.

(Never go to bed angry. Never hop on a death trap after searing your wife with the hot iron rod of your pent up anger. Or, something like that.)

Robby takes a deep inhale, there’s a sort of playful glint in his eye as he speaks, “You know, when you continue to ask someone if they’re okay, it starts to get a little repetitive.” 

“Marriage is repetition.” you don’t miss a beat, the lightheartedness that swoops the conversation feels a little foreign; considering the circumstances. “Sue me for taking my vows seriously.” 

“Hm.” Robby hums, the blue latex gloves snapping off his hands, “Is this a welfare check?” 

He shrouds your personal space for a moment. Not enough to seem intentional, but you knew his actions were the end result of your magnetic presence—hence why he married you. You watch him cock his head in a roguishly handsome way, crows feet beside brown eyes exposed when he scrunches on eye shut. Michael Robinavitch was many things; but dense was not one.

His flirtations were consciously placed. 

The room fills with the bustle from the central area of the ED when Robby pushes the door open, wedging it open with one foot to allow you to depart from Pedes. He looks down the slope of his nose at you, a faint smile catches at the corner of his lips when you size him up in passing. 

“Are you open to one?” you bump your elbow into the softness of his stomach, habitually holding your hand beneath the sanitiser. It takes all your efforts to not look up at him. 

You begin to walk together. 

“Uh…nope.” 

His answer takes a subtle jab at your heart. “Then consider it as me just being nosy about how you’re feeling.” 

“That—” Robby halts you both, his fingers ghosting your elbow to allow a gurney to roll past. His eyes follow it as he continues, “—Is just a less fancier way of dressing this up as a welfare check. Have you seen Dana?” 

She’s the one that sent me, is what you want to say. 

“She’s talking with Emma.” you reply nonchalantly, “Robby, can you just…talk to me? Please? You’re deflecting.” 

“No, I’m running an Emergency Department.” Robby retorts, placing a hand on your back to keep you with him as he wades through the chaos of going analog. His eyes flit to you for a second and he softens at the melancholy you carry in your expression. “Sweetheart, I’m fine and sort of in the middle of something. Pin this conversation for later, okay?” 

“Sure.” you murmur when he walks away. Dana takes up the rear-end of the conversation, slotting herself shoulder to shoulder with you—an iPad balancing in the crook of her elbow. You don’t look at her when you say, “That went well.” 

“Plenty of time, honey.” Dana grits, patting your back, “You’ll get through to him. As for now, I’ve got a case in South 15. Right up your alley. Lookin’ real pretty for a distraction, hm? Come on.” 

Robby is distracted when he returns to the central hub. The patient chart is a mere prop in his hands. The information untouched by his plethora of clinical knowledge, because all he can hear is you laughing at something that the handsome Radiologist—Dr. Barker—has said. It hadn’t bothered him when his staff members, Princess and Javadi, had been stood gawping at the man from afar. Was it a little inconvenient considering the circumstances the ED were squashed under? Yes.

Until it became a hinderance to their performance; it wasn’t his problem. 

As for you…it was different. 

There was no overt behaviour that would lead anyone to believe that you were doing anything but being friendly until the wet reads came through for your patient in South 15. At an arms length from the guy, but still conversing in a way that shows off two of Robby’s favourite things about you: your genuine toothy-grin and the nose scrunch do when you find something funny. 

When Dana throws him a look in passing, he reverts back to the patient chart. Then your laughter carries across the room a minute after, and Robby decides that’s enough time spent with the pretty boy from upstairs that has set up camp in the middle of the ED.

He idles up next to you with all the curiosity of a Chief Attending and not a husband that reeks of jealous intrigue. 

(Professional before personal. The walls of the PTMC were a shield to the outside noise.) 

“Dr. Robby.” Barker greets. 

You turn your head to see Robby practically flush with your back. “Oh—Hi.”

“Dr. Barker.” Robby glances at you from his peripheral and chooses to ignore the mild perplexity that sits in the crease between your brows. His hands clutch his elbows when he crosses his arms across his chest, head tilting at the Radiologist. “How long on this patient’s imaging?” 

“Another fifteen minutes. Tops.” Barker answers after checking the process. 

“Then I assume you can circle back on the jokes in fifteen minutes.” your head whips to glare at the Chief Attending-gone-rogue on being tactful around his professional peers, “Catalogue of patients on that whiteboard. They won’t treat themselves.” he chides. 

You give Dr. Barker an apologetic look and walk by Robby who follows like a dog on a leash. Once the Radiologist is out of ear shot, you speak freely, “Are you seriously time-keeping my conversations?” 

“No.” Robby drawls, “Just making sure one of my best Attending still has her head in the game.” 

“That’s rich.” you scoff with minimal malice, “Dr. Barker is a good guy. The way you spoke to him back there—” 

Robby interjects. “Ho-ho, sounds like you like him.”

“I do.”

“More than me?” he angles his body into yours to make room for an oncoming nurse. (He doesn’t miss the small but wicked smile on your face.) 

You mull it over when you reach the board. “Only time will tell. You’re still on probation from your morning tantrum.” 

Robby lets out a rare cackle that spreads the amusement across his weathered features and you beam up at the sight of his crows feet making an appearance under the circumstances of lighthearted humour. The palm of his hand rubs the span of your back as you stare at the whiteboard, making it a sight to behold for the forthcoming med students. 

“I—Uh,” Robby starts, removing his glasses and scratching the skin behind his ear, “I want to apologise for how this morning went.” 

“Mhm.” you only look at him when you feel his eyes bore into your side-profile, “I forgive you. Doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be mad at you, Robinavitch.” you remark setting the base layer tone as nothing short of sarcastic. 

Robby inhales and speaks on the exhale, his voice only just audible to you, “Would…a five minute break in an on-call room make up for any of it?” 

He looks hopeful.

You pray he shares the same sentiment on his three-month sabbatical. Unlikely, but negativity didn’t pay the bills. 

The insinuation is clearer than glass. On-call rooms were meant for a sole purpose of providing the staff at the PTMC a safe space to rest in privacy. It required a keycard to gain access to. 

It was also the same space that Robby and you took advantage of for displays of affection that were crossing the boundaries classified in the Human Resources pamphlet you were both given on how to navigate an appropriate workplace relationship; and the power imbalances that could come with it. 

Gloria Underwood would turn in her ivory white tower if she knew what the pair of you got up to behind that particular closed door on the company dime. 

Robby’s offer was tempting. His handsome face and optimistic eyes were even more. 

“I’m happy where I am.” you advise him, without sounding too pained at the sacrifice. 

Robby surrenders. “Happy wife, happy life.” he states with his hands up, then deciding to give Ogilvie and Joy a show by pulling you in by your shoulder and pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. It was the least he could do, if the on-call room was off the menu. “Shout if you need me.” 

“Shout.” you whisper when he trails off, leaving you with the ambient hospital noises. (And, Joy and Ogilvie.) You point at them, “You two. With me.” 

Eventually you return to the middle of the Pitt, swiping two patients off of the white board with two fingers—too lazy to find the eraser. You weren’t sure what part had soured your mood. Either from the med-student Ogilvie’s unwavering need to put his foot in his mouth in front of patients and plummet those all important patient satisfaction scores, Louie’s passing, the foreboding presence of your husband’s three-month sabbatical; or catching the loose ends of Noelle Hastings and Robby’s conversation. 

He catches sight of you in passing—your face providing nothing but the word: hypocrite—whilst he absentmindedly bobs his head along to Hastings sugary rambling over McKay’s patient case. His forehead creases as she speaks, scratching at the nape of his neck nervously. Robby’s eyes flit over to you in the hopes that just this once, you may be a figment of his own imagination. 

Despite jealously being relatively beneath you in your marriage to one of the PTMC’s eligible bachelors, without being too presumptuous, Robby feared that seeing him converse with his non-committal ex, may be the cherry on the cake for how your day was going.

(Hastings always had a habit of lingering. Which made it look even worse.) 

Perlah comes up beside you, patient charts in abundance in her grasp. 

“Not bothering you?” she asks with a subtle jerk of her head in Robby and Noelle’s direction.

You shuffle through some results, “Give it a couple of minutes.” you murmur. 

Perlah lets out a laugh that catches both Noelle and Robby’s attention nearby. Their heads turn at the abrupt sound, which in turn breaks up their train of thought over the long winded discussion. Noelle squeezes Robby’s bicep before they go their separate ways, and suddenly your patient’s results need to be read millimetres from your face; when Noelle strolls into the workstation with a content expression on her pretty face. 

“You did that on purpose.” you whisper to Perlah behind your clipboard.

Perlah shrugs innocently and departs to ask Robby for a second-opinion. 

The case manager perches at the edge of the workstation you happen to sit at, happily tapping at the surface of the workstation.

The thing about Noelle Hastings was, that she was neither a friend nor a foe to you. She was simply an extension of Robby’s history of avoidant attachment that extended the length of seven-weeks. There was zero animosity toward her as some would anticipate you to have. She was kind, assisted you in insurance cases on the best outcome for the patient and even when she stepped over the invisible boundary that separated a fleeting situation from a marriage, with nostalgic remarks over her shared time with Robby; Noelle Hastings well-manicured nails were always far from digging into your husband. 

She was aware of this. Respectful. Part of you assumes she was trying to find a middle ground to bond over with you. Understandably, it could get a little awkward when your previous sexual endeavours’ wife is waltzing around the workplace. 

Even more awkward when she catches herself going all gooey whenever she was within close proximity to his charm. (Worked on her for years. It wasn’t going to stop now. Even if it wasn’t intentional on his part.) 

She speaks in the direction of Dana, “You know what Motorcycle Mike’s sabbatical is really about?” 

Dana remains unbothered, “I never try to guess what’s going on in that head of his.” 

You shift in your seat, and it highlights yourself to Noelle. 

“You’re not going with him?” Noelle tosses the net with a polite smile and you’re suddenly pulled into the conversation, no longer a bystander pretending to be busy.  “Uh, no.” you shift, rubbing the palms of your hands against your thighs.

Dana also responds, “You kiddin’? We’d go cuckoo bananas if we lost her to a three-month sabbatical too.” she peers over the brim of her glasses at Noelle, “Behind every great man, is a greater woman.” she proclaims. 

“I don’t doubt it.” Noelle laughs. There’s a thought that churns over in her head and you’re left surrendering yourself to yet another boundary crossed when she decides to vocalise it. “It’s just…That’d drive me crazy. You know? Him being off the radar for three whole months. The man couldn’t sleep without the TV on in the bedroom. How is he going to survive all that silence?”

You take the comment in your stride, shutting the monitor off and standing. Dana throws you an empathetic look as a woman has been in the game for thirty years. Someone like that learns to become observational when being patient-facing means the little expressions matter.

And with the rise and fall of your chest; Dana can come to the conclusion that you’re upset by Hastings throwaway comment. 

So, she defends where you won’t. 

“Little respect, Hastings.” Dana is casual in her directness. She glances at the pretty woman, “It goes a long way.” 

Noelle looks mortified. “Oh—No. I’m sorry. I overstepped.” 

“It’s fine.” you reassure her, gulping at the tightness in your throat, “You made an observation that has stood the test of time. Robby is a big boy. Three months to reflect, alone, is healthy. TV on or not.” 

Now, you’re irritated. 

It’s enough for the conversation to not chase you when you depart the workstation—Dana left to lowly chuckle in amusement at the underlying sharpness in your tone. You weave through bodies on autopilot, ears ringing from the seed of doubt planted by Hastings over Robby’s time away. It made you think that perhaps you had been too enthusiastic over the idea of a three-month sabbatical with little to no contact with a man on the brink of catastrophe. Too laidback in putting the power in the hands of his mind that had nothing but malicious intent over his body. 

It had sounded like a good idea at the time. Neither you or Robby could recall an official vacation that he had partaken in—aside from your honeymoon. Now? You weren’t so sure.

Everyone else had told you otherwise ever since it had been announced. 

“Everything okay?” by some hideous trick of fate, Robby matches the strides in the walk you were taking around the parameters of the department.

He had spotted you from the window of South 22 and excused himself with the reassurance from Dr. Al-Hashimi that she could hold down the fort. Being married to you came with unlimited perks, one being that Robby was able pinpoint your tells that signalled a combative mood. Not necessary toward him; but the idea wouldn’t be so far fetched. 

(It was all in the downturn of your lips. And the tightness in your jawline.) 

“You tell me. Does having to listen to your ex question my decision to not saddle up on a three-month sabbatical with my flight risk husband, whilst also sorely reminding me that she also knows you leave the TV on through the night, make a good case for everything to be going okay?” you quip, narrowly avoiding Ahmed’s call to the betting pool. 

Robby blows out hot air. “Could’ve said devoted husband.” he jokes. It crashes and burns when you spare him a stern glance. “Okay. How about we take in some fresh air in the Ambulance Bay?” 

“Lead the way.”  It doesn’t take much further and the summer air of Pittsburgh clings to your bodies in all the wrong places. It preemptively sets the tone as you scuff your feet against the ground, arms tightly bound across your chest in an effort to translate your hardened exterior from the events of the day. 

Honestly, it felt close to dogpiling once Hastings became—unintentionally—involved. 

Robby takes in the scenes of the empty Ambulance Bay, his eyes find his beloved motorcycle still in tact at the side of the building. He takes a step forward in order to block it from your line of vision. 

After a moment, an arm wraps around your shoulder and you’re suddenly curled into your husband’s side. His lips find your temple and they stay pressed against your skin to resolve some of the bad feelings running about in your chest. 

You close your eyes as Robby repetitively presses chaste kisses to the same spot, relishing in the physical affection that you will be deprived off for three months. Or further; depending on how far Michael Robinavitch was willing to go. 

The thought alone makes you recoil out of his touch. 

Robby’s brows quirk in confusion. “Too hot?” he asks naively. Unprepared. 

“We—” you sigh, “—We need to continue the conversation from this morning.” 

“No…we don’t.” Robby informs, his expression still unwavering in adoration, “It’s water under the bridge. I apologised.” 

“I’m talking about the part where you accept the therapy sessions on this sabbatical.” you start, feeling the prompt shift in the atmosphere, “Jack has given me all the information for his therapist—” 

“Sweetheart. I am begging you not to start this shit again.” Robby has the palms of his hands flush against each other in a begging motion that’s sent in your direction. “I don’t need a therapist on this trip.” 

“Throw me a bone here, Robby.” you exasperate, “You’re obviously not well. Is it really so bad that I’m making sure I get you back by the end of this?” you feel your patience chip, the skin of your neck prickling with frustration.

Robby chuckles. “Oh, you’ll get me back. I’ll make sure of it.”

The morbidity of his answer makes you pause. 

You blink at him, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means…stop telling me how to feel.” Robby narrows his eyes, throwing a sarcastic smile your way. 

“Then what are you feeling, Robby?” you snap at him, the humid summer air clinging to your skin. 

He chuckles lowly, “I really don’t need you to be my shrink.” 

You shake your head, “This isn’t what a shrink does. You would know that if you just see one for two days of the week whilst you’re away. Jack’s therapist does virtual appointments—” 

“I already gave you my answer to that.” 

“Holy shit.” you clench your fists and tap them against your forehead to relieve your frustrations, “I’m not asking you to lobotomise yourself on this sabbatical, Robby. It’s fucking therapy.”  

Robby sneers, “No? This—” he gestures to the space between you in circles, “—feels an awful lot like a lobotomy. Cut it out.” 

“Cut it out?” you repeat, “I’m not a child.”  “Are you sure about that, sweetheart?” Robby crosses his arms, the argument was beginning to feel like being inside a pressure cooker, “You’re upset over this morning. Over the sabbatical, clearly over whatever bullshit Hastings said to you. About Louie. You can’t regulate your own emotions at work and you have the nerve to tell me I need fucking help? That is fucking hypocrisy.”  “Oh, quit projecting.” you look around for a minute to take a break from the intense stare down. 

“Why…are you doing this right now?” 

You watch Robby rub at his temples. “Why? Because you’re lashing out. You’ve been doing it to Mohan, Dana and Al-Hashimi all fucking day. You’re upset that Langdon is back and you’re punishing him for your own feeling of failure.” 

“Mohan is tough love.” Robby cherrypicks. 

“Cut the shit, Robby. You’ve been wearing her down and you know it.” you gesture to the ED just beyond the sliding doors, “She had a panic attack and you belittled her over the same shit you did last year in Pedes!”

Robby shakes his head in disbelief, “You’re really bringing that up right now?” 

“Yes. I am.” you retort plainly, “Robby. Can’t you see this is all happening because I love you?” you collect your voice beneath a whisper when an EMT strolls by you. 

Robby waits until they vacate the premises to speak as he drags his fingers along creases in his forehead. “Yeah. I do. And, right now…I need you to love me less.” he conveys cruelly.  Your worry ebbs into hurt. Fingers curling tight enough that your nails are pressing crescent moons into the palm of your hands. His words lay flat against your chest like wet cement. Any further rebuttals you had lined up dissipate and you’re left with a blank slate, jaw slack as you try to make sense of it all. 

The Ambulance Bay plunges into icy waters. Robby nervously drags his thumbnail across the top of his brow bone as he cranes his neck to look inside the building. It wasn’t evident to you at the time, but his inner turmoil flares at the sight of your broken expression. 

Even when you gather yourself up with watery eyes and a wobbling bottom lip, Robby does nothing. He allows you the action of brushing past him to escape the jaws of his verbal brutality, throwing yourself back into the chaos of a holiday weekend. 

He’s left with the whir of ambulances in the distance.

Robby watches you leave, mumbling a ‘shit’ under his breath. He drops his head back to take in the humid air through his nostrils; the brief solitude condemned when Baran Al-Hashimi appears. 

“Robby?” Baran calls from the doors, offering a hesitant smile, “Perlah has notified me that Ms. Kovalenko—the burn patient—is ready to be seen again.” 

Robby swings his hands around his body, releasing the tension by smacking his palm against his other hand that was curled up into a fist. He strains a smile, “I’ll be right there.” 

Robby takes a shot at a breath to exhale any leftover poison on his tongue from your spat—being wise to the fact that patient satisfaction scores would increase without personal baggage. The dispenser spits the sanitiser into his hand and he chooses to open the door with his back; checking for any sign of you amongst the sea of people marching about. 

The pit in his stomach grows when he can spot you in the middle discussing a case with McKay. Your back is turned, but Robby has been with you long enough to see the tension taught across your shoulder blades from the deep laceration he had caused by projecting his frustrations for a second time that day. 

He takes a mental note to make amends by any means possible. And promptly too. 

He enters the room with one last look at you. “Hello. How’s it going in here?” 

“We were just discussing your wife.” Perlah informs with a friendly smile, fingers busy with the task at hand. When Robby looks inquisitive about how the topic turned to you in his absence, Perlah adds, “She just came to find me for a patient. Said hello. Ms. Kovalenko was curious about the double-barrel surname on her badge. It got us talking. All good things.” 

Robby hums warmly. “A conversation I’m always happy to partake in.” he perches himself on the nearby stool—both Perlah and Ms. Kovalenko watching as he fixes his posture.

“Beautiful.” Ms. Kovalenko states. 

“Very.” Robby concurs earnestly—he wants to say that you are the eighth wonder of the world. 

(The argument puts that sort of compliment on hold for the time being.) 

“Too good for you.” The red-haired woman quips. 

“Ooh. I’ll have to agree there too.” he lilts, the pang of guilt smothered behind a professional glaze. He pats the tops of his thighs, “Did I miss all the gross stuff?” 

“Timed it perfectly.” Perlah replies. 

“Excellent. My job is all about delegation and time management.” Robby chides with a brave face; hoping his emotions weren’t too raw on his face over the mention of you. 

Perlah and him get into a lighthearted back and forth over his imminent departure at the end of the twelve-hour shift, which piques Ms. Kovalenko’s interest over the finer details. 

“He’s leaving us for three-months. On a motorcycle.” Perlah shifts in her chair, happy to invite Ms. Kovalenko further behind closed doors. 

Kovalenko’s brows raise to her hairline. “Motorcyle? You’re joking.” she whips her head round to stare at Robby, “Why would you do this?” she asks sternly. 

“Why? Why? Because…uh—” 

“You’re a middle aged man. Don’t be stupid.” she spits back, “What about your wife? Is she happy about this decision?” 

“She is…moderately humble about it.” Robby rolls closer to the sharp-tongued patient, narrowly averting his gaze to the injury concealed beneath a thin cloth. 

“Moderately humble.” Kovalenko repeats sardonically with a few nods of her head. “Forgive me for being blunt but, do you think that is the equivalent to being happy, Dr. Robinavitch? I pity your wife. Very sad.” 

Robby hangs his head and huffs out a laugh, “We cannot stop the world from spinning just because one person doesn’t like the way it goes round, Ms. Kovalenko—How about we focus on your care?”

There’s a significant pause. 

“Us women are what make the world go round,” her lips quirk in satisfaction when Robby’s brown eyes drift from her burn site, “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Robinavitch?”

Once the elderly, fiery-haired patient with a nasty burn on her thigh is discharged from Robby’s care—not without a stern lecture and some wonderful insight about his lack of appreciation for women in general—it’s evident that all signs are pointing to resolving the conflict that had transpired between you two. 

If there was one person Robby was not willing to part with on a sour note for three whole months…it was you. 

The better half of him. The center of his gravity. The only person strong enough to flip the heavy hourglass in time before he drains himself entirely.

Also, the woman that was apparently hard to track down in a department he knew like the back of his hand. 

(He worries you left. But that wasn’t in your nature. Hurt feelings or not.) 

“Where—“ he pauses, “—is my Attending?” Robby checks the surrounding areas as he speaks directly to Dana who was standing at the workstation with Monica Peters—the Pitt’s once renowned cynical clerk until things went south over technology. 

Dana lets out an amused scoff, looking down at the clipboard pressed against her stomach; strands of blonde hair loose around her face.

“She’s been demoted to just Attending? What’d she do?” she quips in her usual tone that has Robby flaring his nostrils, “She’s writing up the death note for Javadi. McKay’s cancer patient—Roxie—she passed away.” 

Robby frowns, “Where’s McKay?”

“MIA.” Dana drawls, now fiddling with the prescribed box of nicotine gum, “She seemed pretty upset coming from the Ambulance Bay. Anything you want to tell me?” 

“It’s been a long day.” he calls flippantly, already parting through the sea of pandemonium. 

He puts the plethora of questions about McKay’s whereabouts on the back burner for the time being. 

Dana raises her voice over the hospital buzz, “Make amends, Cap.” 

He gives the charge nurse a two-finger salute. 

For once, he makes it to his destination uninterrupted by an emergency that requires his presence in the trauma room. The door to the room that had been dimly lit aside from the salt lamp glow, clicks open as Robby arrives; finding you slipping out the gap and closing the door quietly behind you. 

You haven’t seen him yet. 

For observational purposes, the Chief Attending watches you press your forehead against the cool glass of the narrow window of the door. His stomach sinks when he can see your shoulders shudder as you take a deep breath to fill your lungs with air that kept evading you. 

He doesn’t feel like there’s ever going to be an appropriate time to speak to you in order to rescind his previous declarations. Even more so now, as you conceal the notion of silently weeping in the middle of the ED. 

“You need a coffee?” Robby’s voice makes you jolt. For once, he shrinks in confidence under your unsteady gaze. His tired eyes take in the vision of your watery ones and his expression melts into tenderised sympathy. He nods, “Come on.”

The staff room is empty when you enter, aside from the manikin that Nurse Jesse took great pleasure in decorating, before he was wrongfully detained by ICE agents for intervening with patient care at the core of his interests—just another reason to confirm that the holiday weekend had been nothing short of twenty car pile-up that you were being forced to look at. 

The box of donuts from upstairs is empty, the clock above is ticking closed to the end of the day shift; even when the job wasn’t truthfully done at the stroke of 7PM. You take the seat closest to the wall, muscles sighing from the imminent relief of pressure. 

Robby stands at the coffee machine—if you can even call it that. It sputters a watery version of coffee into a styrofoam cup, and he dumps two packets of sugar into the liquid in order to salvage some sweetness amidst the bitter tone of the room. 

He slides the cup over to you and fishes a protein bar from his pocket, patting it to emphasise the notion that dinner had been served. 

Your stubbornness prevails as you push the bar away from you, despite having not eaten for almost seven hours. 

Robby sighs at that. The refusal doesn’t surprise him. You were always prone to a petty hunger strike when it came to Robby providing you with food to nourish your body after an argument. It was sort of his way to build up to an apology. 

He drags the spare seat across the flooring and plants it in front of you.

The fabric of your scrubs brush against his when his knees bumps yours as he sits. The close proximity invites his scent into your bubble, the undertones of his aftershave prominent enough for you to recognise the fragrance as the one he wore on your wedding day. 

Robby rests his elbows on the tops of his thighs as he lean into your space.

As the words form on his lips into a coherent icebreaker that he was easing into, the door to the staff room whips open to reveal Trinity Santos. 

You look up at her. Robby doesn’t. 

“I need an Attending.” 

Robby answers for the both of you. 

“Go find Dr. Al-Hashimi.” he sings. 

Santos mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes as she shuts the door behind her. You give Robby a certain look—one he’s been given before—that tells him you weren’t in favour of brushing off the RS2 in favour of squashing the hostility that he brought upon the both of you. 

He gives you a meek but crooked smile. Crows feet prominent as he tries to warm the atmosphere. 

“I need you…to understand something here.” Robby starts, his hands falling to the sides of your kneecaps. He can barely look at you when he talks, “If I don’t go on this sabbatical, I am not so sure it’ll stop me from…” he trails off. 

The room falls silent. 

He can barely say it himself because verbalising it would make that little more of a tangible thing. 

You can’t conjure up the fight to protest; so you hang your head. 

“What upset you about Roxie’s case?” Robby takes a different approach. He tilts his head like a curious dog when you look back up from your lap. 

You mull it over. “Do you ever stand in a room with a wife and a husband, one of them is dying in front of the other’s eyes.  And they just have to watch it happen at their bedside?” 

Robby gives a curt nod. 

“Do you ever put yourself in their shoes, Robby?” you question, “How that would feel? To have the most meaningful part of you slip through your fingers and you don’t have the control to stop it. This—” gesture with your finger between your bodies, “—Is how that feels for me.” 

“Yeah—”

“No.” you shake your head, “You don’t get to sit there and tell me you know how it feels from my perspective. I love you in ways that you aren’t reciprocating. You know why?” 

“Why?” Robby whispers. 

You continue, “Because, if we loved each other equally, there wouldn’t be a shadow of a doubt to get the help that you fucking need.” your voice trembles, “I cannot keep pushing through this fog around you, Robby.” 

“I know.” Robby’s expression melts. Brown eyes softer than ever. “I know.” 

“Then get help. Please.” 

Robby cups the back of your head when tears begin to shed from your eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” he presses his lips to your forehead, “I’ll do it. I’m sorry.” 

The moment is held sacred against your hearts. There’s a particular weight that lifts off of your shoulders when Robby gives in, but even then…your heart was still heavy from the outcome of your previous argument in the Ambulance Bay. 

Maybe three months apart would mend those open wounds. (Absence made the heart grow fonder. Apparently.) 

Robby finally pulls back with a pained expression on his face; as he memorises your features close-up. “What I said before—I didn’t mean it. I’m not sure how I’d do in life if I didn’t have you up my ass about everything.” 

“I hear Montana has a lot of fresh oxygen. You can use all of that up with consistent apologies during your sabbatical.” you grouse, wiping at the wetness that Robby misses when he drags his thumb across your cheekbone—ridding you of a lash that had latched onto your skin. “You know, people divorce for less.” you say. 

Genuine laughter ripples from Robby’s chest, the moment of reconciliation solidified in your acerbic intonation. (Part of him wonders how many lives he has left before the reality of divorce comes to life.) 

Instead of answering back, Robby forgoes professional protocol by pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. It takes a few swallows to dislodge the lump in his throat, smothering his own upset when you pull away to meet his gaze.  

The door opens for a second time. 

Dana holds onto the handle, staring at the scenes before her over the rim of her glasses. “Would you look at that. It’s a Fourth of July miracle. Can this wrap up so we can do rounds and get the hell out of this godforsaken place? Two more minutes, lovebirds.”

Robby stands at the foot of the bed. It’s well after midnight and whilst you have shed into the comforts of your sleepwear, Robby is clad in a thick Carhartt jacket and dark jeans with his bag slung lazily over one shoulder. He is looking like the epitome of a reckless motorcyclist about to venture on the open road after a gruelling twelve—and some additional hours—shift at the Emergency Department.

You are sat with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Ready to bid your husband goodbye; praying it’s rather a ‘see you soon’ sort of farewell.

His confirmation in the Staff Room didn’t sit all that well in your stomach. 

“You have got everything?” you ask, twiddling with the hem of his jacket, “Wallet? Phone? Cash? The list of phone numbers I wrote down for you?” Robby nods along as you list it off, “Toothbrush? Phone charger? The little First Aid Kit I bought?” 

“Check.” Robby affirms. 

There’s an unfamiliar feeling rolling about in the air of your bedroom. Robby and you had rarely spent time apart—as unhealthy as it may sound to other couples, it just works for you. Nothing more than a week, when you decided to take a well-earned break from the seventh layer of hell named the Pitt. 

Three months would feel like a lifetime. 

You sigh deeply, “Call me. Or text me when you arrive at the first hotel. I love you. Kind of.” 

“I love you too, sweetheart.” Robby leans down to kiss you sweetly. His hand captures your jawline to deepen the kiss to gratify his needs. He barely pulls back to look at you, “I’ll miss you.” 

“I’d hope so.” you kiss him again. Your hands rest against the broad-line of his shoulders, whilst his free hand clutches your back to press your body into him. You whisper against his feverish kiss, “You’re running late to get on the road.” 

“I’ve got time.” Robby answers back. 

The change in pace happens abruptly. One minute you’re exchanging a bittersweet goodbye, and the next, your t-shirt has been yanked over your head, leaving your chest exposed; nipples hardening from the cool air. 

Robby bends to capture a nipple into his mouth, his beard creating a sweet fiction alongside his tongue swiping at your bud. He groans against your tit, and you take the opportunity to slide his bag from his shoulder—his jacket coming off quickly after. 

Once he pays attention to your neglected nipple by repeating the same actions, he pulls back with his hair sticking up in all directions as a result of you tugging at it. 

His pupils are blown wide. 

“You want me to take care of you before I leave, hm?” Robby asks, his tone dripping in saccharine.

You nod, breathless. 

He dips his head to press wet kisses down your navel whilst you instinctively lift your hips when his fingers hook at the sides of your flimsy excuse for underwear; which he stuffs into the back pocket of his jeans for later. The air thickens, the silence filling with lewd groans from Robby’s mouth as he lifts and parts your thighs, pressing them up to your chest to expose your slick core. 

His callus palms smooth across the length of the backs of your thighs, creating goosebumps in his wake. Brown eyes drift from your aching pussy, up to your face to observe your reaction when he drags two fingers from your seeping hole and upward to your sensitive clit. 

You jolt and whimper from the sensation and Robby clicks his tongue, shushing you as he repeats the same action. 

Once he gathers enough of your juices on his two fingers, he applies pressure to your clit and begins to rubbing in slow circles. You whine, legs making effort to drop down to relieve the pressure; only for Robby’s free hand to pin them against your chest again. 

“Robby…” you manage to say. 

Robby cocks his head to the side to watch your hole clench around empty air. “That feel good?” 

Your brows pinch with your eyes fluttering shut. Instead of answering his question, you bring a hand to bite down on—which Robby promptly swats away. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart. Let me know.” 

You nod, “Uh-huh.” 

“Good. Fuck, look at you.” Robby drags his fingers down to your hole and eases them in with little resistance. He groans when your walls clench tightly around his digits, “How can I leave this?” 

Unable to respond again, your hips tilt when Robby curls his fingers upward into you, enough to make your jaw clench. He presses his thumb-pad against your clit, rubbing at a pace that he’s well aware that you appreciate. 

Long-term commitment does wonders to mapping out the hot spots of your anatomy. 

The room fills with a schlicking sound with Robby pumping his fingers in and out of you at a gentle pace. 

“I’ve got you.” Robby mumbles, jaw slack at the sight of you arching your back off of the mattress. He takes his free hand that had your legs pinned and applies weight to your lower stomach, picking up the pace with his fingers. “Ooh. There it is.” he says as your walls fit snug against his fingers.

“I’m—Fuck.” you whinge, spots lining your vision. “Robby, please.” 

Robby bobs his head a handful of times, arm beginning to ache from the relentless back and forth motion. His restraint is minimal, quick to shift himself halfway off the bed so his eyes are level with your swollen lips. You’re soaked. He can see at the base of his fingers collects your cream, which allows his thought process is thrown out the window. 

Suddenly, Robby has all the time in the world before he has to leave.

When his mouths latches onto your clit, that’s when things become a little more desperate. His moans vibrate against you, sending you squirming; stomach tensing as he sucks at your swollen nerves—if anything, he wants to leave a lasting impression upon his departure. 

Robby swaps between kitten licks and suckling at your clit—his tongue occasionally dipping to taste the closeness at your hole. His thick fingers work at your insides. Eyes flit up to see your mouth open, bare chest panting from the coil in your stomach on the precipice of snapping. 

It is Robby’s favourite things; watching you come undone. 

His own hips find friction against the mattress as you let out a guttural moan from the back of your throat, body curling into the orgasm that your husband pulls from you. 

You push at Robby’s head when he sucks at your clit out of greed. Too sensitive, you slump into the mattress with the palm of your hand lying flat against your forehead. 

Robby straightens up at the end of the bed with a smug smile, eyes twinkling. “You okay?” 

You wordlessly give him a thumbs up, whining when he pulls his two fingers from your vagina.

After a minute, you rest on your elbows to watch your husband fiddle with his belt. “Let me help.” you advise, moving onto your knees to assist him. 

You’re brought into a bruising kiss as you tug the belt from the belt loops, tossing it to the ground with a ‘thunk.’ It’s light work—removing Robby’s jeans and boxers in one swoop—as you had been in this very position several times throughout your relationship; able to visualise the steps in which Robby matches your nudity. 

As you look down, Robby huffs, “Give it a second, sweetheart.”

His cock still semi-soft, he wraps a hand around the hardened base and gives himself a few pumps so the rest of his shaft could catch up. 

He sheepishly chuckles, “If I was a few years younger—” 

“I don’t care.” you kiss him to halt the self-deprecation, “Means I get to steal more time off of your sabbatical.” 

It had always been an explanation during sex. The first time it had happened, Robby insisted his level of attractions toward you hadn’t depleted, rather it was just his age showing at the worst possible time—something he’d take more gray hairs and wrinkles over any day. 

Never stunting his performance, nor was it a deal breaking factor for you, every time since Robby’s delay in stiffening; you had to remind him there was nothing wrong with it. 

Slow and steady wins the race. 

You lick your lips, watching Robby work his shaft in his hand, his wedding band catching the warmth of the salt lamp at your bedside. He lifts his free hand whilst you watch, the two fingers that had been deep inside you now edging their way into your mouth. 

“Taste that?” Robby asks lowly, “You’re ovulating, sweetheart.” 

His fingers leave your mouth with a faint ‘pop’ and it seems to do the trick as Robby’s tip is flushed red, his slit beginning to bead with precum.

You lower yourself back down onto the mattress with Robby following you. His callus palms come to the plushness of your hips, and he turns you over so your front is lying flush against the tousled sheets.

He dips to press a kiss between your shoulder blades before hiking your hips upward so you are resting on all fours.

Robby hums as he drags his cock through your wetness, “I’m going to miss you.”   

Your fingers curl into the cotton sheets, goosebumps trailing up the length of your spine. Robby kisses your back again, the tip of his cock nudging at your hole. He gives you both a minute before sinking himself in inch by inch; his lips pressing to your skin to smother the groan eliciting from his throat. 

There’s no rush in his movement. There’s around thirty seconds of adjusting before he sinks further into your pussy, his head dropping back when he is to the hilt. 

Robby stays in your warmth without moving for a minute. 

After a minute or so, his hips begin to shift, the softest part of his stomach pressing to your ass when he buries himself deep. Stabilising himself by grasping onto your ass cheeks, fingers digging into your flesh; Robby’s brows furrow from the searing pleasure as he looks down to see his shaft already coated in your arousal. 

You hang your head, letting out a whimper from feeling so full. 

“Jesus—You feel good.” Robby grits behind you. He watches your back muscles tense when he slides his cock out slowly, “Are you going to miss this, baby?” 

You can’t answer. The tip of Robby’s cock plunges into a spongy part, and your vision is lined with white spots. 

Robby gives you a second and repeats the motion until his desire to hear you reaffirm his question takes over. He frees a hand from grappling at your backside, his fingers curling around your throat to tilt your head back to look him in the eye. 

“Tell me.” 

You almost cry, “Yes—fuck—yes, I’ll miss this.” 

“Uh-huh.” Robby grins, “You will.” 

The hand being used to force eye contact is removed and you whine when Robby fully pulls out of you. He flips you back over onto your back with ease, folding your legs up to your chest again before sinking back into you without warning. 

Your back arches as much as it can from being pinned; Robby dips to smother it with a sloppy kiss. 

Your hands curl around his neck, whimpering when you feel him pulse inside you. Well aware that it wasn’t going to last long. 

His thrusts are shallow and restricted to contain his own climax for a little while longer. The tip of his cock brushes against a sensitive part, and he’s left breathlessly chuckling when you tighten yourself around him. 

“You’ll make me cum doing that.” Robby lifts his head, eyes squeezing shut. He drags himself out of you until the tip of his cock is at your opening. You clench to suck the majority of his shaft back in. “Shit baby. Fuck it. Keep squeezing me like that. Just like that.” 

“Fuck, Robby.” is all you can muster, hands clawing at his back when he picks up his pace. 

Robby folds your legs back up to your chest for a third time that night. His thumb catches your clit—unsure if he can drag another orgasm out of you with little recovery time. “Let me fuck you right there. You feel it? You’re so fucking tight.” 

“Robby—” you babble.

“Hm? What is it, sweetheart?” Robby pants, the slapping sounds echoing in the room. 

You free your legs from his grasp and wrap them around his middle. “I want—I need you to cum inside me.” 

“Fuck. Don’t say shit like that.” Robby laughs, his pace faltering. He looks at your expression and realises you’re being serious. “Is that what you want? For me to cum inside you? What if you get pregnant?” 

“I don’t care, I don’t care.” you plead. 

Robby shakes his head, “Okay, okay. I’ll cum inside you.” his thrust start to get sloppy at the thought, “Are you going to lay here, long after I’m gone, with my cum leaking out of you? Is that what you’re going to do?” 

You nod vigorously. 

“Fuck. Ask me nicely.” he commands. 

“Please, Robby.” you breathe out, “Please.” 

Robby nods, sweat beading his hairline from the exertion. He dips his head to bring you into a searing kiss, “I love you.” he mumbles against your lips. 

There’s fewer words spoken after that. The bed creaks as Robby begins to pound into your pussy with one goal in mind. His soft stomach brushes against your pubes as he barely pulls out of you, hungry with need to stay deep within your walls. 

Your legs lock around his middle and Robby lifts your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh of your backside as he brings your lower half up; fucking into you with desperation. 

You babble his name, “I’m going to cum again.” you repeat over and over with the hot feeling returning in your stomach. 

“You can do it, sweetheart.” Robby encourages, thumb applying pressure to your already sensitive clit. “Give me one last one before I leave. Let me feel it around my cock.” 

The climax ripples through you for a second time at his words. Walls clenching around him so tightly, it made thrusting into you near impossible. Robby continues as best as he can, watching your face twist in painful pleasure. 

It’s enough to send him over the edge with you. 

“Fuck, fuck!” Robby grits out before his words are smothered beneath deep groans as he shoots hot ropes deep inside you. His body weight slumps on top of you, skin slick with sweat as he ruts into you a few more times for good measure. 

You can feel his cum seep out at your opening, around his shaft that was still tucked deep in your pussy. Robby twitches inside of you, moving deeper a few times to ensure you’re stuffed to the brim. 

He kisses the side of your face as he pants out, “I have no idea what I’ll do without you for three months.” 

The familiar melancholy returns to your stomach at the realisation that this was the conclusion before three months without him. 

“…Just come back to me, Robinavitch.”

A/N: thank u to my sweet @novatheory for listening to my rambling over this fic and reading the snippets of drafts i would send at random times. mwah!!!!

You reached for the saline, irrigating the wound carefully while she winced only slightly. She was somewhere in her late seventies, maybe early eighties. Sharp as a tack despite the pain medication, endlessly chatty, and reminding you so much of your grandmother.

"So," she asked after a comfortable silence, watching you work. "How long have you worked here?"

"Long enough to know which patients I need to keep my eye on." You glanced up with a wink. "And you're at the top of today's list."

"Oh, you're wicked."

You finished flushing the wound before drying the surrounding skin, laying out your suture kit with practiced efficiency. Needle driver. Forceps. Scissors. Suture. Mrs Clark watched every movement with surprising interest.

"So," you already recognised that tone. “Are you seeing anyone?"

Your hands paused for a second before continuing.

"Straight to the important questions?"

"At my age," she replied matter-of-factly, "I don't waste time."

"Fair enough."

"So?"

"I'm seeing someone."

Her entire face brightened.

"Oh, good."

You found yourself smiling as you picked up the first stitch.

"Very good, actually."

"How long?"

You thought for a moment, eyes fixed on bringing the edges of the wound neatly together.

"About six months now."

"And?"

"And," you admitted quietly, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips, "he's wonderful."

Mrs Clark's eyes sparkled.

"You’ve got that smile."

You frowned, though it lacked any conviction.

"What smile?"

"The one a woman gets when she's completely smitten."

Heat crept into your cheeks.

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

"Oh, I think you do."

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head.

"He's," you threaded another stitch through the skin. "He's just a good man."

"What does he do?"

You hesitated.

"We work together. He’s a doctor here.”

Mrs Clark nodded knowingly.

"Does that make things easier or harder?"

You couldn't help chuckling.

"Both."

"How so?"

You looked down at the wound, concentrating on keeping your stitches evenly spaced.

"He worries too much."

"About you?"

You smiled to yourself.

"He'd deny it, but yes."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you worry about him?"

Your fingers continued to move in a steady rhythm.

"Constantly."

The word slipped out before you had the chance to soften it. Mrs Clark's smile softened into something almost maternal.

"Oh, sweetheart."

Before you could recover, two familiar knocks sounded against the door. 

"Come in."

The door swung open, Robby stepped inside, rubbing freshly dispensed sanitiser between his hands.

"I heard you were hiding in here."

"I'm working," you corrected without looking up.

"So you claim."

He wandered over, stopping just beside your shoulder. Not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that you became acutely aware of his presence. He leaned slightly to inspect the repair.

"You mind if I watch?"

You smiled.

"You checking my work?"

"I'm supervising."

"Uh-huh."

He watched quietly for a moment, his eyes following the precise rhythm of your hands.

"Hm."

You glanced sideways.

"Hm, good or hm, concerning?"

"The spacing's good."

You looked back at the wound before he could see how ridiculously pleased that made you.

"High praise."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"I'll try."

Mrs Clark had gone suspiciously quiet. Her eyes drifted between the two of you. The way Robby instinctively moved closer whenever you shifted position. The way you made room for him without either of you acknowledging it. The comfortable silence that settled whenever neither of you spoke. A slow smile spread across her face.

"Ah."

You frowned.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing."

She looked directly at Robby.

"So you're the one she worries about."

Your hand froze for the briefest second.

"Mrs Clark."

"What?" she asked innocently. "I only repeated what she told me."

Robby looked at her first.

"She said that?"

"Word for word."

Only then did he turn to you. There was no teasing in his expression at first. Just quiet surprise.

"You worry about me?"

You looked back at Mrs Clark with a shake of your head.

"I was under the impression doctor-patient confidentiality applied."

Mrs Clark burst into laughter.

"I don't think that's how it works my dear." Robby chuckled, folding his arms loosely across his chest. You tied the final knot before snipping the suture.

"There."

You reached for the dressing, smoothing it into place.

"All finished." Mrs Clark watched the pair of you with open delight.

"She's blushing."

You groaned, finally looking up at Robby, and he was smiling. Not the amused grin he wore with most people. Something softer, something only for you. Your stomach performed an embarrassing little flip.

Mrs Clark clasped her hands together.

"Oh, I like the two of you. How long have you two been married?"

You couldn't help laughing.

"We're not married," Robby said, his voice gentle. Mrs Clark frowned thoughtfully and you shook your head. She hummed to herself, lips twitching. You knew that look. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"You knew perfectly well we weren't married, Mrs Clark." 

Mrs Clark's smile softened as she looked at the pair of you.

"The way he watches you, my Harold used to look at me like that."

The teasing disappeared from her voice. She nodded towards Robby.

Without meaning to, you looked up and Robby was already looking at you. The moment your eyes met, he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the suture tray.

"Forty-eight years."

She folded her hands in her lap.

"Didn't matter if we were in church, or at home reading the newspaper. When I asked what he was looking at, he'd say, 'Just making sure you're real.'"

The treatment room fell quiet. Then she looked directly at Robby.

"I haven't seen that look in a long time." She smiled again, entirely unbothered, "Don't keep her waiting too long. I had forty-eight years with my husband." She looked at the wedding ring she still wore. "It still wasn't enough."

Even Robby had no witty reply.

Your stomach twisted. You dropped your gaze immediately, fussing with the dressing even though it was already sitting perfectly.

A ring, marriage. You'd never really let yourself picture it. Not because you didn't want it, but because you'd always quietly assumed Robby didn't. He'd never talked about weddings or forever or any of it. He wasn't exactly the daydreaming type, and you'd made your peace with that months ago. Being with him was enough. The last thing you ever wanted was for him to think you expected something he didn't want.

Beside you, Robby noticed the way you'd gone quiet. The smile had vanished from your face. Your shoulders had tightened ever so slightly. He felt something sink in his chest.

Mrs Clark looked between the two of you, her smile fading just a touch.

"Have I put my foot in it?"

"No," you and Robby answered together.

She sighed dramatically.

"Oh, dear."

You finally looked at Robby. He met your eyes for just a second. Both of you wore almost identical expressions, thoughtful and uncertain.

You had always imagined getting married. Not in the ‘I've planned every detail since I was twelve’ kind of way. Just one day, finding your person and standing in front of the people you loved. Promising forever. You had stopped picturing who that person might be years ago. Until Robby. Then he had taken the place that always belonged to him. You'd imagined wearing his ring. Growing old together. Then, just as quickly, you'd forced yourself to stop. Because he had never talked about marriage. Not once. Not when conversations drifted toward the future. Not when colleagues announced engagements.

You had taken the hint. He was older than you, he had built a life before you came into it. Maybe he had already decided marriage wasn't for him. Maybe he had seen too many relationships fall apart. Maybe he simply didn't need a piece of paper to prove how he felt. And that was ok, it had to be ok. Because you loved him. You weren't about to lose him over something he'd never promised you.

You felt Robby watching you for the rest of the shift. He had been quiet all afternoon. Not withdrawn, just somewhere else. Every time your paths crossed, he smiled politely. Professionally. Then he kept walking. It felt wrong.

When your shift finally ended, you were halfway through changing out of your scrubs when you heard a knock on the locker room door.

"You decent?" Robby. He stepped inside, already changed into jeans and his navy zip up, his keys twirling lazily around one finger. You quickly finished the knot in your laces before standing to sling your bag over your shoulder.

"You ready?"

“I want to talk to you first.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

"I knew that was coming."

He leaned lightly against the row of lockers opposite you.

"Mrs Clark."

You groaned.

"Please don't."

"I think we have to."

You dropped your eyes.

“It doesn’t have to be awkward Robby, we can just let it go.”

“No, I want to talk about it. I want us to be on the same page.”

You knew he was right, even if you did want to bury your head in the sand. You nodded, giving in. 

“When she mentioned it, us being married, you looked uncomfortable.” It sounded more like a question, like he wanted confirmation. 

"I was embarrassed."

He took a slow breath.

"I know. I saw it on your face."

“Robby, I just didn’t want you thinking I assumed anything. I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting more than what you’re happy to give.”

His brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"You've never talked about marriage."

He said nothing, just continued to watch you thoughtfully.

"I know it’s not something you see in your future, or our future," you continued quietly, “and that’s ok. Because if it isn’t something you want, then I don’t want to lose you over it.”

His expression changed immediately.

"It isn't a deal breaker for me." You smiled gently.

His face morphed into something softer, the avoidant Robby from before disappeared. 

"You think that I don't want to marry you?" You couldn’t find the words to speak. You didn’t think Robby wanted to marry you, and you had tried to make peace with that. But to say it outloud, sounded like something you weren’t ready to hear.

“Listen to me,” he reached for your hand, “I know we've only been together a relatively short time." He was speaking carefully now. "And I don't want a comment from a patient making you think there's any pressure. But I want you to know, I have every intention of marrying you some day.”

You stared at him and for a full five seconds, your brain simply stopped. Then your eyes went impossibly wide.

“Really?”

The word came out in a tiny, almost disbelieving squeak. Something in Robby’s chest loosened. A smile spread slowly across his face, completely unguarded. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.

"Really."

Your hands flew to his forearms.

"No, but," you shook your head, searching his face. "You’re serious?"

"I’m serious."

A nervous laugh escaped you.

"You want to marry me?"

"I do."

Your entire face lit up. It wasn't just a smile, it was pure, unfiltered joy. The kind that reached your eyes before it reached your mouth. The kind you couldn't possibly fake.

"Oh my God." You laughed once, completely breathless. "Oh my God."

You bounced once on the balls of your feet before throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you automatically, chuckling as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

"You have no idea how happy you've just made me."

"I think I do."

"No, you don't!"

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your grin so wide your cheeks were beginning to ache.

“I didn’t think it bothered me that much, I've spent months telling myself I was perfectly happy never getting married because I had you. And now you're telling me," your smile somehow became even brighter, "that I get both?"

He smiled, unable to look away from you. You knew you weren’t the only one who had become giddy. Robby just wore it differently. Your excitement came out in your laughter, his came out in the quiet smiles and warm hands that didn’t let go of yours.

Mrs. Clark had been right. Every time you looked up, Robby was already looking at you. Not staring, just looking. Like he was taking it all in. 

"You know," he said as you climbed in the car, "your face might get stuck like that." He laughed under his breath, closing your door before walking around to the driver's side.

The moment he sat down, you looked at him again and he reached across and squeezed your hand. You tried to bite your lip to stop yourself grinning. It didn't work.

"You should probably prepare yourself, you know."

"For what?"

He turned on the engine and pulled out of the parking space with suspicious calm.

"I could ask you at any moment now."

Your head whipped towards him.

"What?"

He kept his eyes on the road, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Could be tonight."

You stared.

"Could be next week."

"Robby."

"I just think it's important you stay alert.” He shrugged with exaggerated seriousness. "Could happen in the grocery store."

You snorted.

"The grocery store?"

"You would be loading up the cart, turn around and there I am. Down on one knee. You'd never see it coming."

He glanced sideways at you, gripping your hand and bringing it to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

You ran your fingers through his hair, already disheveled from him raking his fingers though it all day. 

“How was work?” You asked him, as he leaned in planting a kiss to your cheek, making his way down to your neck. He let out a huff, his hand snaking behind your back and pulling you in closer. 

“Rough.” 

Your hands trailed up his chest, reaching for his jaw, bringing his lips to yours.

It wasn’t unusual for Robby to come back to yours after work, or for you to go to his. That was the arrangement you had. When you had time, you gave it to each other. But there were rules, and limits. 

Keep it casual.

That had been both of your priorities since the beginning. You were both too busy for dating, so you found something in each other that worked in both your favours. He would come to you, or you would go to him. And it worked, almost too well. Nothing ever got messy, no wires ever got crossed. You had agreed that although you weren’t exactly exclusive, you weren’t seeing or sleeping with other people. You both agreed on that as well. As casual as the whole situation was, it was yours, together. Just the two of you. At the start, you had both decided that staying the night made more sense. You work together, and time in between shifts was so limited that you both understood the importance of sleep where you can, when you can.

But, there came a point when you knew that it wasn’t just sex anymore. Robby knew that too. But you were both, for the time being, happy to keep pretending that it was as casual as it had been at the beginning. Eventually, somewhere along the way, he would come over and you would have dinner before falling asleep talking about your day. Mornings became just as familiar. The two of you would drift around the kitchen making coffee and eating breakfast, bickering over who got the bathroom first. You would perch on the counter brushing your teeth while Robby washed his face beside you. He always remembered your scarf as you rushed out the door, and you always remembered to close his windows so his apartment wasn't freezing when he got home.

He would find you at work, pull you into an empty supply cupboard and steal a kiss before returning to work like nothing happened. There was never much time in the chaos of the ED, but he still somehow always found thirty seconds for you. Sometimes it was nothing more than a brush of his fingers against yours as you passed each other in the corridor, hidden from everyone else's attention. Sometimes it was a folded note tucked into your scrub pocket, his messy handwriting scrawled across the paper. It wasn't dating. At least, that's what the two of you kept telling yourselves. If anyone noticed the way his eyes found yours in a room full of people, or how instinctively you reached for him after particularly difficult cases, nobody ever said anything. You certainly didn't. Neither did he. Because saying it out loud would mean admitting that the lines had blurred. 

Because casual relationships weren't supposed to look like that.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he mumbled against your skin, as he kissed a trail down your neck to your chest and eventually down to your stomach. His hands ghosted over your hips, hooking onto the fabric and slipping it down slowly over your legs. His hands grazed back into your thighs, pushing them apart gently and your hips bucked, desperate for the attention he was purposefully withholding.

“Robby,” you almost whispered, your breath hitching in your chest. Your hands reached for him, trying to guide him down as you shifted underneath him.

“You’re needy when you’re tired.” He laughed, kissing down your thighs, settling in between your legs and gripping you tightly, pulling you towards him. 

“And you’re a tease.” Your hands found his head, scratching through his hair.

He huffed a laugh, his breath fanning over you, making you squirm. He knew what he was doing, he always did. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he moaned into you, your hips twitching as the vibrations of his voice rolled through you. His fingers teased at your center, slipping in softly and slowly. 

Another cry of his name was the only thing you could seem to muster as you threw your head back into the pillow.

After you were showered and dressed, Robby still hadn’t moved from the bed. He lay on his back, one arm behind his head as he watched you search the room for the rest of your things. 

“My badge,” you muttered, checking the bedside table before Robby pointed you to the dresser by the door, his eyes never leaving you.

"What?" you asked, catching him staring.

"Nothing."

"You've been looking at me for the last five minutes."

"I know."

You laughed, shaking your head.

“That’s a dangerous look when I’m already running late, Robinavitch.”

His smile was tired, the kind that barely lifted the corners of his mouth after twelve hours on his feet.

"You don't have to go."

You looked over your shoulder. "Pretty sure they'll notice if I don't turn up."

"They'll survive."

"The emergency department?" You raised an eyebrow. "Unlikely."

He let out a quiet chuckle before sighing, dragging a hand over his face.

"When does this stupid night rotation end?"

You slipped your watch onto your wrist.

"Next week."

"So after next week," he looked at you hopefully. "you're back on days?"

You nodded.

"Finally."

You smiled as you stepped closer to the bed, smoothing a hand through his messy hair.

"You'll survive."

"I don't want to."

"Oh?"

"I hate not seeing you."

The words slipped out so naturally that neither of you acknowledged them. Instead, he reached for your hand, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over your knuckles.

"Our schedules are ridiculous."

"They always are."

"They're worse when you're on nights."

"It’s only one more week."

"A long week."

You leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead.

"Get some sleep."

You started towards the bedroom door before his voice stopped you.

"Hey."

You turned back.

"Be careful tonight."

You smiled softly and he watched you until you disappeared into the hallway, only letting himself close his eyes after he heard the front door click shut.

You stood outside in the ambulance bay, nursing what little you had left of your energy drink. That’s when you heard it, Robby’s motorcycle. You hated that thing, with a passion. Working in the ED there were certain things you were sworn off for life, motorcycles sat firmly at the top of the list. You just wished that Robby felt the same way. You watched as he rounded the corner, and you felt your heart drop into your stomach. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. Even from where you stood, you saw the way his shoulders tensed when he spotted you. He pulled to a stop, killed the engine and slipped off his sunglasses, guilt written all over his face.

“You’re joking.” You walked over to him, tossing your can into the nearby bin.

“Please tell me you’re joking because there is no way you just rode all the way here without wearing a helmet.” 

He swung his leg over his bike, grabbing his bag and inching slowly towards you like a child in trouble. You spoke before he had the chance to try and defend himself with whatever excuse he would muster up, you were too tired and too upset to hear it. 

“I can’t believe you. How could you be so reckless? You’re the attending of this ED,” you waved your hand behind you to the entrance, “every single day we treat people whose lives change in an instant because they make stupid decisions like this! For fuck sake Robby, what the hell are you thinking?”

He huffed a sigh, only making you angrier than you thought possible. He held his hand up in defence, like he was trying to calm you down, but it was having the opposite effect. 

“You don’t get to sigh at me.”

“It was only a ten minute ride, it’s not a big deal.”

Furious didn’t seem to touch the sides of what you were feeling. 

“Not a big deal.” You nodded your head. “Sure, so I’ll start driving my car without wearing my seat belt, not a big deal. It’s not like we treat people every day, with injuries that could have easily been avoided by wearing a seat belt. But screw it, hey? Because it’s not a big deal.”

You placed your hands on your hips, shaking your head, trying to look anywhere but at Robby, it was taking everything you had not to run over to him and physically shake some sense into him. 

His voice wasn't raised, but there was frustration creeping in now.

"I'm standing here, aren't I? Nothing happened."

You stared at him in disbelief.

"That's your defence?" The words echoed louder than you had intended.

A couple of paramedics glanced over before deciding they suddenly had somewhere else to be.

Robby lowered his voice.

"Please. I don't want to do this out here."

“Oh you don’t want to fight?” You laughed bitterly. 

He stepped closer.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be."

His jaw clenched.

"I made one stupid decision."

"Exactly."

"And I'm apologising."

"Because you got caught."

"No." He shook his head. "Because I upset you."

“You don’t like seeing me upset? Imagine how upset I’ll be when you’re brought in here, after crashing that death machine while not wearing a helmet. Imagine how heartbroken I’ll be if something terrible happened to you Robby!” You fought hard to keep the tears at bay, not wanting to cry in front of him. His expression softened immediately.

“Hey, I’m fine. Nothing happened, and nothing is going to happen.”

You laughed. It was all you could do. Never in your life did you think you’d have to worry about something as insane as this. 

“You know what Robby, it’s your life. If you’re happy playing chance with it, then go ahead. But I am done, leave me out of it.” 

You turned around despite hearing him call after you. You hurried to the bathroom, desperate for a moment of quiet and private place to cry. The tears came before you even reached the sink. You splashed cold water over your face, willing the sting behind your eyes to disappear. Your shift was over. All you had to do was grab your things and go home. But it still took another five minutes before you trusted yourself enough to leave. You kept your head down, hoping if you walked quickly enough you'd make it to the staff room unnoticed. You'd almost made it.

"Hey."

You closed your eyes.

"Please don't."

Robby was already beside you.

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want to do this."

"I know."

His voice was quiet now, stripped of the frustration from outside.

"Just talk to me for a minute."

Before you could object, he gently rested a hand against the small of your back, guiding you towards the nearest empty supply cupboard. The door clicked shut behind you. The shelves around you were crammed with boxes of gloves, IV tubing and gauze, leaving barely enough room for the two of you to stand. Robby rubbed the back of his neck.

"I shouldn't have ridden without it."

"No."

"I wasn't thinking."

"No."

"I'm sorry."

You nodded once. He took half a step closer.

"It won't happen again."

You looked away from him, your eyes drifting around the tiny room. You shook your head, wiping angrily at your cheeks.

"You don't get it. You came into my life," you laughed once, humourlessly. "You came into my life and you made yourself matter to me."

Robby's brow furrowed.

"You did that." You poked his chest once. Your eyes drifted around the tiny cupboard.

"You kissed me in here. We eat lunch together in the break room. We work side by side in trauma. You built the bookshelf in my apartment." Your voice cracked. "You're everywhere."

He didn't interrupt.

"If something happened to you," you swallowed hard. "I'd have to leave. I'd have to get another job because every corner of this hospital would remind me of you. I'd have to move because I'd walk past that bookshelf every day and think about you." You let out a shaky breath.

"You made yourself part of my life." The words came before you could stop them.

"I love you, Robby, but that's so selfish."

His face fell.

"What?"

"It's selfish." Your voice was barely above a whisper now. "You made yourself matter to me, and now you're acting like it doesn't matter if you throw your life away."

The words hung between you, and suddenly your stomach dropped when you realized what you had said. You stared at him for a heartbeat, horror settling across your features as the weight of your own words hit you. Without another word, you pushed past him, yanked the cupboard door open and disappeared into the corridor.

"Wait!"

You didn't, because you couldn’t. You felt the panic settle in your chest. You hadn't meant to say it. Not like that. Not at all.

You told yourself he'd come over after his shift. He always did. But you woke up alone, and that was confirmation enough of you. Whatever was going on between you and Robby was over. 

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the look on Robby's face when they left your mouth. Shock, or anger? Confusion? Something you hadn't stayed long enough to figure out. 

You spent the whole of your next shift replaying the argument over and over again. Not the shouting or the tears. Just three words.

I love you.

It was all you could think of, all day. Between that and the endless flow of patients, by the time the day staff started arriving, you were exhausted. You escaped to the break room with a lukewarm coffee and every intention of sitting down for five minutes before dragging yourself home. The chair felt softer than you remembered. You rested your forehead against your folded arms. Just five minutes, that was all. You didn't even realise you'd fallen asleep until you felt something warm brush gently across your back, slowly dragging you from your sleep. Your brow furrowed as you blinked awake, lifting your head just enough to look over your shoulder.

Robby. His hand fell away the moment he realised you were awake.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

You rubbed at your eyes, still half asleep.

"What time is it?"

"About seven."

You sat up with a groan.

"I was supposed to go home."

"I know."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The awkwardness settled between you almost immediately. You weren't sure whether to apologise or leave. Before you could decide, Robby pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down. His hands disappeared into the pockets of his jacket.

"I wanted to show you something."

He placed a set of keys on the table between you. Car keys. They sat in front of you, a small black fob attached to a dealership key tag. You frowned.

"What?"

Your eyes lifted to Robby.

"So," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I sold it."

You looked from the keys, to him and then back again.

"You sold your motorcycle?"

He nodded. You couldn't quite find the words.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

"So why did you?"

He let out a quiet breath.

"I kept thinking about what you said."

You immediately looked away.

"Robby."

"No." His voice was gentle, his tired smile returning. "Not the part you're embarrassed about."

Heat crept into your cheeks.

"The rest of it."

Silence settled between you.

"You were right."

You looked back at him.

"I was acting like nothing could happen to me."

His fingers tapped absently against the table.

"And if it did,” he shook his head. "I never thought about what it'd do to you."

Your throat tightened.

"You don't have to give up something you love because of me."

His small smile grew across his face.

"I was thinking about that too. And you've made it pretty clear over the last few months that you were never getting on the back of that thing."

Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.

"Not a chance."

"I figured."

He nudged the keys a little closer to you.

"So I bought a car. A very sensible sedan. Because I like the idea of being able to drive my girlfriend home.”

Your breath caught.

"Your girlfriend?"

The words hung between you. For the first time since you'd known him, Robby looked almost nervous. His hand rubbed absentmindedly at the back of his neck before he let out a quiet laugh.

"Well," he shrugged, his smile small and almost sheepish. "That's what I'm hoping."

The lump in your throat became impossible to swallow. The tears came before you could stop them.

"Oh, don't," Robby sighed, already pushing back his chair.

"I'm not trying to."

"I know."

He was beside you in two strides. You laughed through your tears as he cupped your face, brushing away the ones that had escaped with the pads of his thumbs. Your forehead rested against his. He looked at you for a long moment.

"I love you." He said finally.

The words were quiet, but certain, and they knocked the air out of your lungs. You reached up, grabbing his hand that cradled your cheek.

“Good.” You laughed softly, tears still clinging to your lashes.

"You're supposed to say it back." His smile widened.

"I already did." 

Robby smiled, the tired lines around his eyes softening as he leaned in. He didn’t rush. He kissed you gently, the same way he always had. He kissed you like a million more kisses were already promised. When you pulled back, Robby murmured, "So, does this mean we’re not keeping it casual anymore?”

A quiet laugh fluttered in your chest.

"I think we were pretty bad at that anyway." You smiled.

There is already a small crowd accumulating in the cramped North Shore dive bar when you, Samira Mohan, and Mel King breeze through the door. It’s unseasonably warm, the late winter fading to a tease of early spring you know the city won’t be able to sustain for long. You bring the temperate air in with you, a stray gust catching the hems of your dress, and it takes you all a moment to right yourselves.

Over the last month of immersing yourself among the crew of PTMC, you have learned that this is a favorite haunt of theirs – relatively close to the hospital, casual, homey in the way that these small, unpretentious establishments tend to be. You’ve been here twice before, once with Dana at the end of your first week on the job and once with a larger group to celebrate the nurse practitioner Donnie’s birthday. This time, the celebrant is Samira.

“Over here!”

A voice cuts through the sound of nineties rock blaring through the speakers, and you glance up to find Alpha resident Trinity Santos flagging you down from a booth near the back of the bar. She has a cocktail in hand already – tequila soda with lime, if you remember correctly from the last outing – and her dark hair hangs in limp waves around her cheeks, crimped in that specific way that tells you she has just taken it out of a ponytail.

Clustered around the booth with her are the rest of the day crew who have just finished their shifts – Dennis, Cassie, Princess, Victoria, all looking a bit haggard though in good enough spirits. Victoria has dark circles under her eyes, and Princess’s signature braids are starting to frizz along her hairline. Even still, the cries of “happy birthday!” are loud and earnest, and you can sense the happiness and embarrassment rolling off of Samira in waves as she smiles back.

The three of you make your way through the press of other patrons, squeezing your way down the narrow stretch between the bar and the booths along the wall. The others spill out to greet you, and although you know the celebration isn’t for you, you can’t help but respond with the same warmth and fondness. Working shoulder to shoulder with this team has brought you closer to them than you would have expected, certainly more than you’ve experienced while on other travel contracts. Though you might only count a few as true friends, the camaraderie between you all is undeniable. You’re happy to spend your precious free time in their company, particularly if it means getting out of Dana and Benji’s house for the night.

Not that you aren’t grateful for their hospitality; of course, you are, and you love them both dearly. But something about living in their home, sharing their meals, and sleeping in their youngest daughter’s old bedroom has you feeling a bit like a teenager again. You need a night to breathe.

“Hey, Cassie,” you say with an easy smile as the older Alpha pulls you into a friendly embrace. There are bright red patches of skin at the base of her pale neck, evidence of the irritation left behind by the hospital’s scent blocker patches. Without the dulling effects of the medicated cotton and hospital antiseptic, she smells like late October in your nostrils – fallen leaves and baking spices. It’s comforting, maternal, and lived-in.

“Thank god,” she groans into your hair. “I feel like I’ve been babysitting.”

You snort a laugh as, around you, a chorus of protests fill the air.

“Fuck off, you love us,” Trinity says, giving Cassie a playful shove. The young resident’s eyes shine tellingly in the dim light of the bar, and you’re suddenly certain that the drink in her hand is not the first one she has imbibed this evening.

“How on earth did you get here before us? Didn’t you all work today?” you ask with a frown.

Trinity shrugs. “Maybe we’re just that good.” You arch an eyebrow at her, hitting her with a pointed stare, and she smirks. “Nah,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Honestly, we got lucky today. And everyone was super motivated to get the hell out of there. Aaaand speaking of, there she is, the birthday queen herself!”

You turn just in time to see Samira shrugging off her jacket and tossing it into the booth. The dress she’s wearing is truly befitting the milestone of her thirtieth birthday – a deep plummy-purple silk thing that hugs the curve of her waist, its plunging neckline showing off the freshly-healed mating bite where her neck meets her shoulder. Her long legs are clad in sheer black stockings, the heels on her feet sure to bring her to at least eye level with her mate when he arrives.

“Goddamn. Look at you!” Trinity sounds physically pained as she takes in the senior resident’s apparel. You can hardly blame her for the reaction; it’s certainly a far cry from the nondescript black and gray scrubs you typically see each other in. “C’mon, give us a twirl.”

Samira hides her face in her hands for a moment, embarrassed by the attention, but you can tell there’s a part of her that is pleased, too. Obligingly she gives a little turn, spinning on the smooth soles of her heels, and you join the others in whistling and cheering her on.

“Jesus Christ,” Trinity sighs. “Abbot is one lucky bastard.”

The evidence of her interest is blatant, a wave of enticing sweetness scenting the air, the fragrance making you laugh while Dennis Whitaker grimaces. “Okay, okay, we get it, Dr. Mohan’s hot. Lay off the pheromones,” the young Omega scolds. His pale cheeks are tinged pink.

Patting him soothingly on the back, you, too, shed your jacket and adjust the ruffles on your skirt as you settle in. There’s something so freeing about getting to look like yourself for once, to not have to make yourself bland and sexless for the sake of the workplace. If you’re honest, most of your time outside of scrubs is spent in your pajamas, so the flirty little number you have on tonight is a particular treat.

Feeling flush with warmth, you announce to the table, “First round’s on me!” And then softer, to Samira, you add, “What can I get for you, birthday girl?”

“Whatever you’re having,” she replies, shrugging noncommittally. “I’m not picky.”

You blink at her. “It’s your birthday. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“I know.” She slides into the booth with a mischievous smile. “And for my birthday, I would very much like to not have to make any decisions.”

Barking a laugh, you give her a mock salute. Samira is a girl after your own heart – exhausted, a bit strung out, and ready to be pampered. “Of course. I can do that. Now, what about for the rest of you?”

Robby can’t remember the last time he joined the crew for a night out. It has to have been more than a year, maybe two. It isn’t as though he hasn’t been invited; on the contrary, Whitaker makes it a point to ask every time. Santos, too, on occasion. He keeps a handful of excuses in his back pocket for when the question arises – he has other plans, he’s promised a neighbor he’ll let their dog out, just let him wrap up this one patient and he’ll meet them there, he swears.

Lately, he can never quite muster the energy it would take to laugh through a few beers and play a round of darts. He can’t imagine sitting around a high-top or crowding himself into a booth and talking for hours. These days, every bit of himself goes to the hospital, every scrap of enthusiasm and identity siphoned from him by the ceaseless pace, the endless demand. Outside of those walls, he is hollow, devoid of substance.

Which is why, when Jack had asked him to come to Mohan’s birthday celebration, Robby had been quick to decline. It sounded like precisely the sort of gathering he preferred to avoid, and that wasn’t even taking into account the…strained relationship between himself and his senior resident. Admittedly, he has been trying to mend fences there, but he knows he has a long way to go to get back to a place where her hackles don’t immediately go up when he enters the room. Would she even want him there, he wonders? Somehow, he doubts it.

Jack, however, assure him that she does – once when he first invites him and then again when Robby had attempted to back out of their plans not half an hour ago. The older Alpha still has his reservations, but he chooses to trust his friend. After all, if anyone were to know what Samira Mohan wants, it would be her mate.

The bar is crowded when they arrive. There are a few faces Robby doesn’t recognize, a few pockets of neighborhood regulars not associated with PTMC, but the majority of the people he spots from the doorway are part of his team. A gaggle of night shift congregated by the bar, a table full of nurses he barely recognizes out of their scrubs, and there, nearly to the back of the bar, a cluster of day shift, half draped across the nearest booth, half hanging out into the narrow aisle, uproarious laughter spilling through the bar almost loud enough to drown out the music.

Just as he expects, Jack spots Samira immediately – holding court with her day shift colleagues, arm looped through one of Mel King’s, leaning into her shoulder companionably. He doesn’t bother to excuse himself from Robby’s side, simply locks eyes with her through the crowd and makes a beeline through the throng of bodies to meet her.

The crowd parts for him effortlessly, the space deferring to him without question or thought, and Robby shakes his head ruefully. Jack has always worn his Alpha status with such grace.

He gets to the collection of day-shifters before Robby does, and it takes him all of about two seconds to extend a hand and coax Samira out of the booth. The older attending can’t quite hear what the two say to each other, though the tone of their voices is warm and intimate, and it’s impossible to mistake the joy pouring out of each of them as Jack takes her into his arms.

It’s been years since his best friend has looked at another person like that, with deep wrinkles around his eyes and an even deeper softness in his smile. The loss of his first mate, his wife, had nearly killed him, and Robby had done his best to help him pick up the pieces in the aftermath. Looking at him now, watching him pull Mohan in for a deep kiss in front of the entire bar, is like looking at a different person in all the best ways.

Though Robby would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy at the whole display. Jack had somehow managed to find a great love not once, but twice. Two other halves of his soul, two marks of devotion scored into the meat of his neck. For something that he had never really thought he might want, the other Alpha certainly did make it look appealing.

The kiss drags on for a handful of seconds too long, and the crowd responds appropriately – cat calls and wolf whistles, a stray crumpled straw wrapper tossed and landed perfectly in Jack’s salt-and-pepper hair. By the time he finally lets Mohan go, the senior resident is laughing and hiding her face in his neck, and Robby has taken to busying himself reviewing the chalkboard beer menu hanging behind the bar.

“Oh! Dr. Robby!”

He blinks, turning to find Mohan running a nervous hand over her now-disheveled curls, an embarrassed half-smile quirking the corners of her lips.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” she continues, and goddamn it, Jack was right. She looks a bit confused but undeniably pleased to see him. Her big, dark eyes give her away. She looks like someone has given her a gift she’s afraid she’s not allowed to accept, and Robby’s chest aches.

Glancing down at the scuffed, sticky floor, he replies haltingly, “My, uh. My schedule opened up. And I didn’t want to miss telling you happy birthday, so.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, meets her gaze through his eyebrows. “Happy birthday, Dr. Mohan.”

He watches as she blinks at him, taken aback. “Thank you.” Her voice is soft and painfully earnest and tinged disbelief. He hates that something as simple as a birthday wish from him is so unexpected, but he has no one but himself to blame for that. So he bears it with a toothless smile and tries not to let loose a sigh of relief when she adds, “I’m happy you’re here.”

“Me, too.” Clearing his throat, Robby shifts on his feet and redirects his attention to the rest of the table. There’s a collection of empty beer bottles and cocktail glasses scattered across its surface, as well as a round of shots that he suddenly feels thankful he missed. It’s been a long time since his tired body could tolerate that kind of night out. Still, he offers, “Let me know when you all are ready for another, next round’s on me.”

At that, Trinity Santos lets out a triumphant sound and bangs both of her palms down onto the surface of the table, shaking glasses and sending bottles rolling. “That’s what I’m talking about – drinks on Dr. Robby!”

The lingering crowd bursts into laughter, and feeling lighter than he has in a long time, Robby can’t help but join them.

You are two amaretto sours deep by the time the attendings make their conspicuous entrance.

It would be impossible not to notice their approach, two broad-shouldered, graying men with the same competent swagger, the same quiet authority in the way they cut through the crowd. It’s a rarity to see either of them outside of the hospital, even rarer to see them in anything other than scrubs, and there are just enough drinks in your system for the sight to send heat rushing to your cheeks. Dr. Abbot, of course, has eyes only for Samira (as he should). But Dr. Robby…

Booze humming in your bloodstream, syrupy sugar and tart lemon juice coating your tongue, you watch the way the older Alpha’s ears flush pink at the group’s attention. You watch the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way his dark, silver-threaded hair fluffs and ruffles as he passes a large hand over his head in self-consciousness. In the month you’ve been working in his ED, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve heard him laugh like this, and it never fails to make your chest tighten.

It’s honestly frustrating how intriguing you find him. Even after that first stilted, off-putting introduction, there’s a pull to him, a gravity that you can’t quite shake.

It’s all innocuous, all professional, but you can’t deny that over the last month, you have spent more time on Dr. Robby’s patients than anyone else’s. You take every opportunity to work cases at his side in the trauma bays, standing elbow-to-elbow with Jesse and Kim and the other seasoned nursing staff, all the while learning his methods, his preferred instruments, the shorthand of his commands. You’ve started to be able to anticipate his orders before he gives them, and you tell yourself that it’s all in the name of the job. You assure yourself that you’re doing the same things you’ve always done, that you’re simply living up to the central tenet of travel nursing – get good, and do it fast. It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth, either.

Even now, even in a crowd of your peers, free from the confines of the sterile hospital walls, you can feel the tug of his presence in your gut. It’s like he’s got a homing beacon in the pocket of his classic Levi’s, and the receiver is tucked behind your navel. He mingles with your colleagues, floating from table to table, and it does not matter how invested you are in your conversation with Princess about Love is Blind or how interested you are in Cassie’s story about her last family vacation. A part of you is always focused on him.

And fuck, but he looks good. Not that he wasn’t handsome in his scrubs, but there’s something intimate about seeing his familiar figure in this new context. The bulk of his well-loved canvas coat, the softness of the navy-blue flannel he wears beneath it, the way the buttons of that flannel pull slightly against the breadth of his chest and the gentle curve of his belly. His jeans are effortless and perfectly-fitted, and you are embarrassed to acknowledge that you recognize the brown boots on his feet from the days when he rides his motorcycle to work. He looks rugged. Strong. Stupidly masculine in a way that speaks to the basest part of your psyche.

You’re such a goddamn cliché – the younger, subordinate Omega squirming in her seat over the older Alpha in a position of power. You’d be mortified if you weren’t so…distracted.

You make it about another 15 minutes before you find yourself slipping from the booth and retreating to the bar. You’re going to need another drink if you’re going to survive the rest of the night without making a fool of yourself at the feet of the chief attending. Perhaps something a bit stronger than amaretto this time…

Flagging down a bartender, you order a whiskey ginger. You busy yourself studying the countless dusty neon signs that cling to the walls while you wait, nodding along to the thump of the music in the background. Trinity had insisted that once it got late enough, the music would switch to something funkier, something with more of a groove, and the far end of the bar would become a makeshift dance floor. You could hardly remember the last time you had gone dancing…

Beside you, someone clears their throat and leans against the bar.

You startle at the sound, but the surprise quickly morphs into a dizzying flush of pleasure as the scent hits you. Clean, masculine soap floating over woodsy base notes of oakmoss and black tea leaves. Unfiltered, unblocked, completely lacking the sanitized, antiseptic qualities you associate with the hospital. Just…him.

Swallowing thickly against the sudden surge of nerves, you flash the older man a weak smile and a wave. “Hey, Dr. Robby.”

Robby’s gaze flicks to yours, and he returns your smile with one of his own. It deepens the creases at the corners of his eyes in a way that you find senselessly charming. “Hey,” he replies, voice warm and rasping, almost too soft to hear over the music. Thoughtlessly, you shift closer to catch it better.

“I was told not to expect you here tonight.” The words leave your lips of their own accord, your tone light and open while still carrying a hint of accusation. This was meant to be a fun night out celebrating one of your new friends. The disruption of his presence was never meant to be a factor.

Thankfully, he merely laughs at the suggestion, as though the idea pleases him. “Oh?”

The sparkle in his dark eyes is contagious, and you fight a grin in spite of yourself. “Way to prove everybody wrong.”

“Well, I’d hate to think I was getting predictable in my old age,” he quips, rapping his knuckles against the sticky lacquered surface of the bar. “It’s good for the kids. Keeps them on their toes.”

His words settle low and heavy in your abdomen, and you pray to whatever higher power might exist that he can’t sense how he’s affected you. It’s honestly humiliating the way your stomach tightens, the way you have to press your thighs together against the pulsing there. You’ve always had a preference for older men, but this might be the first time an explicit reference to one’s age has gotten you wet.  

Clearing your throat, you make a big show out of rolling your eyes and make a desperate play for humor instead of arousal. “Oh, come on,” you groan lightheartedly. “You’re not that old.”

At that, Dr. Robby merely scoffs. “Tell that to my back. And my knees.”

You are saved from having to craft a response by the return of the bartender. He drops a thin, flimsy cocktail napkin onto the bar top and slides your whiskey ginger across its surface before redirecting his attention to Robby.

“What can I get you, man?”

The attending orders several drinks, a combination of shots, beers, and a single tequila soda that you know is going directly to Trinity Santos. It seems he’s made good on his offer of a round for the table. The bartender listens with a mildly-concerned arched brow but doesn’t question it. Instead, he simply nods along as he absorbs the long list. Giving Robby a short nod, he returns to the backbar and starts pulling glasses out from beneath the counter.

You take a sip of your drink as the lull in conversation lingers. It’s precisely what you wanted, sharper and smokier than the sweetness you had started the evening with, stinging your throat on the way down in a way that feels more grounding than uncomfortable. It sharpens you, pulls you out of the Alpha scent-induced haze that had you wanting to press closer, to bury your face in the weathered skin of this man’s neck and just breathe.

“So how’ve you been settling in?”

The second sip of whiskey catches strangely in your throat, and you smother a cough in the crook of your arm.

Well. Perhaps you’re not all the way out of the haze just yet.

Gathering yourself, you put on a smile and offer him a carefully unaffected shrug. “You tell me.”

“Well, of course, your work is exceptional,” Robby says easily. “Only took you what, a week? Two? To figure out the rhythm of the department?”

This time, the heat that blooms across your neck and chest has nothing to do with pheromones. “I’ve been doing this for a while,” you demure, brushing off the compliment. “It gets easier over time.”

He accepts the response with a gracious nod, but corrects, “I meant more…interpersonally.”

Quirking your brow, you blink back at him in surprise.

“I just…the ED is a team sport. Sometimes it takes new players a bit to find their footing,” he stammers in explanation. It must be a trick of the neon lights that has his cheeks turning red under your stunned gaze.

Either way, you warm at the sight. Stirring your drink with its little black cocktail straw, you swallow and reply, “If I’m being honest, I’ve felt more welcomed in the Pitt than anywhere else since I left Philly.”

You watch as Robby’s eyes soften, your words hitting him someplace quiet and vulnerable.

“Dana helps, of course,” you’re quick to add. “I’ve known her my whole life – she’s basically family. But really, this team seems to be…especially accepting of new players.”

Now, it is his turn to shift uncomfortably on his feet, to shutter a bit at the earnestness of your praise. “It’s a teaching hospital. We’re pretty used to people coming and going.”

“Still. It’s appreciated.” You pick up your drink, raising it in his direction in a casual toast. “Compliments to the team captain.”

Robby scoffs a soft laugh, and now you’re certain he’s blushing. Satisfaction swells in your chest. He will be able to smell it on you, surely, but you’re not certain how much you care anymore. You made him smile. Made him laugh. In spite of the amount of time you’ve spent at his side over the last month, you think you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve witnessed both of those gifts in a single interaction.

Thankfully, the bartender returns before you can let it go to your head, before you can start formulating increasingly more ridiculous things you might say or do to elicit such a response from the older Alpha again. The number of drinks deposited onto the bar top feels truly absurd, entirely too many for one person to carry, but Robby does not balk. Instead, he thanks the bartender and begins gathering them into his hands.

“Need help with those?” you ask, eyebrows raised as you watch him artfully arrange the glasses so that he can carry four in each hand.

“No thanks, I’ve got it,” he replies. “Think I’d better get these to the parched masses.”

Fuck, his hands are huge. It’s not the first time you’ve noticed – as he rubs hand sanitizer into his skin, as he scratches his beard while deep in thought, as he snaps extra-large nitrile gloves on and off while breezing through trauma bay doors. It’s distracting every time, and this display only adds to the Robby-shaped fantasy fodder stored carefully away in the back of your mind. Wide palms, long, thick fingers… He manages everything in one single pass.  

Throat suddenly dry, you take another drink of your whiskey ginger before responding. “Probably for the best. Trinity might mutiny otherwise.”

The noise the attending makes in response is gruff and warm and full of good humor, not laughter but something with more substance, low in his throat. It makes you feel hot under your dress. Makes you feel…reckless.

“Catch you on the dance floor later?” The question is out of your mouth before you can swallow it back, and you’re not sure you’ve ever wanted to disappear more than you do right now as the older man glances up from the drinks in his hands. He bites down on his bottom lip, smothering a smile, and shakes his head.

“Ohhh no, I don’t think so.” Though clearly taken aback, his refusal is tinged with laughter, and you are suddenly grateful for the cold press of your drink against your palm. You’re in real danger of overheating under his sparkling gaze.

“That’s a shame,” you manage to reply. “I’d have saved you a dance.”

You can’t bear to stick around long enough to allow him to respond. Instead, you duck around him and make a beeline for the table where most of the nursing staff have congregated. With any luck, he won’t follow you there, and you’ll be able to slam the rest of your drink in peace.

Robby may have turned down your invitation, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed to watch.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he lingers against the bar, twirling a half-empty IPA bottle in his fingers while trying (and failing) to be discrete in the way his eyes follow you. It’s late now, the drinks and the atmosphere settling heavy and loose in everyone’s system, and if he were a stronger man, he would have made his excuses and gone home by now. He would have clapped Jack on the shoulder, bid Mohan one final “happy birthday,” and disappeared into the night.

But he can’t remember the last time he felt strong. These days, he mostly feels tired. And old. And desperately lonely.

But you? Since the day Dana brought you into his ED, you’ve been…a revelation.

You’re a goddamn ray of sunshine. Bright and warm and giving, a smile on your face for every patient, a helping hand at the ready for every colleague. Whip-smart, quick on your feet, experienced enough to not require much oversight yet always eager to learn something new. Clear-eyed, unafraid, kind down to your bones... He could go on.

He’s only known you a month; it’s embarrassing how much time he could fill extolling your virtues.

And now, as of tonight, he has even more to add to the ever-growing list. A far cry from your typical gray scrubs and well-worn Brooks sneakers, the ruffled, body-hugging dress you’ve got on leaves little to the imagination. There’s something achingly feminine about the way it clings so softly to the swell of your breasts, the nip of your waist, the full plush of your ass. It’s frothy and sweet with just enough sex appeal to keep it from looking too girlish. Even still, watching you sway through the crowd, head thrown back in laughter, pulling Samira into your lithe arms as you move to the beat, Robby feels like a dirty old man. But he can’t seem to make himself look away.

He’d gotten a whiff of your scent earlier. It was warm and light and musky, almost sparkling, amber and champagne and white florals. It’s taken residence under his skin, clouding his thoughts with gauzy, half-formed images of tenderness that make his chest ache. You smell like tangled sheets and satin pillowcases. Soft sweaters and bare feet and cups of coffee in the sunshine on his back patio. The fucking farmer’s market on Sundays.

Sweet. Painful. Like pressing too hard on a bruise left by a lover.

“Still with me, brother?”

Robby blinks, clears his throat, and turns to find Jack watching him with raised eyebrows and that little quirk of his mouth he does when he’s got something to say but is choosing not to. Shaking his head, the older Alpha smiles ruefully. “‘Course. Continue.”

Everything is beautiful.

The music is loud in your ears, throbbing in your chest, fusing with your bones. Whiskey in your veins, floaty and warm, you feel like all the sharp angles and edges of you have blurred and softened. Surrounded on all sides by your new friends, you bleed into each other like watercolors on a wet canvas. Samira spins with you, her dark curls wild against her cheeks, her mate’s leather jacket draped around her shoulders. Nearby, Mel holds hands with Trinity, jumping more than dancing but still managing to keep perfect time with the song. Victoria and Dennis both look like they’ve never been on a dance floor in their lives, but they’re grinning so big and singing at the top of their lungs, dripping sweat and spilling the sweet, intoxicating scent of Omega joy from every pore.

You’re cocooned here – bodies pressed close, eyes half shut, hips swaying, fingers catching on Dr. Abbot’s coat, on Mel’s loose blonde hair, on the silver chain resting on Dennis’s chest. And still, the back of your neck burns.

Dr. Robby is watching you. You can feel it like a brand on your skin, and you savor the heat. It’s wrong. God, it’s so wrong, for too many reasons to count. He’s got almost 20 years on you. He’s the chief of the ED. You hardly know him. And you cannot forget that you’re temporary here, already a third of the way through your contract. When it ends, there will be another, and who knows where you will find yourself next?

But those thoughts are too heavy, too real for this moment. In this moment, with the music and the booze and the dress and all your beautiful friends, you feel beautiful, too. You feel sexy. You feel desired in a way that’s more exciting than intimidating. And you’re perfectly content to allow this gruff, mysterious, older Alpha to watch you dance for as long as he likes. Perhaps you’ll even put on a bit of a show for him…

One song fades into the next, then again, and before long, you’ve utterly lost track of time. You’re sweaty and fuzzy and so happy, so lost in the music and the moment that you don’t notice the approaching stranger until he is close enough to snake his hands around your hips and pull you into him.

You flinch, loose body stiffening instantly. An Alpha. A face you’ve never seen before towering over you, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes finding yours in the darkness. He’s young, maybe two or three years your junior, with a square, clean-shaven jaw and shoulder-length blonde hair he wears pushed back from his face. And holy shit, he reeks – like smoke and ash and sickly, cloying flowers, an exotic greenhouse someone doused in vodka and lit on fire. There’s arousal there, too, the scent distinctly Alpha. It invades your nostrils as he presses your hips into his pelvis, using his grip on your body to grind you against him.

“I like your moves, Omega,” he says, leaning down and speaking directly into your ear. His breath is boozy and hot on the skin of your neck, and you recoil at the feel of it brushing over your scent glands.

Stomach soured, palms firm against his wiry chest, you shove him hard. “Hey! Back off!”

But this stranger is wasted, and he’s got almost a foot of height on you, and in his single-minded lust, he’s stronger than you expect.

“C’mon, baby, don’t be like that,” he groans with a laugh, as though your disgust and your refusal are no more than an inconvenience to him. His fingers dig hard into the soft flesh of your hips, blunt nails scraping the filmy fabric of your dress. “Could smell you all the way on the other side of the dance floor. I know how bad you need this.”

Your stomach drops, and you let out an involuntary whine as you scramble ineffectually against his hold. A young, strong, cocksure Alpha has caught the scent of an aroused, unmarked Omega. It’s the stuff public safety announcements are made of. You’re in danger.

“Get your hands off me!” you cry. And with that, chaos breaks out on the dance floor.

Samira’s dark eyes flash with fury as she fearlessly charges into the strange Alpha’s space and wraps both her hands around one of his elbows. You can tell she’s throwing her whole bodyweight into trying to yank his paws off of you, but the man doesn’t budge.

Dennis tucks Victoria under his arm and shepherds her off the dance floor, and you feel a swell of gratefulness for his quick thinking; Victoria is so young, even more vulnerable here than you are.

From a few feet away, you hear a growl of “oh, fuck no”, and out of the crowd, you can smell Trinity approaching before you see her – the bright green notes of the mint and lime in her scent sour and sharpen with rage as she bullies her way through the press of bodies to get to you. There’s a brief, instinctual surge of relief the moment you lock eyes with her – the only thing this man might listen to right now is another Alpha – but the feeling is short-lived. Trinity is fierce and scrappy and famously protective, as virile as any other of her designation, but the stranger currently grinding a growing erection into your stomach is so tall –

“Let. Her. Go.”

Barked in a low, gravelly voice, the Command drowns out the beat of the music and sends ripples through the crowd of dancers – gasps, shudders, a groan through gritted teeth as Trinity Santos halts in her tracks. Even without being directed at her, the will of a more senior Alpha is too strong for her to resist. The sound of it makes your knees tremble with a wave of fear and bone-deep gratitude. You twist in the stranger’s grip and crane your neck to find the source of the words that have taken such swift control of the scene.

It does not take you long. There, standing almost directly behind you, tall and square-shouldered and stinking of rage, is –

“Dr. Robby.”

His name leaves your lips like a plea, and you watch as his frown deepens. You’ve never seen him like this – he’s radiating dominance and territorialism, his scent darker, thicker, every inch of softness you’ve ever observed in him evaporated into the night air. He looks…formidable. Strong and broad, still not quite as tall as the young Alpha holding you but infinitely more daunting. The threads of silver in his hair and the dense patch of it in his beard practically glow in the neon lights, and you feel certain that when you think back on this moment, you will remember him as a barrel-chested old wolf standing undaunted in the face of an enemy upstart.

“I said, let her go,” he repeats, taking a step forward.

The stranger scoffs and turns you around in his grip, this time tugging hard enough to make you stumble as he pulls you back into him. “She’s unmarked, man,” he says as he grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs your head to the side, exposing your bare neck.

He touches you like the mere fact that no bite mark scores your flesh entitles him to your body; the thought alone disgusts you. You yelp in pain, and you swear you can feel the vibration of Robby’s growl as it thunders through the air.

“I don’t give a shit,” the attending snaps. “She doesn’t want your hands on her.”

“She doesn’t know what she wants.” The blonde man grinds against your ass, and you swallow a wave of nausea. “I smelled her first. Get your own bitch!”

That seems to be the final straw. Closing the distance between you in two long-legged strides, Robby’s hand darts out and clutches onto the back of the younger man’s neck.

“I would think very carefully about what you do next,” he snarls, almost too soft for you to hear over the music. “I’ve been putting pups like you in their place for longer than you’ve been alive, and I swear, if you hurt her, I will let every other Alpha in this room take their turn with you before I kick your ass from here to Philadelphia.”

The acrid, burnt-rubber scent of fury pouring from the young Alpha is enough to make your eyes water and your throat swell, but there’s something else there now, too. Fear. Intimidation. Submission. His hands tighten against you even further.

“Now,” Robby says. “Let her go. And then get the fuck out of here.”

For a moment, you don’t breathe. The challenge hangs in the air as Robby maintains his grip on the other man’s scruff, holding him fast and certain in what is quite possibly the most aggressive, provoking move one Alpha could pull on another. Had he attempted to hold you like that, you feel certain you would have turned into a pile of goo, limp and pliant and utterly boneless as you dangled from his fingers. Instead, this Alpha merely whimpers and shudders against your back.

There is a beat where he continues to cling to you, the hold suddenly feeling less possessive and more stubborn, but in the end, the younger man cannot resist following the attending’s orders. It’s sudden when he finally drops you, and without this stranger’s hands keeping you upright, your legs give out beneath you.

Robby is there in less than a heartbeat – releasing the scruff hold on the younger man, catching you in his strong arms before you can slump to the floor. The former staggers backward and lets out a weak, unconvincing sneer.

“Whatever, man. She’s a fucking tease, anyway.”

Out of the darkness, Dr. Abbot appears then, his face like a storm cloud as he inserts himself between a furious Robby and this overconfident pup. Wrapping his thick fingers around the younger man’s upper arm, he growls, “Time to go, buddy.”

Without another word, Abbot drags the man toward the door. You think you see him pass his fingers over the back of Samira’s hand on his way by, but truthfully, you weren’t certain. You’ve started to shake in Robby’s arms, the edges of your vision have begun to blur, and you feel as though you could collapse again at any moment.

Around you, the dance floor abruptly surges back to life.

Everyone within the radius of Robby’s Command seems to descend on you at once, strangers and friends alike all rushing to check on the distraught Omega. The sounds of their voices, the touch of their hands, all of it feels oddly deadened and far away – as though they are talking to you through the wall of a quarantine bubble.

“Okay, everybody, back off – give her some space!”

You spot Mel’s wide, worried eyes. Trinity’s furious frown. There’s a Beta night shift nurse – Olive, maybe? – checking on the other Omegas in the crowd. Thankfully, the ones you can see look relatively unscathed…

And that is all you register before Dr. Robby is shucking his big brown coat, wrapping it around you, and ushering you away from the dance floor.

“D-Dr. Robby – ”

“Shh,” he soothes, his hands gentle but firm on your shoulders as he steers you toward the rear exit, the thick metal door labeled “Employees Only”. “I’m just taking you someplace quiet.”

As he guides you through the door, you find that all of the unseasonable warmth you had enjoyed earlier has dissipated with the setting of the sun. The late winter night is damp and bracingly cold as you step out into the back alley, but the relief you feel almost makes up for the sudden chill. Out here, the fresh air smells faintly of wet concrete and the nearby Allegheny River, and you find yourself gulping lungfuls of it to try to banish the ash-rubber-flower scent of the man whose bruises now decorate your skin.

“Okay, here we go,” Robby coaxes as he directs you away from the door. He is a steadying presence, his touch light but constant. When he encourages you to lean back and brace yourself against the brick exterior of the bar, you obey without a thought. “Better, right?”

“Yes.” Your response sounds tremulous to your own ears – dazed, weak, and far away…

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snap open. You didn’t realize you had closed them.

Robby’s gaze meets yours. Hands on your shoulders, brows gathered at the center in concern, you notice he has bent down in front of you so he can look you in the eye. This close, he’s all you can see, and he’s even more handsome than you thought. You’re fascinated by the wrinkles around his eyes, his long, dark lashes, the sharp, commanding line of his nose…

“Hey. I’ve got you. You’re safe now,” he says. The comforting words are muffled and distant. It’s like he’s talking to you through a pair of tin cans and some string from a block away. “Deep breaths, okay? Breathe with me. In.” He sucks a dramatic breath through his nose, nostrils flaring, and you do your best to imitate him. “Out.” His breath smells like the IPA he had been drinking as he exhales through his mouth. You breathe out, too, and he smiles faintly. “Good girl. Again. In. Out.”

You comply easily, breathing in rhythm, in and out, sinking into the cold, textured brick of the wall behind you. It takes a few rounds of this, your bleary eyes locked on his as he helps you regulate, but after a while, your heartrate slows, and your vision begins to sharpen.

He must be able to see the clarity come back to your expression because he asks, “Better?”

Jaw tight, you nod. “Mm hm.”

The confirmation, however, does not seem to do much to comfort him. Instead of the smile you expect, his frown deepens, and he runs his palms over your arms briskly, like he’s trying to warm you up. “You’re shaking,” he observes.

Oh. You are, aren’t you? You take another deep breath, the scent of your assailant blessedly faded now, and make a conscious effort to relax your rigid muscles. You start with your jaw, then down to your neck, your shoulders, your back, but every inch of you is wound so tightly, as though still braced for unwanted touch, that you make little progress. You may no longer be on the edge of hyperventilating, but still, your body clearly has not caught up with the sudden absence of threat.

“I’m s-sorry,” you reply. “I c-can’t stop.”

Robby shakes his head, brushing off the apology, and you watch as he examines you with a critical, almost clinical gaze. You weren’t injured – not really, not in any lasting sort of way. The man didn’t bite you (thank god) or even scent you. It had been scary, terrifying even, but more in the threat of it than the actual reality.

The more you sit with it, the more you recognize this feeling. The dread, the thoughtless, nauseating panic so intimately, biologically tied to your nature as an Omega that it feels doubly wounding, doubly personal. It’s been more than a year since you last felt this way. It’s the reason why you left your ex, why you packed your bags and fled Philadelphia, leaving behind a life you loved for the chance to get away from this.

You see it in his eyes the moment he recognizes it. Omega distress. A primal defense mechanism designed to encourage community protection and care when an Omega is in danger. Of course, as an Alpha and as a medical professional, it’s something you’re certain he’s seen before. Perfectly treatable, but prolonged distress could result in neurological damage, and it’s not as though most Omegas carry the necessary hormone treatments on their person –

Under his breath, Robby curses. “Fuck. Okay.”

You might be the one bracing your weight against the building right now, but Robby has never felt more backed into a wall.

Of course, it had to be you. So pretty, so sweet, so frightened – shaking in your high heels, drowning in his coat, pouring the choked, sour fragrance of your distress into the night air. Your eyes are wide and glassy, shining with tears that refuse to fall, and you’ve got your elegant hands balled up in little fists so tight your knuckles have gone pale. He can still smell hints of that bastard pup on your skin, and even the faint reminder is enough to have his hackles standing on end.

He comforts himself with the knowledge that if he does what he knows he must, if he manages to work up the courage to take that step, at least that scent will finally disappear.

And of course, it had to be him. After all of his efforts to maintain professional distance, after all of the scoldings he’s given himself about keeping you at arm’s length, of course it would be him in this impossible scenario. He knows what you need – would know it even if he weren’t an Emergency Medicine physician, but in his line of work, he can’t count the number of times he’s treated this exact condition. But you are not a patient in his ED, and this alleyway behind a dive bar is not PTMC. There are no synthetic hormones he can inject you with here. There is only…him.

Well. Not only him. There are at least three other Alphas inside that bar, two of which are unmated and could do the job just as well. But the idea of letting anyone else anywhere near you right now makes something ruinous and feral clamor inside his chest. For the first time since his adolescence, Michael Robinavitch truly feels the depths of the raging beast that lingers at the edges of his subconscious.

In this moment, if anyone but him were to touch you, he thinks he might rip their throat out with his teeth.

“Fuck. Okay.” Robby squeezes your shoulders and tucks his thumbs into the collar of his jacket. Your eyelids flag instinctually at the touch. “Hey, right here, look right here.”

You obey, but that sense of presence and awareness he had detected just moments ago has already begun to fade. Your skin is burning up under his touch, and shit, you still haven’t stopped shaking. Your nervous system is fully strung out, on high alert, and your body is struggling to keep up.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures you. “I’m right here with you. Just keep your eyes on me.”

“Robby.” His name leaves your lips on the back of a whine. Gritting his teeth, Robby swallows against an answering purr that threatens to rumble from his throat.

“I know, Omega.”

God, he’s going to have to do it, isn’t he? He’s going to have to –

Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, he asks, “Do you trust me?”

Your responding nod is immediate, the delicate skin of your neck brushing against his thumbs. “Yes. I trust you.”

Combined with your big, wet eyes and your pouting, open mouth, your words hit deep and sound like praise. They make him want to preen, to roll over at your feet and show you his soft belly.

You trust him. He is a good Alpha. His Omega trusts him.

No.

He slams the door on that fantasy before it can take hold.

Not his Omega. An Omega. Never his.

Shoving that painful conclusion to the back of his mind, Robby nods and ducks his chin, making deep, direct eye contact with you once more. “Okay then. You’ll feel my touch on your hands and on the insides of your wrists.”

He keeps his words calm and clinical, like he’s talking a skittish patient through a painful and unfamiliar procedure. But there’s nothing clinical about what he’s about to do to you. In fact, if he were to do this with a real patient, he would be lucky to get off with a written warning from the Ethics Committee. But here, he has no choice. Here, it’s the kindest thing an Alpha like him can do given the current circumstances.

So he does it. He scents you.

Moving slowly so as not to spook you, Robby wraps his fingers around one of your graceful wrists and brings the thin, vulnerable skin covering your secondary scent glands to press against the weathered base of his neck.

It’s admittedly a bit unconventional – scenting someone on the wrist instead of the neck – but the rational, practical part of him hopes it might soften the staggering intimacy of the gesture. You might be an Omega in distress, but you are still his colleague, still someone he has to see every day in the Pitt. You’re still a member of his pack that he is responsible for protecting – and that includes from himself. If he were to put any part of himself on your neck right now, would that make him just as bad as that impudent pup on the dance floor, smelling your arousal and thinking it an invitation?

Robby allows a handful of seconds for his scent to permeate yours, for the hormones to mingle and for your body to recognize his, and then your eyelids are drooping, and your knees are turning watery, and for the second time tonight, he finds himself propping you up as you sway on your feet.

“I gotcha,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, cradling you to his chest.

You fold into him easily, every rigid muscle going pliant beneath his hands as you nuzzle into his flannel. Your answering sound – somewhere between a contented hum and moan – vibrates through his collarbones to his sternum.

Goosebumps break out across his skin as the sensation of it zips along his nerve endings to burrow at the base of his spine. Fuck. The most primal parts of him love that sound. That sound means happy Omega, comfortable Omega, safe Omega.

He did that. No one else.

“Thank you,” you sigh, dazed but grateful. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his flannel shirt as you pull yourself upright. Your pupils are blown wide, and if he thought you had smelled appealing before, you are downright edible now.

Clearing his throat, grasping the remaining strings of his restraint, he replies, “Anytime.”

The warmth and softness of your skin. The rich, earthy sweetness of your arousal. All of it buoyed by his own scent.

You smell held. Protected.

Fuck. You smell good together…

You must think so, too, because in less than a heartbeat, you lean back into his space, tuck your face into his open shirt collar, and begin nosing around in search of his scent glands. Robby can feel the heat of your breath on his skin, the delicate, ticklish sensation of your fluttering eyelashes against his throat, the dampness of your lips –

“Jesus, Robby, you smell amazing.” The breathlessness of your exclamation goes straight to his cock.

Twitching in his jeans, eyes falling shut, he shakes his head in weak protest. He knew this would happen, knew the consequences before he ever touched you. Scenting might be the most effective treatment for Omega distress ever studied, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have physiological and socioemotional side effects. Scenting is deeply personal – the sort of thing a partner does, the sort of thing a lover does.

He definitely feels like your lover right now.  

“Michael,” he groans thoughtlessly, and for the span of a breath, you pause.

“What?”

If there was ever a time to pull back, it would be now. As he holds you to his chest, Robby feels a bit like he does when he goes up to the roof of the hospital and stares down at the city below – the thrill and the terror of the knowledge that the smallest move now would send him plummeting, and there would be no coming back from it. There would only be the cold, unforgiving embrace of the pavement below. It tempts him now just as it does on the roof.

You’re so…good. And so vulnerable. And something inside him is fundamentally broken. What if he breaks you, too?

“Robby?”

Wordlessly, his hands grip the well-loved canvas of his coat, the one he is certain will carry the scent of you for weeks now that it’s been wrapped around your shoulders. Fuck, Robby is so weak. All it takes is the pretty little travel nurse showing a little skin and carrying his scent, and all of the very legitimate reasons why this is a terrible idea go out the window.

Gritting his teeth, resting his cheek against the crown of your head, he murmurs, “Michael. My name is Michael.” 

You’re floating.

The irrational, involuntary panic is gone. The dread has retreated. The instinctual clench of every muscle and tendon has softened. Instead, it has all been replaced with ease. Peace. An unshakeable sense of safety. It’s chemical, what this man has given you, and you can’t deny the way you’ve hungered for such a feeling.

Of course, the sweet, molten warmth that has taken residence low in your abdomen doesn’t hurt the situation, either. You’re just like any other red-blooded Omega; there have been a variety of Alphas (and a few Betas) throughout your life whose scents and touch have triggered a…primitive response. But Dr. Robby had had you dampening your panties even before scenting you. And now –

No. Not Dr. Robby, you correct yourself. Michael.

Michael, with the competent, seasoned authority in baked into his every move. Michael, with the soft, expressive eyes and the painfully charming smile. Michael, with the scent that makes you lightheaded and flustered every time you detect it.

Michael, with the hardening cock pressed against your belly as he allows you to wrap yourself eagerly around him. Something deep inside you trembles at the feel of it, and you are suddenly reminded of how long it’s been since you’ve been properly fucked.

Michael would fuck you properly. You know it in your gut, can feel it in every gentle-but-firm touch of his big, calloused hands. An Alpha his age? He has to have been around the block a few times. With his intelligence, his sense of humor, and his looks, there is no way he hasn’t learned a thing or two about how to please a woman. Just the thought of it is enough to have you biting back a whimper.

Your ex – who you try so hard not to think of if you can help it – was a Beta with an inferiority complex. David had been so insecure in his own designation and so envious of every Alpha he met that he had molded his entire personality around trying to emulate them. Early on in your relationship, you had found it intriguing. It was subversive in a way that you had admired; to flout the expectations and predispositions of one’s designation like that was no small thing. You had always loved a man with convictions, and David certainly had that going for him.  

Plus, the sex with him had been pretty good; what he lacked in certain anatomy, he made up for in his willingness to experiment. But it had been over a year since you saw him last. And you couldn’t deny that no matter how hard he tried, he had never quite managed to replicate the specific, inimitable satisfaction of taking a knot.

You bet Michael’s knot is big.

With a trembling breath, you pull away from the older man’s chest just far enough to be able to meet his eyes. He looks wrecked as he stares down at you – freckled cheeks flushed pink, graying hair disheveled, brown eyes nearly black with arousal. In the dim light of the alley, his sharp, white teeth glisten. He looks like he wants to eat you. Fuck, you wish he would.

“Kid?”

Inhaling a sharp breath, Michael abruptly yanks himself away, putting inches and then feet between you as Dr. Abbot and Dana emerge from the bar. The sharp, sudden distance steals the air from your lungs, and you bite back a whimper of protest as you steady yourself against the wall and pray your godmother did not just see you about to offer yourself up on a silver platter to the Chief of Emergency Medicine at her hospital.

You blink rapidly and try to clear the warm, intimate blur from your vision as you take her in – blonde hair loose on her shoulders, face pale and free of makeup, winter jacket zipped up to her chin. She’s wearing a pair of heather gray sweatpants you know she would never normally be seen out of the house in, and you recognize the boots on her feet as the ones she keeps in the garage that she only wears when gardening.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Dana hisses, a frown of distaste wiping away the concern etched into her tired face. “It stinks out here. I got here as soon as I could. You okay, honey?” 

Behind her, Dr. Abbot keeps his distance, hands clasped behind his back in a loose parade rest. Of course, he would call her. She’s the emergency contact you listed on your employment contract, your host while you’re in town. And what had happened tonight on the dance floor with that other Alpha was certainly an emergency.

However, from the way he is staring down Michael, expression unreadable, you wonder whether that was his only motivation.

Swallowing against an unexpected lump in your throat, you nod and offer Dana a close-lipped smile. “I’m okay, promise. M-Dr. Robby had my back.”

With his scent still in your nostrils, his jacket around your shoulders, and the gusset of your underwear uncomfortably soaked, calling this man Dr. Robby feels nothing short of bizarre.

Dana, thankfully, does not seem to catch your near slip, but Dr. Abbot does. You watch as a faint smirk twists his lips, and although you can’t hear it from where you stand, the little puff of warm air that escapes him tells you that you’ve made him laugh.

“I’m sure,” he mutters under his breath.

Closing the distance between you, you are helpless to protest as Dana peels the oversized canvas jacket from your body and hands it back to Michael. Her hands are cold but so gentle as she coaxes you away from the support of the brick wall at your back. “C’mon, missy. Let’s get you home.”

Before you can think better of it, you shake your head in refusal. “No, I’m okay, really. I can go back in, I just need another minute.”

Your godmother arches her brows at you, and the expression is so familiar, you feel certain that if she had her reading glasses on her person, she would have met your gaze over the rim of them.

“Listen,” she says softly, and that tone, too, is familiar. It’s the one she uses with patients, the one that tells them that she sees them, that she cares, but she also isn’t afraid to do whatever is in their best interests whether they like it or not. “It might not have hit you yet, but we both know that you’re gonna be falling asleep on your feet in a few minutes. The comedown from a distress episode is nothing to joke about, you understand? Now c’mon – I’m parked by the curb out front. Let me take you home.”

She’s not wrong; you know it from experience, both personal and professional. But the idea of leaving, the idea of being any further than a few feet away from Michael – Dr. Robby – right now feels unbearable. It’s as though he’s invaded your body on a cellular level, his scent on your skin a chemical signal that you belong at his side. The peace he had so graciously granted you starts to waver and wane as you try and fail to catch his eye. Surely, he feels it, too. Surely, he will advocate for you to stay. With him.

Instead, Robby’s wide shoulders stiffen, and he very pointedly does not meet your probing gaze as he crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Dana’s right. You should let yourself rest.”

If you were in your right mind, if you had been capable of paying attention to the microexpressions in his voice in that moment, you would have noticed that the words sound as though they have been ripped from his throat. There’s a tension in his jaw that would tell you that it hurts him to deny you. But instead, all you feel is a cold wave of rejection that is enough to snuff out the heat in your belly and make your chest ache.

“But – ”

“It’ll be all right.” Finally, he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Trust me.”

Do you trust me? he had asked. Of course, you do. You have trusted him since the day you met him, have only grown to trust him more as you’ve worked alongside him, as you’ve gotten to know him. Especially after tonight, after everything he has just done to protect you, you can’t imagine not trusting him.

“Okay.”

The word is all Dana needs to pull you away from the wall and start ushering you toward the door. “Okay. Let’s go grab your coat, it’s freezing out here.”

This time, you allow her to guide you along without protest. Just as she is about to beckon you through the threshold, however, you pause and turn to Dr. Abbot. “Tell Samira happy birthday for me again, and that I’m sorry I caused a scene at her party.”

The expression on the older man’s face is one of fond affection as he replies, “Wasn’t your fault, honey. But I’ll tell her.”

And then you’re stepping back into the neon light of the bar, and no matter how loudly your body screams at you to turn around, you keep your eyes locked on the back of Dana’s head and let the door fall shut behind you.

Every step you take is a leaden weight in Robby’s stomach. It goes against every one of his instincts to let you out of his sight knowing how vulnerable you still are. He supposes the knowledge that you carry his scent should help; if any other Alpha were to even consider approaching you for the next 24 hours, you might as well be wearing a shirt that reads “Property of Michael Robinavitch.” But it’s not enough.

You should be where he can see you. Where he can touch you. For your safety.

For his sanity.

Releasing a long, trembling breath, he rubs his hands over his face. Fuck. What a mess.

The sound of someone clearing their throat breaks through Robby’s mental pity party, and he opens his eyes to find Jack Abbot standing with his arms crossed over his chest and a pointed expression on his face.

He feels a bit like a child, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Hackles bristling, Robby snaps, “If you’ve got something to say, now’s the time.”

He’s expecting a scolding. A lecture about the impropriety of his actions, about the potential complications at the hospital if the events of tonight were to get back to the administration. At the very least, he’s expecting a ribbing – something about how Robby had gotten on Jack’s case about the exact same things when he had first learned of his friend’s burgeoning relationship with Samira Mohan, and wasn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?

Instead, as Jack sweeps his knowing gaze from the top of Robby’s head to the tips of his boots, he offers the older Alpha a wry smile.

“Don’t worry, brother,” he says, slapping Robby on the shoulder fraternally. “You’ll see her on Monday.”

Credits: Dividers -@saradika-graphics, Chapter Beta Reader -@kedsandtubesocks

Taglist: @kedsandtubesocks @sawymredfox @livslifeonline @rosharanfiction @skylardenae @pocket-of-possibilities @bergamote-catsandbooks @peepawispunk @80ssong @ohheyitssj @vicky066 @windsweptarmadillo @sharkerino @dugiioh @tatertot118 @pickles-the-jackalope @delusionalcvnt @thegift0fgabb @inkededucatednnerdy @princessesareforsuckers @natbat666

Dana chuckled and shook her head.

“Any ideas?” Robby inquired, turning to her.

“Yeah. Get better friends,” she snarked.

Robby leaned his head sideways with a disapproving look, but at this point, Dana was immune.

“Next week’s my anniversary,” Robby said. “Any ideas for my wife?”

“You mean ex-wife?”

Robby felt like a cartoon character; he was almost certain his face was red and steam was coming out of his ears.

She took a step closer. “You know, Robby, these two may not, but I remember how hard you worked to get her to date you. Be that man again. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

He simply nodded, remembering all the schemes he’d pulled just to get you downstairs. All the favors he’d asked to have you in the same room. All the bribes he’d sent in order for his plans to work. But first and foremost, he remembered the effort and how it made you blush.

“Jack, can you babysit my kids next Tuesday night?” Robby asked, his fingers tapping against one of the iPads.

“I’m working.”

Robby slapped his arm as he passed behind him, whispering a “Not anymore.” 

He reached your floor feeling uncharacteristically lucky, until the front desk nurse stopped him.

“Where are you headed?”

“To see my wife. Ex-wife.”

“Let me announce you.”

“It’s alright.” Robby took another step towards your office. 

“It’s procedure,” she said, offering a practiced, polite smile that gave Robby the feeling that he was the reason procedure existed in the first place.

He released a tiresome huff and crossed his arms, waiting.

“The Chief of Emergency Medicine is here to see you,” she announced into the phone. She listened for a moment, said, “Yeah,” and hung up. She turned her gaze back to him. “You can go in.”

With a smile that felt more like a grimace, he walked into your office. You were already standing, arms stretched above your head as a wide yawn took over your face. He could have been lying to himself, but he swore he saw your expression brighten the moment you saw him.

“Rough day?” he asked, immediately reaching your side to rest his hands on your waist.

“Uh-uh,” you nodded, leaning into him. “Just boring.”

“Hmm.” He kissed the top of your head. “You know where the fun is.”

You looked up at him, already smiling. “Yeah—home, with a glass of wine.”

He smirked. “Yeah, that’s fun, too.” He leaned down and pressed a simple, domestic kiss to your lips. “Hey, what are your plans for Tuesday?”

“Let me see.” You pulled away from his embrace and returned to your chair, pulling your agenda from a drawer and opening it to the marked page. “Ah—Tuesday.” You looked up at him through your lashes.

Robby nodded, already lowering himself toward the floor. “Yeah, Tuesday.” He knelt beside your chair and turned you to face him, his hands settling on your hips. “I want to take you out on a date.”

Your eyes widened. “What about the kids?”

“It’s been taken care of.” He gave a single, firm nod, then pushed up on his knees to reach your mouth, pressing a tentative kiss to the corner of it. “Dinner. Drinks. And back to my place. No kids.”

He watched a slow smile form on your lips. 

“Sounds nice.”

“It’s going to be even better than that.”

“You’ve got yourself a date, Robinavitch.” You pecked his lips. “Now go get the kids. I’ll see you in the parking lot.”

He stood in one fluid movement, extending a hand toward you to help you stand. “Yes, boss.”

As you busied yourself packing your things to leave, he walked toward the door.

“Dr. Robby?” you called out, your eyes fixed on sliding your laptop into your bag.

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned back. “Yeah?”

“Does it include breakfast?” You peeked at him with a teasing glint in your eyes.

His blood pressure spiked. “Damn right it does.” He nodded once, gave you a look, and walked out of the office.

immediately he scoops you up into his arms, holding you tight in his lap, pressing kisses into your hair. “oh, sweetheart, was i a little rough back there? i’m so sorry, i didn’t realise.”

you nod slowly, sniffling softly before letting out a loud sob. you feel a bit silly, usually you can take whatever robby gives you, you thought you could today but you’re feeling a little extra sensitive and it was just too much. “i’m sorry, baby. you should’ve said, i’d of stopped. you know i would’ve, i’d never want to hurt you…” he whispers into your hair between kisses, you can hear the genuine sadness in his voice.

“i-i wanted you to–” you sniff again, trying to hold back the tears, you weren’t even really in much pain but your body was clearly very overwhelmed. “–wanted you t-to feel g-good.” another big sob follows, robby’s heart breaks at your admission.

“baby, no. i always feel good when i’m with you. please please please don’t ever feel like you have to perform a certain way for me, or have to do things your body can’t handle just because you think i want to. okay? i love you, don’t want my sweet girl to be in pain.” the two of you just sit for a beat, robby softly rocks you back and forth in his arms while quietly shushing your intermittent cries waiting for your body to calm down.

it takes a while but slowly your sniffling and crying slows to a stop. he gently pulls you up by your armpits then, sitting you up in his lap, wrapping one arm around your waist the other around your back. “feeling a little better?” he asks with a kiss to your temple, he rests his head against yours.

you nod, worried if you speak you might start crying again. “want to cuddle in bed and watch a movie?” you can feel his smile grow against your cheek when you nod your head more enthusiastically this time.

“yeah? sound good? let’s get you cleaned up and i’ll grab your snacks and we can watch whatever movie you want, okay?”

“i can eat in bed?” you pull away to face him, eyes sparkling at that. robby never lets you eat snacks in bed usually.

“just this once, yeah? you’ve been so good today, my sweet girl deserves a little treat.” he kisses your cheek again and internally sighs in relief when your face lights up once more.

robby vows to never ever be the reason that light goes away again.

sorry if this is ass, i tried my best, this heatwave is kicking my ass my brain feels fried.

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