Untitled

When the restroom door closed behind Robby, he let out the biggest exhale. Head thrown back, hands on his hips, trying to relieve the weight of this shift. What a shit show.

Between the overflow of patients and the pure exhaustion he has felt in the past couple of months, Robby’s resolve was cracking. He was losing sleep and dwindling like a candlewick at its final strands. If there was something left for him, he couldn’t see it. But despite that, today's shift, the usual, felt like his smallest problems.

Apparently, he should’ve worried about something greater than a full, understaffed department.

In reality, he wasn't hiding in the restroom from his responsibility (even if he felt he was drowning in it). He slipped away to dissolve the simmering boil in the pits of his guts.

Every time he closed his eyes, trying to maintain a peaceful attitude with deep breathing and steady concentration, the scene played over in his head.

You stood across from him while he sat at the work station, looking over a chart. A 23-year-old patient who suffered fall injuries from climbing over his neighbor’s backyard fence. Dr. Santos had put in the consultation, and when you went to speak with the patient, the Lorazepam administered had already taken effect.

“I’m just here to tell you I have no intentions of evaluating an unconscious patient. The next time you need a consult, page once the patient is available for an eval.” You coldly remarked, eyes hooded as you stared at him.

You had searched for him to deliver the message personally. Who did you think you were?

The initial shock he had came from the surprise of Dr. Jefferson not being on-call. Robby had warmed up to Caleb Jefferson, who, in the wake of the PittFest shooting, had taken a personal interest in Robby’s well-being. Robby had intended to take his recommendations, but he hadn't wrapped his mind around therapy, as Jack had.

So, when he found a young woman asking around for the attending physician of the emergency department, he certainly didn’t expect that confrontation.

And to really top it off, he didn’t even get your name.

You, a nameless psychiatrist, had been arrogant enough to approach him and remind him of protocol, as if he were your resident. He assumed you felt entitled to purposefully not introduce yourself. As quickly as you came, you slipped away, claiming to have more patients to check in with.

That was two hours ago.

And here he was, still reeling from it.

He shouldn’t have let it get under his skin so much. He had dealt with worse from administration once he became the chief attending physician of the department.

But he had had enough of the different surgical departments. Garcia questioning his judgment or Park imposing his ‘shark’ demeanor over his students. Even Shamsi came down a time or two to remind them they were ‘fixing’ their butch surgical jobs.

The last thing he needed was a psychiatrist imposing herself in a department she wasn’t familiar with.

Walking out of the restroom, only slightly calmer than before, he headed straight for the central hub. There were still six hours left of the shift, and he was sure the rest of his staff was feeling it.

When he saw Santos, he knew. Her temple rested against her fist, dictating notes. He slowly approached, craning his head to catch her attention. Lifting her sights, she sighed, pausing her notations. Her hand fell onto the desk, resigned and visibly flustered. “How can I help you?”

Robby furrowed both his brows, hands stuffing into the pockets of his jacket. He shook his head, a small chuckle of endearment escaping him. “You sound peachy.”

“Don't ever say that again,” Santos warned, twisting her neck from side to side. She grimaced, with tense muscles and an achy back. “I’m just ready for today to be over.”

“Well, you still have half your shift left and patients to see. I’m sure your charts can wait a moment.” Robby pointed out, glancing around the ED, where everyone was bustling in a chaotic rhythm.

Santos held in the groan she wanted to let out, opting to throw her head back, leaning further in the chair. Robby noticed the tick in her jaw. “Hey, are you doing alright?”

A scoff left Santos’ mouth, amused by the question. ‘Understatement of the century‘ was starting to become her motto. She flashed her boss a tight-lipped smile, “Yup, just waiting for this day to be over.”

Wheeling back, Santos lazily stood from the chair to walk over to the patient board. She let out a heavy sigh, arms crossing over her chest.

Robby followed her, staring up at the board. That was when he was awfully reminded of the patient. He saw the name on the board, still occupying South 20. He bowed his head, sighing. “Question: How come you ordered a psych eval on an unconscious patient?”

Santos scrunched her face, turning slowly to look at Robby. He turned his body to face her, expectantly waiting for an answer. He lifted a finger to the board, “You gave South 20 Lorazepam, which knocked him out, and then ordered a psych consultation for a patient unable to answer any questions.”

Santos silently cursed under her breath, glancing around as if her psych consult would come around. She had totally forgotten to check in on that. “I just wanted to make sure psych was included. Mohan thought he had some other issues that caused him to jump into his neighbor’s backyard.”

She was no stranger to corrections. It felt like, since she joined, she was on a straight, narrow path of constantly being told what she was doing wrong. He saw the pressure get to her sometimes. Her first day as an intern proved to be a test of her will, and since then, he felt she was grasping at straws sometimes.

Robby crossed his arms, leaning forward a bit. “I appreciate the proactivity, but not when I have psych down my throat about it.”

Santos raised her eyebrows, eyes wide. Robby didn’t look pissed, but he would sure get there if another attending had to call him out for her incompetence. “Dr. Jefferson ripped you a new one?”

“No, the new psychiatrist the hospital hired. She made it clear she doesn’t like wasting her time.” Robby groaned, running a hand down his face. That was putting it lightly. With an audience consisting of Perlah and Princess overhearing your injunction, he felt it was an attempt to demean him.

With much relief, Santos snickered, approaching the nursing station to take one of the charts. She slowly scrolled through to find the patient’s chart. “Ironic considering she’s in psychiatry.”

“Just make sure the patient is alert and oriented when you put in the next consultation request.” Robby gave her a nod, to which she silently agreed.

Before he could walk away, he found Dr. Mohan walking alongside someone. A young woman not dressed in scrubs, but in professional office attire consisting of slacks and some blue blouse. You were staring ahead, listening to Mohan rattle off about something, possibly about a patient.

Santos had turned, her small ponytail swinging with her. When she caught wind of Mohan turning a corner with someone obviously not from the ED, she knew. Clumsily, Santos subconsciously handed the tablet to Robby, who took it. With slight embarrassment, she followed the two of you towards the South rooms.

Despite his better judgment, Robby trailed Santos' steps. He coolly looked around, as if he were doing mid-day rounds. He stopped at the nearby workstation, leaning forward to watch. He saw you sit on the patient's bedside, a chart in your hand as you carefully explained intelligible information. Mohan and Santos stood behind, letting you take the reins.

You sat with the patient for ten minutes, smiling at him before standing from the stool. With your body facing his direction, he saw your relaxed demeanor change. Your face went stoic, lips pressed into a thin line.

Santos tried to hide herself behind Mohan, with the seniority, taking over the patient's care. All three of you approached Robby's direction, and he pretended to be reading a chart.

“Dr. Santos, I appreciate your effort to be involved with your patient.”

Was the first thing Robby overheard you say dryly. He glanced over and saw Santos freeze, hands in her pocket. Your back now turned to Robby, your head cocked to one side. “Need I remind you we all value time, and I can’t respond to consultation appropriately when patients are predisposed.

“Yeah, of course.” Santos fumbled, mustering up a polite smile. The blood had rushed from her face, leaving her staring at something she suddenly feared.

Before she could utter anything close to an apology, you stuck the chart out. “I’ll have a bed ready in an hour. Don’t stall the transfer any longer than necessary, Dr Santos.”

You briskly stepped away, leaving Mohan staring at Santos apologetically. Robby was now shamelessly watching the scene unfold. Comfortingly, Mohan placed a hand on Santos' shoulder, whispering something before continuing with her work.

Santos stood in front of the South rooms, chewing the inside of her cheek. Robby watched as she internally beat herself up before walking away with a huff.

Without hesitation, Robby followed your direction. He was a man on a mission, and when Jesse caught him passing by, he knew it from the look on his face.

Robby found you speaking with the police, posted by the nursing station. You were giving them a report of their detainee’s state. The police didn’t seem pleased by what you were telling them, and you didn’t seem to mind. Your aloofness ignored the restrained objections from the officers. Your candid shrugs and head shakes did little to lighten the tensions in the small pocket of the department.

He only approached you once you had excused yourself, turning away from the officers. Meticulously, Robby had swiftly spun to walk in tandem beside you. With a mere glance, you noticed him. He bowed his head so you could hear him, “Did you do the eval for our patient in South 20?”

“I did, and he presents concerning signs of acute psychosis.” Your steps continued with precision, and Robby felt like he couldn’t keep up the same pace. “I spoke with him twice, and the second time he appeared more apprehensive. We’re moving him upstairs for further observation.”

“The police didn’t like that?” Robby pushed, glancing back once to see the two officers speaking in hushed voices.

You shrugged, making your way around corners and staff like you were made for the bustling crowds. “They never like it when an arrest isn’t simple. More paperwork.”

Robby hadn’t realized he had followed you straight to the elevators till he saw the sleek doors. You stopped abruptly to press the up button. When stepping back, Robby looked around to ensure privacy. “No one likes more paperwork.”

He saw the menial shrug of your shoulders, your gaze barely registering your attention to his words. You kept looking ahead, waiting for the doors to open. He shook his head, hiding the same boil he tried to alleviate in the safety of the private restroom. “The same way my residents don’t appreciate being belittled in front of their peers.”

Your head finally turned to him. Your eyes had squinted at him, like you were reading in between really fine lines. He cocked his head, “This is a teaching hospital, and I'm not sure of your teaching methods, but insulting my residents will provide little educational value.”

You stood there, unfazed by his obvious irritation. Robby wasn't sure if he should be more ticked off by how calm you were or the fact that you looked at him like it mattered little what he said. He squared his shoulders, expectantly waiting for a verbal response.

The elevator dinged, and as you were heading to step in, Robby interfered. Casually sidestepping, his taller frame stood in your way. His height left you craning your head to look at his face. He pressed his lips into a thin line, shaking his head in disapproval. “Look, we can be civilized about this matter. I don't want to zealously escalate this. I just want to know if you understand.”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Robinavitch.” Your head had cocked to one side, an eyebrow raised.

With one-step, your path was clear. Gracefully, you stepped towards the elevator, stopping on the threshold. “If you feel other appropriate measures are necessary, you can speak to Dr. Jefferson. I’m sure he’d welcome criticism about his fellow.”

You wasted no time watching Robby’s dumbstruck expression. With the click of a button, the elevator doors swiftly closed, and he saw his reflection in the sleek metal. One hand dragged down his face, the disbelief hitting him like a freight train—a fellow.

He had let an insufferable fellow under his skin. A psychiatric one at that. The concept felt ironic, as if the universe had planted you in his department to screw with him. If the past few years had felt like being stuck in a labyrinth of self-wallow and despair, you were starting to feel like the Minotaur.

“What are you looking at, Cap’?”

Robby’s head whipped to see Dana approaching him, hands rubbing together. He looked back at the elevator, sparing his reflection one more look before letting out an irritated laugh. “Dr. Jefferson’s new fellow, know anything about her?”

Dana hummed, positioning herself beside Robby as the two walked casually. “I’ve met her a couple of times. She’s pleasant."

“That’s not what I would call her.”

The corner of Dana’s mouth curled upward. She looked him up and down, taking in his edged look. As of late, that was the only appearance he had, but she’d describe this current phase as worse. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, maybe the fact that she dug into Santos about not wasting her time.” Robby huffed out, a strained and sarcastic smile on his face. Dana's eyes widened in response, “And me, as a matter of fact.”

“You?” Dana questioned, seemingly impressed by that information. Robby gave her a look, which only made her chuckle. “You aren’t the type to let anyone give you a piece of their mind, let alone a psych fellow.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Robby’s dry laugh made Dana cheese harder. She did enjoy being particularly punchy, especially at this moment.

Dana shrugged, feigning innocence. “You doctors get your panties in a bunch when something sounds remotely offensive. The girl has other patients to see, too, you know?”

Robby appeared bewildered as they continued strolling beside each other. “Since when do you take the side of a psychiatrist?”

Dana joked while shrugging, before bumping her arm against his. “Full of surprises.”

After walking a lap around the Pitt, they ended up back at the central hub. Robby stared up at the patient board, measuring how much worse the shift could get. He wouldn’t have walked out the restroom if he knew another moment of you was waiting for him. It somehow was worse than the first and he didn’t like you anymore than the first time you spoke to him.

“You should speak to Jefferson. There has to be a reason she’s still around.” Dana insinuated, putting on her glasses to grab a tablet.

Robby shrugged his shoulders, uninterested in the suggestion. There couldn’t possibly be a reasonable explanation for Caleb allowing you to continue your fellowship. The two didn’t match.

Caleb had immeasurable patience. It was the only reason he hadn’t given up on pushing therapy options to Robby. However, the longer he got to know you, the more it felt like you were the complete opposite. You didn’t fit the bill to even potentially fill in Caleb’s shoes. Naïve and arrogant was one way Robby would describe you. He couldn’t imagine working with you upstairs in the behavioral health department. There was no hesitation on your part to act conceitedly for the sake of the ‘job.’

It might not be his place to tell Caleb how to manage his department or his fellows, but Caleb was bound to sniff you out if he hadn’t yet. Robby was sure.

A few days had passed, and Robby was keeping an eye on you. The way you strolled into the ED relaxed and stoic. He thought the conversation you two had would strike some nerve, but you appeared very normal. During his shift, you answered consultations promptly, and you’d disappear just as quickly.

You definitely didn’t like to waste time.

The few times he did see you in the week, you were with Mohan or Collins. From the windows or open curtains, he noticed you in your natural habitat, like some animal in an exhibit. You cared about the patients, but the minute you walked out of the rooms, you were clinical. It was as if you had trained to detach yourself. You gave the imitation of a smile and brief ‘hello’s’ when necessary, but he wasn’t sure he had seen you crack a joke or be nice.

Today there was radio silence on your end. He was on the last two hours of his shift, and you hadn’t brushed by with your cold shoulder. The atmosphere didn’t feel as tight or charged, even if Robby felt that way almost every shift.

When he turned to the corner to where the central hub was, he saw Dr. Jefferson wheeling in the opposite direction. Robby smiled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Caleb, it is very good to see you.”

Caleb laughed, removing the glasses from his face. “Why’s that? Have you finally considered my offer to meet some good friends of mine?”

Robby shrugged, looking away. Dr. Jefferson had been around long enough to meet Dr. Adamson, and Robby, for that matter. Therefore, when the department unfortunately lost him, he kept closer tabs on Robby. Everyone knew the late Chief’s protégée would take up the pedestal, even if he felt himself inadequate for the title. 

They’ve been friendly since then, and with the aftermath of the PittFest shooting, Dr. Jefferson hung around the ED more often than not. He wasn’t personally treating most of the staff, but he connected them with trusted professionals in the field. He had yet to succeed with Robby.

“Still working on that, but I did want to talk to you about something else,” Robby mentioned quietly, walking in the direction Caleb was heading. 

Attempting to hide a grin, he nodded. “Shoot.”

Robby tried to word it lightly, but the strain in his voice gave away enough for Caleb to reach his own conclusion. “There’s a new fellow you failed to mention, and we might have got off on the wrong start.”

Caleb humorously said your name, stopping off to the side of where the elevator was. Robby froze, processing that name; which he hadn’t exactly heard of till now. Labeling the face with a name, the way he did when patients were wheeled in unconscious and unidentified. He’d humanize them and reason with the idea that someone knows and loves the person he’s treating. 

He couldn’t find it in himself to empathize with the likes of you, even with your name.

Caleb placed his hands in his lap, breaking through Robby’s absorbed thoughts. “She’s here for an emergency psychiatry fellowship. I’m glad you two finally met since you’ll see her around more often.”

“About that,” Robby pointed out, with obvious discomfort from the idea. He didn’t want you around. “I don’t know if she’s a good team player.”

“What makes you say that?” Caleb questioned, intrigued by the sudden concern. You must have been different around Caleb for this to pique his interest. You were a psychiatrist after all, how hard would it be to hide your true nature?

Robby sighed, head bowed. “She had no problem reminding me how to consult psychiatry when she found a patient sedated for an eval.”

Caleb made an ‘ah’ noise, relaxing in his wheelchair. When Robby really looked down at him, there was an indistinguishable amusement. The type that felt wrong for the moment. Robby furrowed his brows at the psychiatrist, who returned it with an easy expression. “That’s it?”

What? Robby’s arms crossed over his chest, hands gripping onto his bicep to restrain from acting erratically in front of a psychiatrist. He sputtered a bit, trying to find some other observation of his to alarm Caleb of this new fellow he was gleaning over.

“For someone training to work alongside my department, she seems indifferent to my staff.” Robby rattled off. If he hadn’t noticed, Caleb would have described what he was seeing as behavior from a five-year-old in school. “She insulted an intern in front of a third-year resident.”

Caleb casually rolled himself in front of the elevator. Robby stepped beside him, pressing the up arrow button. “I don’t know of her plans after this fellowship. She is still exploring her options, but have you noticed any other interactions?”

Robby shook his head, lips pursed. He could ramble about how you never cracked a smile or bothered to greet the other doctors when responding to a consultation. You show up, speak with the patient, debrief with his staff, and leave. Simple and efficient, but robotic. He had noticed the weird looks from his residents, unsure if they watched the interactions transcribed correctly.

“Well, maybe it was just a bad day.” Caleb shrugged. He sat pensively staring at Robby. He never liked it when Caleb did that. “She’s working the night shift tonight.”

The elevator dinged with the doors sliding open smoothly. Robby pressed his hand against the slot to keep it from closing. Caleb wheeled inside, spinning gracefully to face Robby again. “Test your theory. Ask the night shift attending if he finds anything of concern, and I’ll follow up with her.”

With a tight-lipped smile, Robby gave Caleb a stiff nod while taking a reluctant step back. The sleek doors slid closed, and the last thing he saw was Caleb chuckling to himself.

That was the opposite of how he expected it to go. Caleb treated the matter as if he expected it to happen. Was this a cruel joke? Was the universe mocking him with an immature, presumptuous fellow? Exasperated, Robby stalked off towards the central hub, looking for a worthy distraction of his time.

Collins was sitting at one of the workstations in front of their behavioral rooms.  He browsed around the ER, checking his surroundings for anything needing immediate attention. His senior resident hadn’t bothered to lift her head as she continued typing and his shadow casted over the desk.

Robby leaned against the workstation, eyes fixated ahead as he lowered his mouth to a level that let them talk privately. “Can I get your opinion on something?”

Collins smiled softly, a tad entertained by the idea. “Depends. As long as it has nothing to do with trying whatever dish you plan to bring for the Thanksgiving party.”

Robby shook his head, catching the small look she gave him from the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat, “No, but thanks for the brutal honesty. It’s about the new psych fellow.”

Collins hummed, the tapping of the keyboard filling the silence of her thoughts. “What about her?”

“Have you seen her interact with any of the other residents or med students?” Robby questioned, eyes narrowing at her as he tried to phrase the question casually. No matter how he put it, she knew he was looking for something implicating. 

Collins furrowed her brows, pursing her lips. “A few times. She’s been responding to most of our consultation requests.”

“And what are your professional thoughts about her?”

Collins paused for a moment, hesitant to answer the question. Robby expectantly looked at her, and Collins knew whatever she said would have weight over his opinion of you. Collins straightened her back, “I think she’s professional. Doesn’t tend to make small talk with us, but then again, that’s not really necessary for patient care.”

“And with patients?” The question came out quickly, like a planned interrogation to find an answer from his earnest resident.

“I don’t tend to stick around to see her interact with them. Mohan seems to think she’s good.” Collins commented. She watched Robby’s reaction from the corner of her eye. She knew he respected her opinion, but he was also fixed in his opinions at times.

“Mohan’s too soft.” Robby offhandedly commented, glancing away as he chuckled more to himself.

Collins shook her head, a teasing look on her face. “Ouch. Tell me how you really feel.”

Robby inhaled sharply, recollecting his thoughts. “I mean, Mohan sees the good in everyone. I’m sure she was impressed by her approach.”

“So you agree she’s good?” Collin’s fingers were moving over the keyboard, logging off. She spun in her chair, facing her attending. He took a step back, letting Collins stand comfortably. 

Looking down at his feet, Robby shook the jab off. Collins meant well, but she could sense there was something more. Maybe he truly didn’t trust you, but she got the idea he was blinded by something out of your control. “My unprofessional opinion? I think if she were a man, you wouldn’t scrutinize her so much.”

Robby scrunched his face, a displeased smile on his face. He made an effort; he was sure Collins recognized that, but even when he was wrong, she always stopped to remind him. Before he could counter, she raised her hands in retaliation. 

“I’m just saying. Anyone can be driven and patient-centered without wanting to be friends with everyone.” Collin reminded, “You do.”

Collins saw a refutation in his eyes. He had been living on the edge as of late. Between Langdon's sudden hiatus and whatever else he was dealing with silently, he was sparking a reputation of a man haunted. She hated to say she spared herself the grief of witnessing what occurred a couple of months ago, but if it saved her from looking like Robby? She was relieved. 

“Robby, incoming trauma. 5 minutes out!”

The attempt was futile. He knew just as much as he did the day before, which was nothing. He should’ve known better than to bet against odds with a psychiatrist. He was beginning to feel confident in the idea that this was an orchestrated, cruel joke.

Coming in for shift change, Robby was antsy to know he was right. He wasn’t opposed to you due to your gender, as Collins suggested, or because he felt emasculated, as Dana inferred. There was something inherently wrong. He had to believe in his instinct about you. 

He had missed the substance abuse signs from Langdon, whom he spent countless shifts and cases working with. His mission was to nip the problem before it spiraled out of his control again. It was for the benefit of the department, he reminded himself

Therefore, when Jack told him nothing imperative of a self-absorbed psychiatrist, he silently cursed under his breath. That doesn’t mean your reclusive persona didn’t go unnoticed. Jack didn’t mind it per se, but he did find it odd when the only person you made small talk with was Shen.

From then on, Robby made sure to keep track of all the cases you assessed. His resident may have noticed their attending hovering more than usual during cases that required psych consults. He was sure you were aware of the new vigilance over his department–because of you.

Robby was walking out of the breakroom when he bumped into you. The two of you were heading in the same direction, and your brisk walk had startled him. You had turned over your shoulder, catching the polite smile on his face. Halting your step, you turned to him. “Dr. Robinavitch, just the person I was looking for.”

“Is that so?” Robby asked with an amused tone. He pumped hand sanitizer, rubbing it into his hands. “What can I do for you?”

The phrasing of his words must have been humorous, because for once, the corner of your lips curled upwards. You didn't let him bask on that reaction for long, shaking your head. “I have an update on your patient in Central 12.” 

Stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket, he shrugged. “Isn’t that Dr. Collins patient?”

“Yes, but I know you have a special interest in the case.” You teased. The relaxed expression on your face didn’t resemble that of the comment, but you were testing the waters. Better put, you were testing him. 

Considering this was one of the few times the two of you had spoken, he was impressed by your professional demeanor. He scoffed, shaking his head. “I am especially interested in all the patients that come into my department.”

“Well, isn’t it strange that you tend to linger and question those that require my consultation?” You cocked your head to the side, eyes narrowed at him. He didnt miss the satisfaction in your eyes. A small triumphant glimmer in your eyes, seeing him crack a little, the center of his forehead creasing.

Robby opened his mouth, finding some cool and respectable way to deflect the accusation. You glanced away, watching nurses pass you both by. “That’s beside the point. I’m putting the patient on a psych hold. He will have to stay down here for the meantime.”

“May I ask why?” Robby posed, eyebrows furrowed deeply.

From what he recalled of the patient, a 28-year-old male who came in reeking of booze with a head laceration after some drunk and disorderly pick up from officers. The patient had come in slightly combative and agitated, which, after looking at his tox report, was explained by alcohol and drugs in his system. How could it have escalated enough to validate a psych hold?

“He’s a danger to others. Presents grave disability.” 

Robby stared at you with wide brown eyes. He was expecting more than eight words to justify keeping a patient with substance abuse. He pressed his lips firmly, “Which would be what exactly?”

“I spoke with Mr. Romano’s family, and he has a history of schizophrenia. Apparently, he’s been off his medications for months.” You directed him away from the break room, moving over to the corner by pedes, where a small kitchenette was. Robby had his back to the rest of the ER. “When I spoke with the patient, he endorsed auditory hallucinations.”

“And you’re sure that is not a result of the drugs and alcohol in his system?” Robby questioned.

The prompted mistrust in your judgment must have rubbed you the wrong way since you cringed, nose twitching subtly. “EMS report supports what I heard from the family. The patient all but confirmed it when he kept rambling about ‘demon in walls.’”

A hand rubbed the back of Robby’s neck. He was almost done with the shift. He didn’t need to deal with the added luggage of another occupied bed. “I also overheard from Dr. Collins that he was walking, talking, and demanding discharge.”

“And I’m telling you, if you discharge him, he will decompensate on the streets.” Your firm voice was one he had yet to hear. Typically, you spoke with little cadence, but now, he knew he had pushed your buttons.

The sentiment of your voice left no doubt in Robby that you were offended by his objections. Robby had obvious authority over the department, over his residents' actions, and the ultimate say in many of their decisions. You were the gray area. Working in the emergency room required Robby’s involvement, but he wasn't your boss. 

Robby crossed his arms, a displeased smile on his face. “We don't have the availability to hold him.”

“Put him in one of the behavioral rooms.” You suggested, waving off his obvious irritation. “All he needs is routine medication dispensing and soft restraints, if necessary.”

Robby shook his head, the idea hitting deaf ears. “I don't have enough nurses to spare to dispense meds on a schedule. Why can't you take him upstairs in behavioral health, where he’ll actually receive the proper treatment?” 

“We don't have availability. Current bed wait time is at least 24 hours.” 

“Fuck me.” Robby groaned out loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear. His hand dragged down his face, lazily shaking his head.

You noticed the sideways glances. The staff noticed the tension between the two. Robby’s reluctance to give in and your reluctance to compromise. Besides the chief’s tight face, you were internally seething, evident in the way your hands tightened, crossed over your chest. 

You shook your head, scoffing, “That hardly seems like appropriate language, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Robby’s cold-stone stare didn’t go unnoticed by you. He should’ve admired your dedication to proper patient care, but he couldn’t help but feel this was all deliberate. “I can start the patient on his first dose of meds and put it into his chart for the next dispense.”

Right as you were going to brush past him, you stopped, craning your head to look at his side profile. “I appreciate your due diligence, but I am capable of doing my job without you breathing down my neck. You can at least show me that respect.”

When he felt the cold air hit him, he turned around, barely catching your back disappearing around the corner. He couldn't distinguish whether you leaving with the last word, or him letting you walk away at all, frustrated him more. He let out a heavy sigh, hands on his hips. It was just luck when he turned his head to see Caleb approaching him. 

Wheeling away from a patient in the north rooms, he warily looked in the direction you headed. “Do I want to know what that was about?”

“I told you. I don’t think your fellow plays well with others.” Robby groveled, stalking past Caleb.

Without missing a beat, Caleb maneuvered his wheelchair, strolling closely behind Robby. He heard the rolling of the wheels behind him, but did not intend to turn back to explain himself. Caleb chuckled, “Well, I have a minute if you’d like to voice your concerns.”

“I don’t think that’ll do much.” Robby offhandedly commented, wanting to strike a chord in Caleb. Maybe you were picking up since transferring this ugly habit. You had to have learned it from somewhere. 

“You could give me the benefit of the doubt by talking to me,” Caleb emphasized, which halted Robby’s steps.

The two had somehow made it to the lockers, where Robby found himself practically gridlocked between the double doors and Caleb. With slight shame, he turned to face Caleb who patiently waited for the right moment to speak again. 

“Look, I’m sorry if you felt dismissed the last time.” Caleb initiated genuine sincerity in his apology. “I liked to believe my favorite fellow and ER physician can learn to get along on their own in a perfect world.”

The smile threatened to cross his lips. Caleb’s grin certainly didn’t help Robby hold the stoic expression. Robby shook his head, “Flattery? Is that something new you’re trying in your practice?”

“I’m still workshopping it. You’ll have to let me know if it’s effective or not.” Caleb joked, smiling up wider at Robby.

With easier breathing, Robby crossed his arms, shouldering his words with some dignity. If he was going to grovel about a colleague, he wanted to sound like the situation warranted it. “She seems to go out of her way to make my job difficult. I find it hard to believe she isn’t doing it out of enjoyment.”

“Funny. She told me the same thing about you.” Caleb responded, watchful eyes on Robby’s reactions.

Furrowed brows and a displeased frown told Caleb everything. Robby had been holding on to moments where he felt you ruined the ‘harmony’ of the ER. If he was on edge, everyone else was walking on eggshells. Robby narrowed his eyes at Caleb, “Considering the one time I saw her work with my residents, she insulted them, I wasn’t pleased. It warranted taking another look at her work ethic.”

“She thinks you're scrutinizing her every move, which doesn’t help her treat patients properly, if that is the case.” Caleb pointed out respectfully. His response was diplomatic, even if he knew more than he let on.

Considering how much effort Caleb put in defending you, Robby should’ve assumed you’d share your observations of his rather egregious behavior. You had just called him out about. There must be more discourteous observations you had made known to your superior in the privacy of your shared office.

“Maybe I don’t want some overly confident psychiatrist disrespecting my staff.” Robby scoffed, offering Caleb a tight-lipped smile. He no longer needed to pretend to be nice. They were close enough for Caleb not to be offended and for Robby to be blunt.

“You mean you?”

Robby stood dumbfounded by the question. Everyone seemed to misinterpret his message. Collins, Dana, and now Caleb. He had made his bed, totally approaching the situation of you with little bias, he thought. If he did it all for the sake of the department, no one could question his judgment over you.

“If your residents have a problem with her, let them come to you,” Caleb suggested, friendlier intentions than when you told him to back off. Robby stood with his hands on his hips, still unsure. “If this is about you feeling disrespected, find a way to work it out.”

“She’s not malicious. She just has a hard time letting people in. You should identify with that.” Caleb gave Robby a firm nod.

Reluctantly, Robby agreed. Caleb wheeled backwards before turning and disappearing in the chaos of the department. There couldn’t possibly be anything the two of you shared in common. Robby refuted the idea that the two of you could find a comfortable middle ground to become friends or friendly.

You probably would’ve made it your mission, so it wouldn’t be so easy if Robby dared to attempt. Your cocky attitude was an enigma eating away at him, and if he let it go longer, his department would suffer for it. He’d head Caleb’s words, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to waste his energy on a lost cause.

Pretending to be civil must be a hidden talent of yours. A superpower reserved to further dig yourself under Robby’s skin. Whether intentional or not, it was working. 

In the last couple of weeks, you’ve kept your dialogue with him minimal. He knew you sought him out regarding all your cases, and neither of you made any comment on the fact. You’d give him your thoughts on a patient, any patient-care requirement from the psychiatric side, and disappear without so much as a farewell.

Robby didn’t expect it whatsoever. He didn’t assume you’d recover from the heated encounter with pleasantries and fake niceties. Robby couldn’t say the same about himself. He did attempt to compliment your efforts, but before he could get a word out, you’d wander away, abruptly ending his chances.

He stopped after the third attempt.

“Someone called for a psych consult.” Robby overheard as he was passing by the nursing station. He had recognized the sound of your voice by this point, from the rare times he heard it.

Robby halted his steps, peering over the brim of his glasses. You leaned against the central hub, speaking with Perlah, covering Dana while she (undoubtedly) took a smoke break. It was almost surreal to see you more comfortable than ever. You were sporting dark tortoise shell glasses, and the cardigan over your button-up was cozy. Maybe the holiday spirit was warming you up.

“I’ve got it, Perlah,” Robby called out from behind, making his way around the circular station. Perlah smiled politely before stepping away.

Robby glanced knowingly at you through the top of his glasses. He scrolled through a device in his hands while you stood around, bored almost. “I assume Dr. Jefferson is currently unavailable?” 

“That is a safe assumption to make.” Your vague response had his finger freeze, hovering over the screen. If you were amused by the scrunch on his face, you kept it to yourself. With a sigh, you nodded. “He stuck with a patient upstairs. I was available.”

Robby’s sights landed on the middle-aged man sitting in BH-1, hands on his head, and elbows resting on his knees. The room was empty and cold, for necessary precautions. Your eyes followed the direction he was looking at, examining the patient from afar. 

“Escorted by police, brought in by ambulance, after he threw acid on a pedestrian's face,” Robby informed in a low and serious tone. Standing beside him, his head craned down to be closer to your ear, defined the gravity of the situation.

“Right before Christmas.” You scoffed, shaking your head. Business was particularly busier with the change in whether and the usual holiday injuries that brought more people to the ER; which only meant more work for Robby and his staff. 

“Why was he brought in and not immediately detained?” You questioned, lips pursed in deep thought. 

Robby made the mistake of glancing at you. He saw the pensive expression, watching the man rock back and forth on the cold mattress top. The subtle rise of your chest was evident. You weren’t rattled or shaken yet. If he could describe the fleeting look in your eyes, he would see something human. The case was already personal for you, as all the others once you took them on.

“He suffered bruising and other surface wounds from bystanders attempting to stop him from fleeing.” Robby chuckled dryly at the irony of the situation. You reap what you sow. “He has proven defiant to treat, but police won’t allow us to discharge him until we at least do a tox-screen.”

You hum, nodding as you digest all the information. Craning your head, you looked up at Robby, who was staring at the man. “And why page psych? Because he chose a bizarre way to assault someone?”

Robby scratched the side of his beard, admittedly humored by your statement. He shrugged. “Witness statements claim he was aggravated but unprovoked before the attack. They want to make sure there is some legitimacy to those claims.

“So, sniff out the crazy?” You joked, gracing him with a crooked smile. It was a crude joke, but it also appeared like you had made it countless times before. 

Robby awkwardly chuckled, unsure how to properly react to the remark. You simply shrugged, “Dr. Jefferson would’ve thought it was funny.”

You straightened your back, hands digging into your pockets as you pulled out a couple of pens, tossing them onto the counter. “Considering this patient is high-risk, I’ll need security and a nurse on standby outside the room.”

“Wouldn’t it be best to have two physicians in the room?” Robby questioned. He took off his glasses, stuffing them into the pocket of his scrub top. 

You began to take off your jewelry, consisting of dainty necklaces and small hooped earrings, as if it were second nature.  “I’ll be fine on my own. Since this is your department, I’ll have you assign a nurse.”

“I assign what nurses work in what cases.” Dana casually strolled up behind you, pressing a tablet into her chest. 

Her eyes shifted from Robby, then to you. When she looked back at Robby, she was watching his posture and grip on the tablet. You spun around, nodding in understanding. Dana peered at Robby from over your shoulder. He stood there silently, too silent for comfort. 

Dana slowly looked around, noticing Jesse passing by. “Jesse! You’re with me!”

Jesse halted, staring among Dana, you, and Robby. Dana pointed her head toward the behavioral rooms. “Stand watch with me while psych does their eval.”

“Great.” You clapped your hands with little enthusiasm. Looking at Robby one more time, it was obvious he had reservations about the entire operation. “You’re welcome to observe, Dr. Robinavitch, but I understand you’re busy here. I can find you once I’m done. Wish me luck.”

Without waiting for his response, you walked over to the officer, calmly explaining the approach you were going to take. Robby leaned back into the nursing station, carefully gazing over your soft movements. When the door unlocked, you walked into the room, calm and collected. Robby held his breath when the door closed, and he saw you position yourself by the right wall. 

“She’s ballsy for wanting to go in there on her own,” Dana muttered, scooting closer to Robby. When her arm brushed his, she felt the tense muscles in his shoulder. With concern, she turned to head to get a better look at the rest of him—on edge and skeptical.

Jesse scoffed beside the charge nurse, shaking his head as he casually leaned against the nursing station. “I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a room with a man like that.”

“Robby,” McKay came around Robby’s other side, hands in her jacket pocket. She came to a halt when she noticed the small crowd watching in the behavioral room. “Is that the guy?”

Robby pensively nodded his head. From the window, you were lowering yourself onto the ground, disappearing from behind the door. He teared his eyes away to look at his second-year resident, gawking at the scene. “I can’t believe they brought him here instead of arresting him.”

“Did you need something?” Robby posed the question, hands on his hips. 

With his back turned towards Dana, she was positive something was bothering him. She knew he was on the cusp of crawling towards a hole no one could pull him out of. Whether it was drilling himself in the work or not allowing himself a second to breathe, it was all slowly drowning him. 

What she didn’t expect was for you to enter the behavioral room to elicit such a response in him as it did. Sure, he grovels a bit about protocol. Last thing she suspected he wanted was for you to break the rules right under his nose, but she sensed it went beyond that. It was like when the door closed, separating you from the safety of outside the behavioral room, an odd, doom-like chill ran through him.

McKay gave him a tight-lipped smile, turning away from the gallery, observing the interaction. The last thing Dana and Jesse heard was her motioning to a patient in one of the central rooms. The small glance Robby threw towards your direction over his shoulder didn’t go undetected by Dana or McKay as he was pulled away.

The air was uneasy, or so Robby thought. It felt thick and opaque as he jumped around the ER from patient to patient. The unsettledness tended to appear when an apprehended patient came in, especially one known as violent. 

Everyone kept a watchful eye when passing by the behavioral room. Apart for Dana and Jesse, who were the assigned nurses to the case, as well as the officers and Ahmad, everyone still felt inclined to check in. When Robby answered a trauma, luckily passing by BH-2, he caught your eye through the glass. One firm nod, and he stalked the ambulance bay. 

Almost two hours had passed by, and you were still in the room with the detainee.

Dana and Jesse had gone in a few times. The room had somehow felt chillier than outside, and you were comfortable in it. Administering meds or checking vital signs made the detainee flinch. You had easily distracted him. Although he hid his face under his long, dark hair, he engaged with little grunts and noises that you could coherently interpret.

“How is she still in there?” McKay questioned, leaning one arm on the nursing station. She turned to Dana, who was writing away on the device. “I thought she convinced him to do the blood test already.”

“She did,” Dana responded, partly focused on checking in with their current available room. There were four hours left of the day shift, and the tension was still on the roof. “Apparently, she hasn’t finished her eval. Have you discharged the patient in Central 15 yet?”

“Still waiting on her CT results,” McKay answered, her head still turned to the behavioral room. She furrowed her brows, watching you through the glass. 

“Good news! It came in a few minutes ago, and I need a bed. Get to it, Missy.” Dana grinned, shooing away McKay from continuing her staring, like they were in a zoo.

McKay begrudgingly walked in the direction of the patient, pulling Javadi with her as they crossed paths. Dana shook her head, muttering something about kids. With her head down, she didn’t notice Robby walking up behind her, but she did sense his large presence. 

“How are we doing?” Robby questioned, arms crossed as he stopped beside Dana. It was the first time in the past couple of hours that he could do a proper analysis of the current standing of his department. He appreciated the split second to breathe properly.

“Four hours left. I’ve got a couple of beds opening.” Dana informed, peering at the attending through her eyelashes. 

Robby rubbed the back of his neck, the bags under his eyes sunken in and darker than before. He exhaled heavily, shaking himself awake. “Okay, good, the more patients we can move out, the better. We still have two patients—“

“Hula-hoop!”

All the staff in the vicinity turned their heads in the direction of the call. Robby felt the dread in him at the term thrown. It wasn’t used loosely, and everyone knew to react quickly. When his sight landed on the behavioral rooms, the wave of staff rushing in alarmed him. 

With a burst of adrenaline, Robby rushed over to the room, weaving around the nurses watching. Pushing through to the doorway, the scene played out in chaos. Ahmad was already on the patient, with Jesse pulling him off and tossing him onto the bed. 

A couple of nurses rushed over, beginning to hold him down, putting on soft restraints. When Robby looked down at the ground, you were sitting up, nursing the left side of your face. There was blood dripping down your nose. The crimson red stained the front of your blouse. The hardened look on your face made it clear it was hurting.

Tipping your head back, he heard your labored and uneven breathing. Robby approached you on the ground, examining for other superficial wounds. “What the hell happened?”

When Robby brought up his hands, flashlight pen clicking on, you brushed him off. Maneuvering your head to watch the detainee instead of treating your current wounds. “Push 6mg of Ketamine.”

Your voice was raspy and hoarse, and when Robby’s eyes landed on your neck, he saw the bright red mark. The imprints resembled those of hands, and your skin was raw. He firmly stated your name, “Did he choke you?”

“He punched her before pushing her onto the ground and strangling her,” Jesse informed while stepping away from the patient as the medication was administered. 

Robby looked over his shoulder, watching as the patient succumbed to the medication, no longer thrashing or screaming profanities. Looking back at you, he saw the fresh bruising around your eye, blood surfacing under the skin.  His pen light came up to your face, checking your pupils for reactions.

In an instant, you swatted the light away, cringing at its brightness of the light. You scooted back, providing space to slowly stand. Dana immediately came up to your side, arms hovering under your elbows. “Honey, you need to let Robby check you. You can have a concussion.”

“Occupational hazard. “ You choked out, the strain in your face evident from the pain of suckered in the face and pushed to the ground.

Everyone in the doorway cleared out as you cautiously made your way out. The nurses debated on stopping you, pushing you into a wheelchair, and immediately taking you into a room. They opted not to once they saw you glaring at everyone staring at you. 

Dana trailed your tail, and Robby followed her. One of the arresting officers approached Robby, “Is she alright?”

“I don’t know yet.” Robby sighed, his eyes stuck on you. Dana pulled up an office chair, sitting you down with reluctance on your part. “Your detainee assaulted a physician and is currently sedated. We will have another psychiatrist assigned to no longer waste your or our time.”

The officer scoffed in Robby’s face. The sudden distaste as he looked at you fueled Robby’s current temperament. Shaking his head, the officer tightened his jaw. “We offered our services to the shrink. She thought she could handle hardball.”

Robby let out a sour laugh, his eyes squinting at the heavy-set officer. Before he could boil things over further, Dana called out his name. “We need you over here!”

With one more glare, Robby turned away, approaching the scene of nurses surrounding you and Dana like hawks. Even some of his residents had huddled into the group. Whispering of questions and concerns barely made their way to his ear,

“Okay, everyone, give her space!” Dana instructed, imitating a boundary as she pushed her hands outwards to provide a greater space between you and the ED staff.

“How does your head feel?” Robby started crouching slightly to get a better look at the bruising around your eye.

“I’m fine, Dr. Robinavitch.” You mumbled, pulling your face away from his grasp. 

The incredulous stare he gave you only opposed you more to treatment. Against your wishes, the pad of Robby’s thumbs began to press against your cheekbone, under your eye. He continued this until he reached the side of your nose, where you cringed harder from the pain. 

“You don’t seem fine,” Robby mumbled back, quiet enough for you to hear. You rolled your eyes at him, turning your head.

His examination travelled down to your neck, the swelling going down gradually. Pulling on his stethoscope, he pressed the chest piece to your back. Without much instruction or previous reluctance, you took in deep breaths, holding it, before letting go.

“O2 stats look good,” Jesse informed, lifting the pocket-sized meter. Robby nodded subconsciously, still listening to the sound of your lungs. 

With the proximity, he could smell the subtle hints of vanilla and fruit. The warmth of your skin radiated onto him, and the scent grew bolder. From behind you, he saw the flushed skin on the back of your neck. He safely assumed it was from the manual strangulation, but he wondered if you thought about the little distance between you, too. 

Robby had to remember to focus when he felt you start to sit taller. He removed the chest piece, throwing the instrument around his neck. “Clear lung sounds.”

“We can stick her in North 5.” Dana grabbed your cardigan, still on the desk, and threw it over your shoulders. Your skin may have felt warm, but you were shivering in your seat.

“I don’t need to be coddled.” You looked around at the nurses. The statement was firm, almost self-assured, but you gratefully stuck your arms through the sleeve.

“Pupils were reactive, but I want to rule out a concussion. CT head and maxillofacial.” Robby spoke to Dana, standing at full height. He was no longer focused on your previous disagreements or blow-up; he was acting as the attending physician, now having to care for a colleague hurt on the job. 

“Top of the line for CT,” Dana affirmed, beginning to write you down.

“Page Dr. Jefferson. I’ll talk to him about finishing the evaluation.”

“I can finish it.” You interrupted, standing up with little stability. Your hand immediately grabbed the back of the chair, gripping tightly. “I built rapport with him.”

“And he assaulted you as a result,” Robby argued, stepping closer to you. If you were uncomfortable with the public confrontation, you didn’t let it show. 

He knew the adrenaline was keeping you up, eyes flickering around like a lamb amongst wolves. He did not intend to hound you, but you certainly weren’t thinking logistically. It was probably foolish on his part to assume presumptuously that you’d go down without a fight. If your history had taught him anything was that you were stubborn. Fighting was in your DNA.

“I can do my job, Dr. Robinavitch.” You seethed, fired up by the extra boost coursing in your body.

To the other watching, you seem infuriated from being actively booted from the case. It didn’t make sense why you were fighting so hard if it wasn’t to protect your ego. Yet, Robby wasn’t convinced that was the reason. Your forehead creased, and your lips transitioned downward. A frown? 

“What happened?”

The voice echoed loudly over the ruckus you two created. Dr. Jefferson wheeled around Perlah and Princess, coming up behind you. Closing your eyes and turning your head to hide the masterpiece on your face.

Robby cleared his throat, still staring down at you like a child acting defiantly. “Your fellow was just assaulted by a patient while conducting an evaluation.”

Jefferson called your name, wheeling closer beside you. Jesse had stepped away, and Dana had shooed the rest of the nurses glued to the situation. You knew you couldn’t hide it, so you turned around, looking down at Jefferson. 

He stayed quiet while he looked from the swelling under your eye, to your neck, to the blood drying up. Silently, he evaluated the rest of you, intact but shaken up, even while you tried to hide it.

“Are you okay?” Caleb asked concernedly, which surpassed that of his role as an attending. He asked as a friend or even something fatherly.

You let out an agitated breath, glaring at Robby from the corner of your eye. “I don’t understand all the fanfare. I’m not concussed, and I am competent enough to do my job.”

Caleb, taken aback, looked over at Robby, who disapprovingly shook his head. The environment felt hostile, and if it wasn’t before, it was sure now. Caleb scooted back, “That wasn’t my question.”

Your hands fell to your sides. While the two of you held strained eye contact, your body depleted, the weight of confronting your current dilemma weighing on your chest. All Robby saw was the subtle shake of your head, and Caleb's face contorted.

“Do you have a room for her?” Caleb directed the question to Robby.

“North 5. She’s next in line for a CT.” Dana cut in, offering empathetic smiles all around.

Caleb jerked his head to the side, hands on his wheels as he led the way towards the north rooms. Jesse pulled up smoothly with a wheelchair behind you. Without much thought, you carefully lowered yourself onto the chair, slumping down, your body caving into itself. Once Caleb stepped in to take the reins of the situation, you succumbed to his direction. Robby furrowed his brows, watching Jesse wheel you away, disappear with Caleb into a hallway.

Dana sighed, shaking her head. “Poor girl. She looks confused.”

She turned to Robby for him to respond with some quip about her arrogance or inflated ego, but all Dana saw was an appeal to nurture. Robby saw a deer in the headlights, frightened by the incoming danger. He thought he had you all figured out. Now, he was more confused than ever about what Jefferson saw in you.

Dana expectantly raised her eyebrows at him, and once the silence registered, he faced her with an exasperated sigh. “Right. Alert me when the patient wakes up. We’re going to need the police to take a statement after the CT results.”

Without waiting for Dana’s reply, he stalked in the direction of North 5. Maybe he should know better than to beat a dead horse. You weren’t going to be okay with passing on the case. After three hours with the patient, he would assume not. Yet, he incorrectly thought that if he acted civilly, he might change the outcome.

He slowed down as he approached the North 5 room. The curtain had been pulled closed, appropriately to provide you privacy after the dramatic show in the middle of the ER. Glancing around once, he prepared to announce his presence, his curled fist lifting to the door, until he heard voices.

“No one will think less of you if you drop the case. You were beaten and almost choked to death, for crying out loud.”

Caleb sounded almost infuriated. The man abandoned his patience, and it sounded like a different person to Robby. Even when Robby tested the waters, making comments, passing jokes, and warranting worry, Caleb never faltered.

“I told myself that too once, but I can’t risk dropping from another program.”

Robby furrowed his brows. He knew eavesdropping on a conversation between two psychiatrists was ironically improper, but now he was hooked. He stepped back to obscure the shadow on the curtain, hiding his presence a bit longer.

“The two are hardly comparable.” The exasperation in Caleb’s voice was evident through his sigh.

“Aren’t they?” Your dry, bitter laugh was oddly familiar to Robby. He was starting to feel the same way about this department. “First, this fucking disease, and now this patient? What more do I have to give up until I can just be a good fucking doctor?” 

“Nothing else.” Caleb sighed, and Robby held his breath as the silence settled between you two. “No one is kicking you out of this program, but you can’t tire yourself out with this job either.”

“Caleb, you’ve got a minute?” Robby spontaneously asked, feigning no knowledge of the conversation the two were having in there. 

He heard you mumble something, probably egging him to leave with Robby. After a beat, the curtain pulled back, and Robby caught a glimpse of you. Hands covered your face as you lay back on the gurney; you didn’t bother to lift your head and acknowledge him.

Caleb let the curtain drop, containing you back to the room. Robby stepped aside as Caleb passed the threshold. He motioned to Robby off to the side, putting distance between the two attendings to talk. “What did you need, Michael?”

Robby peculiarly watched Caleb’s expression. The lingering remnants of the heavy conversation settled in Caleb’s eyes as he looked into an abyss. You had an effect on people, Robby thought.

“We need to reassign the case to another psychiatrist,” Robby stated, more as a demand than a suggestion. “The sooner we finish that up and get the report to the police, the better for everyone.”

Caleb nodded with little indifference to Robby’s authoritative stance. Robby casually slipped into the break room, walking over to the coffee pot. Caleb positioned himself by the doorway, leaving the entrance open.

“I agree.” Caleb folded his hands in his lap, he glanced down at his watch. “I’ll debrief later about the patient. I’m sure we have enough.”

Caleb saw Robby nod in silent agreement, hands busy pouring himself coffee in a mug. He fiddled around with sugar packets, the rustling of the packaging clear to Caleb. He bowed his head, inhaling softly. “So, how much of our conversation did you overhear?”

Robby hummed, nonchalantly shaking his head. His nervous smile definitely gave him away when he turned back to look at Caleb. The knowing smirk on his face told him so much. “I’m going to assume you heard enough to have more questions about my fellow.”

Leaning back against the counter, Robby nursed the mug in one hand. He stared expectantly at Caleb. He certainly didn’t owe him anything about you; but if you two were bound to work together for the next year of your fellowship, he should know pertinent information.

Caleb shrugged his head over to the table, inviting Robby to take the moment to listen. Without argument, Robby silently slumped into the plastic chair, mug on the table. Caleb slotted his wheelchair in a space. “Psychiatry wasn’t her first choice. Better yet, a choice at all.”

“She used to be a surgical resident in California.” Caleb laughed earnestly, “I’ve been having a hard time shaking that icy demeanor.”

That must have been a drastic change, Robby assumed. Surgery provided an exhilaration that boosted their egos. He could see a hint of that attitude left, considering how the two of you met. If what he heard was correlated with what Caleb said now, there was something complex with your case. Dropping out of a residency program to join another drastically different program didn’t seem rational.

“How come she’s not a surgeon?”

Caleb paused, and Robby thought he instantly regretted speaking of the topic. It was somewhat invasive of Robby to ask your supervisor why you were different. He should’ve stopped it before it got too far. The coy smile told him the opposite: “You should ask her that.”

Robby bowed his head, laughing to himself. Of course, it was a ploy. Some way to get him hooked enough to push him in your direction. “Well played, Dr. Jefferson.”

With shameless pride, Caleb shrugged his shoulder, feigning humility. When Robby lifted his head, he took a hasty sip of his coffee. “Does this have anything to do with you trying to get us to bond?”

“I think you'll have a much different lens on her if you do try to get to know her,” Caleb suggested, almost certain that his attempts and theories would work. He was occasionally hopeful in his line of work, which sometimes was dangerous. But these weren't his patients; these were his colleagues. Something told him now was the right moment to be optimistic. “Who knows. Maybe you’ll like the person behind the curtain.”

“If you ask me, it sounds like you’re playing matchmaker.” Robby joked, a small nervous chuckle following.

Pushing him to get to know you as physicians working in the same environment was one thing. Caleb didn’t appeal to Robby as the type to be a wingman for either party. Besides, there would need to be a lot of work done for either party to remotely agree to those terms.

Caleb shook his head, a joyous laugh echoing in the breakroom. “No. I just think there’s a lot for me to learn about her as well. But what I do know is she is more human than you make her out to be.”

Before Robby can formulate a response, sneakers squeaked against the linoleum floors outside the breakroom. Robby turned his head towards the door, finding Whitaker stopping at the threshold. Robby sat up straighter. “Did you need anything?”

Whitaker nodded, eyeing Dr. Jefferson, who only offered a polite smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Don't worry, we were just finishing up.” Caleb shook his head, hands on the wheels of his chair. He teetered back and forth, looking at Robby. “Promise me you’ll think about what I said?”

Robby gave him a curt nod, sighing as he stood from the chair. Satisfied, Caleb excused himself, wheeling out of the room as Whitaker stepped aside. Bracing himself to finish the shift with the little strength he had, he followed behind Whitaker as he debriefed him. Passing by the north rooms, particularly the one you were occupying, he couldn't help but look in.

The curtain was still pulled closed, providing little view of how you were doing, but Robby imagined this was the biggest inconvenience. His head continued to play the conversation between him and Caleb. A former surgical resident, dedicating herself to Psychiatry, enough so to agree to a fellowship in an emergency room setting. 

It did intrigue him. Enough so, he might note Caleb’s observance. 

It wasn’t news to anyone that the ED staff loved to decompress with alcohol and camaraderie. With winter rolling in with lower temperatures at night, they traded in the outdoor park benches for an indoor, rugged bar. The lights were severely dimmed compared to the fluorescence of the hospital. The antiseptics sticking to their clothes were succumbing to the stench of beer and fried food.

The group that decided to stop by after their shift collectively sat around a booth. Their laughs may have been the loudest in the establishment, tucked away in a corner, but no one made any complaints.

Robby felt the weight of the shift leaving his shoulders. It was rare nowadays that he didn’t take the baggage of his job back home. Lying under the covers, staring at some rerun playing on T.V. had become his way of forgetting. He was trying to convince himself that it was working. 

While in the presence of his staff off-duty, he leaned back in the padded bench, listening to Santos and Javadi lead the conversation. It ranged from reality television to the weird patients they had that day. While Princess was talking about the third patient with a foreign object found inside them, Robby heard the wind come in from the front door.

Sitting at the corner of the booth, he noticed a patron come in, hugging a black wool coat. You had made your way over to the bar, slumping into a stool. The bartender came up to you, taking your order, and when he left, you exhaled the deepest sigh.

From the side profile, he could see you wince as you removed your coat. You were internally intact after the CT. No concussions or breaks in your nose or cheekbone. Simple fractures and soreness that would have to heal on their own. It didn’t mean the exciting shift didn’t leave you wiped. 

He wasn’t able to check in with you during handoff since he didn’t see you leave. Once Dr. Jefferson finished the evaluation for you, resulting in the detainee transferring to a state psychiatric hospital, you had disappeared since then. Mohan had been the one to clear you, and when he came around North 5 for the last time, the bed was empty and cleaned.

Robby didn’t realize he had been staring until Donnie called out his name. Focusing back on the group, they all stared at him, expectantly waiting for a reply. He hummed, raised eyebrows, before his eyes turned back to you.

Most of the group in a position to look in the direction of the bar craned their necks. Their advantage gave them a view of your back, but it was like they all shared the knowing feeling.

“Do you think that was her first time?” Javadi asked, readjusting in her seat beside Whitaker and Perlah. 

“Something tells me this isn’t her first rodeo,” Whitaker mumbled beside Javadi, eyeing you carefully.

You were nursing some dark liquor, taking careful sips while scrolling on your phone. Robby gnawed on the inside of his cheek. Despite the occasional shifting in your seat, you seemed perfectly fine as you could be. The bartender had given you a look when he noticed the bruise, and a few others around the bar had done double takes.

Robby wasn’t sure what his intention was when he excused himself from the group, wandering to the empty seat at the bar beside you. When you turned your head at the sound of the glass bottle hitting the wooden counter, he re-imagined his approach.

He said your professional title politely, while he sat down carefully. His pace allowed a moment for you to object or ask him to leave; yet, when he looked up from the ground, he saw the hint of a smirk. A name came out of your mouth, which wasn’t your surname. He stopped, curiously looking at you.

“I don’t like being called by my professional title outside of work.” You shrugged, taking another sip of your drink.

Robby chuckled, letting the name sit comfortably in his tongue. It rolled out with a smoothness he didn’t expect. Baby steps. “Maybe you should call me what everyone else calls me. ‘Robinavitch’ is a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?”

You shrugged, turning halfway to face him. Your knees brush his, and he couldn’t help the reflex to flinch away. “I don’t like to get too comfortable with colleagues.”

“You seem not to like a lot of things.” Robby pointed out, resting his arms on the bar. The reverb of his chuckle extended to his arms, which jumped with him. 

“I have a system,” Your eyes darted around the bar methodically, while thinking to yourself. “I don’t like straying away from that.”

“And that means not making any friends?” Robby dragged out his words. While his head was slightly bowed, he looked up at you through his eyelashes. 

Your shirt was different, some grey cable-knit sweater. Surely you had changed after the last blouse was ruined with your blood. Apart from the bruising around your eye, you were still as cleanly maintained as usual. Maybe it was the lighting that hid the dark undereyes they all had from work exhaustion and lack of sleep; but he found it hard to notice a fault in your appearance.

He wouldn’t say he was a lightweight—far from it, actually. After an hour of hanging around at the bar and sipping on beer, he didn’t feel as uptight when he left the PTMC, that was certain. You had looked down at him, the same hooded eyes that had reminded him how to do his job properly when you first met. Even when he felt there could be a turning of a new leaf, you were strict in your program of self-development.

“I prefer to see it as prioritizing the patient’s needs first. I shouldn’t have to make friends to do that properly,” You deadpanned. This hadn’t been the first time you explained yourself, and Robby wandered back to the conversation he had with Caleb.

Your defensive and offensive style of communicating did resemble the type of banter he and Garcia had, except you pushed further than you pulled. A former surgical resident must have been an offensive strike on your record. Especially if the reason was humiliating enough for you to want to hide it.

“There have to be some exceptions.” Robby probed, leaning back into the chair, “How about Shem? I’ve heard you two are pretty friendly.”

The blank expression on your face gave him little notion of what to think. You weren’t visibly taken back from the question, but you didn’t think he had noticed enough to ask. Your eyes then narrowed; more displeased, he had voiced the observation as if there was something more to it.

Lying on the side of your head on a curled fist, you stared at Robby. “I met Shen when he was in med school at UCSF. He did a few rotations while I was a resident.”

“In psychiatry?” Robby followed up easily, now facing you. One elbow propped on the back of the chair, while the other rested on the counter.

You furrowed your brows, eyes hardening to something like a glare. You were skeptical. Robby wasn’t exactly discreet with his line of questioning, and his expectant body language gave away exactly what he was asking for. 

“Did Caleb tell you?”

Your voice sounded strained, and one could’ve assumed it was from the exhaustion. What Robby saw as he examined your face was displeasure. Maybe you were angry with Caleb for sharing your information or Robby for faking pleasantries to dig into your life. Regardless, your tense muscles told him he was entering territory you had marked away as ‘dangerous.’

“He may have mentioned that psychiatry wasn’t your plan A.” Robby’s voice softened, and he almost sensed your disgust from the change of tone. He should've known that you hated pity or anything remotely sympathetic. 

The way you reacted when he and Dana were attempting to examine you made it clear. You were protecting yourself, the way an injured animal may act defensively in the presence of something more intimidating. Robby understood the instinct. 

You dryly chuckled, shaking your head. Apart from that, you crossed your arms. When Robby noticed the grinding of your jaw, he had prepared to excuse himself from the conversation. The tension was palpable, and the stakes were too high to bet. Caleb failed once more on changing Robby’s mind, and he should’ve heeded his own words before tempting fate.

“I was a surgical resident.” You calmly spoke, and Robby felt a shiver from the shift. You had managed to relax the contorted muscles in your shoulder, slumping in the seat once more. “After my third year, I withdrew and joined Psychiatry.”

Robby, who was stunned silent, nodded aimlessly. He offered a tight-lipped smile, “Caleb didn’t mention anything more than that.”

The slow nod brought Robby an odd relief. He finally figured it wouldn’t be the brightest idea to push his luck. Your shaky sigh released the icy resolve you had before this moment. Your eyes shifted quicker, and your foot had started thumping up and down. “It’s not exactly his place to.”

When you turned your face away, the discoloration looked brighter under the overhead lamp. He was forced to look into your glassy eyes. “He seems to think we are more alike than we think.”

“So he thinks we can be friends? He is a sucker for lost causes.” You stated, reaching for your coat hanging on the back of your chair.

Robby's mouth fell agape. Lost causes? His patience was withering, and that might’ve been the last straw. He wanted to give Caleb the benefit of the doubt. He was actively finding reasons to change his point of view about his life, his work, and his relationships. He didn’t need to get along with you, nor did he want it, but he attempted to desire it. 

Lost causes, right?

“So, that’s it?” Robby said with disdain. He noticed the same disinterest in your face from the time you two spoke in front of the elevator. His reflection from that moment came up in his mind, and he wondered why he bothered with all of it in the first place. 

You didn’t bother to look up as you pulled your wallet out of your coat. Slipping cash out of one of the pockets, you drop it on the counter. A twenty. “What more do you want, Dr. Robinavitch?”

Chugging down the rest of your drink, you stepped down from the stool, shrugging on your coat. “You’ve made it pretty clear to me and my superior of your indifference towards me. How can we ever be friends after that?”

“Well, I can admit when I’m wrong.”

“Except, you think you aren’t.” You quickly retorted, giving him a sideways glance while you fixed your coat. You eventually shoved your hands into your pockets, “I don’t mind that whatsoever, but I don’t need you to befriend me to make up for it.”

Despite preparing yourself to leave, you were rooted in your position. He didnt know what you wanted, and he was left with no cards to play with. Pretending to be nice didnt work, nor did actually showing a sincere interest in getting to know you. With the jarring agitation, he was comfortable in believing you were the lost cause. Maybe the universe was fated to make the professional relationship challenging for as long as you were at the PTMC.

“You may think no one notices your devolving behavior, but you’re not doing as good a job as you think you are at hiding it.” 

Robby’s body stiffened. You barely flinched from how stone-cold his face became. Chin raised, and eyes narrowed on him, you were sniffing him out like a dog. He had tried to gracefully push you to open up, even if it meant disclosing he had some insider information. The impression he got was that you made sure to puncture the wound with your words, leaving no confusion.

“You’re not my fucking shrink,” Robby warned, shaking his head as he stood from the bar. In any other scenario, it would be alarming to see a tall man like him go toe-to-toe with a woman at a bar. Especially one already sporting a bruise. 

“And we’re not friends.” You retorted back, head cocking to one side. “Remember that.”

You took a measured step back, letting yourself breathe away from Robby’s frustrations against you. “I’ll let Dr. Jefferson believe that, though–to get off both our backs. But, there’s nothing more you and I need to be doing outside of treating patients.”

Turning away, Robby was forced to stare at your back, once again awarding you the rights of having the last words. It was like every time he was ready to take steps forward, he was pushed back several hundred feet. You were certainly making it impossible for him to make some sort of personal development, if that was in the cards for him at his age.

Time was escaping him, and his hope of turning things around was diminishing with it as well. Caleb had him believing there was a chance to fix something in both of you by mending the tense atmosphere that lived with you both in the same room. 

Robby didn’t need a shrink to fix his problems, and he didn’t need to waste his time fixing whatever was wrong with you, too. So, he’d agree to work in whatever conditions you’d want to live in. So long as you didn’t pretend to know what was wrong with him, and he wouldn’t naively assume anyone could be friends with you.

You slide a vodka soda across the counter without looking up. “You’re closed out.”

The guy on the stool blinks at you. “I didn’t ask for the tab.”

“You asked for another drink. I made an executive decision.”

That gets a laugh from the woman two seats down and an offended little smile from him, like you’ve flirted instead of done your job. You do not have the energy to correct him.

The music is too loud, the floor is sticky in that specific way it always is after midnight, and somebody near the back is yelling at a slot machine. Neon bleeds across the bottles behind you in pink and blue streaks. Somebody spilled beer near the service well five minutes ago and, naturally, did not apologize.

Normal.

Or close enough.

You work through it on autopilot. Pour. Swipe. Smile when necessary. Ignore what you can’t fix. That part, at least, you’re good at. You’ve had practice.

A few months ago, you were a nurse.

Not in the soft-focus, inspirational-poster kind of way. In the real way. Long shifts. Sore feet. Charting until your eyes blurred. Knowing how to keep your voice steady when somebody else was scared. Knowing how to move quickly without looking rushed. Knowing when to talk and when to stand there and let someone have a bad moment without making it worse.

You worked at the VA long enough to get used to the rhythm of it. The routines. The regulars. The particular kind of patience it took to do that job well. Then the money started getting weird. Then staffing got thinner. Then the place shut down and took your paycheck with it.

There were other jobs, technically. Just not close ones. Not easy ones. Not ones that made sense once gas, rent, and plain bad luck got involved.

So for now, you’re here.

Full-time behind a bar, living off tips and bad lighting, telling yourself it’s temporary in exactly the same tone people use when they already know it isn’t.

A hand taps twice on the counter. You blink and look up.

“Hey,” the customer says, grinning like he’s about to become your problem on purpose. “You with me?”

“Tragically.”

He laughs.

You don’t.

“Another bourbon.”

“You’ve had enough bourbon.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“You’ll live.”

He leans in a little. “You always this mean?”

The answer comes to you before you can stop it.

‘Only to the hot ones.’

Your whole body goes still. It hits fast, the memory so sharp it almost feels physical. You had said that to Michael.

Right here.

In this bar. In this exact kind of light. One hand braced on the counter, already smiling before he gave you a reason to, watching him lift his eyes to yours like he hadn’t expected you and wasn’t sure what to do with that yet.

That same brief pause. That same mouth trying not to smile.

God.

You hate this. You hate that he’s still in your head at all.

More than that, you hate that he’s still this clear in your head when he is presumably somewhere else entirely, living a life untouched by any of it, while you’re still stuck working in the place where you met him, trying not to think about the man who married you and vanished before morning like some kind of coward with good timing.

You turn away before the guy in front of you can say anything else.

“One bourbon,” you say flatly, reaching for the bottle. “Then water. Then I stop being nice.”

“You were being nice?”

“Don’t push it.”

By the time your shift ends, your feet hurt, your shoulders ache, and you smell like citrus, beer, and other people’s bad decisions.

The crowd has thinned enough to make the place look more tired than lively. A few tourists still hang around like the night owes them something. It doesn’t. It never does.

You head to the back office to cash out. The room is cramped, over-air-conditioned, and somehow always smells faintly like receipt paper and old limes. You count your tips twice because the number the first time pisses you off.

Not enough.

Again.

Still not enough.

You flatten the bills on the desk, stack them carefully, and do the math in your head anyway. Rent. Gas. Groceries. The minimum on the credit card you keep pretending is not becoming a problem. You lock your phone after checking your account balance for all of two seconds.

Nope.

Not tonight.

You shove the cash into your bag, grab your keys, and head home with the kind of exhaustion that feels older than the hour. Your apartment is quiet when you step inside. Too quiet, maybe.

You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the chair by the door, and head straight for the kitchen because you’re starving in that vague, irritated way that usually means you waited too long to eat.

The leftover coffee from this morning is still sitting in the pot. You make a face before you even pour it.

Weird.

You usually would’ve microwaved it without thinking. Instead, the smell hits you wrong. Bitter in a way that turns your stomach almost immediately.

You pull back, frowning.

“Seriously?”

You dump it anyway and stand there for a second with one hand braced on the counter, waiting for the nausea to pass.

It does. Mostly. 

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’re tired. You barely ate. You worked too long. Bodies are weird. You do not let your brain go any further than that. Because any further than that leads in one direction, and you’ve spent the last few weeks doing a pretty decent job not going there.

Not to him. Not to the chapel. Not to the ring buried in the back of your dresser drawer under a tangle of receipts and old lip gloss. Not to the marriage certificate shoved into a box in your closet like paper can stop being real if you hide it well enough.

You are not thinking about any of that. You are especially not thinking about divorce.

Why would you?

It isn’t like you’re dating. It isn’t like you’re trying to get married. It isn’t like some great love of your life is waiting in the wings, desperate for your legal availability. And it’s not like divorce is some quick little errand you run between shifts. Divorce takes money, paperwork, time, and, inconveniently, a husband you can actually locate.

As far as you’re concerned, what happened with Michael was one reckless, humiliating disaster of a night that ended the second he walked out of that hotel room.

That’s it. That’s all.

You don’t wear the ring. You don’t say his name out loud. You don’t think about the fact that somewhere out there is a man who is technically your husband and apparently felt no particular urgency about that fact once the sun came up.

You’ve done a pretty solid job pretending none of it matters. Until your body starts being weird. Not in a dramatic way at first. Nothing cinematic. Nothing obvious. Just small, irritating shifts that would’ve been easy to brush off if they hadn’t kept happening.

You’re more tired than usual. Which shouldn’t mean anything. You work late. You sleep badly. You spend most of your shifts smiling through conversations that make you want to fake your own death. Being tired is not new.

But this feels different. Heavier. Like sleep isn’t actually touching it. Like no matter how long you stay in bed, you still wake up feeling like somebody switched your bones out for wet sand overnight.

You make it through the next few days on autopilot.

Work. Home. Shower. Bed.

You tell yourself the nausea is from stress. Or bad food. Or the fact that your sleep schedule is basically decorative at this point. You tell yourself your body is just being annoying because that is, historically, one of its favorite hobbies.

You do not tell yourself the truth. Mostly because you don’t want to know what the truth is yet.

By the fourth morning in a row that coffee makes your stomach roll, you’re actively offended.

You stand in your kitchen staring down at the mug like it personally betrayed you.

“Unbelievable.”

The coffee, unhelpfully, remains coffee. You try one sip anyway. Immediate regret.

You shove the mug away so fast it sloshes over the side and runs across the counter in a thin brown line. Your stomach turns hard enough that you have to grip the edge of the sink.

Nope. Absolutely not.

You breathe through it, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the wave to pass. When it does, it leaves behind that strange hollow feeling, shaky, annoyed, unsettled in a way you can’t quite talk yourself out of. You rinse the mug out harder than necessary and leave it in the sink.

Your apartment is too quiet.

That’s the worst part, maybe. The silence. The fact that there’s no one here to distract you from your own thoughts. No music. No television. No drunks asking for another round like they’ve mistaken your patience for customer service magic.

Just you.

And your own brain starting to turn toward places you do not want it turning.

You open the fridge. Close it. Open it again like there might suddenly be a different answer inside. Nothing looks good. Nothing sounds good either. You settle for crackers because they seem neutral, which feels like a deeply humiliating way to choose a meal.

You eat three standing at the counter. Then stop. Then look at the box in your hand like it’s somehow become evidence.

You do not let yourself finish that thought.

No.

Your period is late. That, unfortunately, is harder to ignore. You know it is.

You’ve known it for days now, in that vague edge-of-your-consciousness way where you keep pretending you counted wrong. Maybe you’re off by a week. Maybe stress messed with it. Maybe you’re just tired, run-down, hormonal, unlucky.

Maybe your body is being weird because life is weird and not because one stupid, reckless, champagne-soaked disaster with a dark-haired man and a legal ceremony somehow followed you home.

You lean both hands on the counter and stare at the cabinet in front of you.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

Your voice sounds strange in the empty kitchen.

“Okay.”

But you’re not okay. Because now that you’ve let the thought in even a little, it won’t leave.

Late. Tired. Nauseous.

You know enough not to play dumb. That almost makes it worse.

You used to be a nurse. You’ve had this conversation with patients before, back when your job was still your job and not the thing you missed every time rent came due. You know how bodies work. You know what early symptoms can look like. You know exactly why your chest is getting tighter the longer you stand here pretending this could still be nothing.

And you know who it would be. That’s the part that really does it. Not some abstract possibility. Not some faceless hypothetical.

Michael.

Michael with the tired eyes and the dry mouth and the hand at your waist in that chapel while the officiant tried not to look embarrassed for both of you. Michael, who kissed you like he meant it just enough to make disappearing afterward feel ruder. Michael, who left before you woke up.

You press the heel of your hand against your forehead.

“No.”

The word comes out thin.

Then stronger.

“No.”

Because that would be insane. Actually insane. A joke so specific it circles back around to cruelty.

You push off the counter and start moving just for the sake of moving. Cabinet. Sink. Living room. Back again. Your apartment is too small for pacing, but that doesn’t stop you.

You try logic first.

Stress can mess with your cycle. Bad sleep can make you sick. You’ve been eating like shit. You work in a bar. You’re around alcohol, bad food, no routine. Of course you feel off.

There are explanations. There are a million explanations. There had better be a million explanations, because the alternative is—

Your gaze catches on the hallway leading to your bedroom. The dresser. The drawer. The ring. Your whole body goes still.

It’s ridiculous how much power that stupid little thing still has. Cheap silver band. Tiny fake stone. Light enough to feel like a joke in your palm.

You haven’t worn it since the first day after you got home. Took it off, shoved it into the back of the drawer, buried it under receipts and old chapstick and things that didn’t matter, like hiding it deep enough might somehow downgrade the whole thing from legally binding to deeply embarrassing misunderstanding.

You swallow hard. Then head for the bedroom before you can talk yourself out of it.

The drawer sticks the way it always does, catching for half a second before it finally opens. You shove past the tangle of junk until your fingers find cold metal.

There it is.

You stare down at it in your palm. Still ugly. Still real. Still enough to make something in your chest tighten.

You don’t put it on. 

You just stand there holding it, looking at it like maybe it’ll offer up some kind of useful answer now that you’re desperate enough to want one.

It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. It’s a ring. Not a witness.

Your thumb rubs once across the stone. A flicker of memory hits before you can stop it. Hotel light. Crooked tie. His mouth pulling at one corner while he looked at you like you were the strangest thing he’d seen all night and somehow not the worst part of it.

You close your hand around the ring so hard it presses into your palm.

“Asshole,” you mutter.

At him. At yourself. At the entire state of Nevada, honestly.

You drop the ring back into the drawer and shut it harder than necessary.

No. Not yet.

You are not spiraling over a late period and a few weird mornings. You are not.

You head for the bathroom instead, flicking on the too-bright light over the mirror. Your reflection looks tired. Pale around the mouth. Annoyed, mostly.

Which feels correct.

You lean in closer like your own face is going to explain something.

“When was your last period?”

The answer does not arrive in a helpful rush.

You try counting backward in your head. Shift schedules. Payday. That Tuesday you worked a double. The morning after the hotel. The week after. Somewhere in there, your thoughts start tangling.

That is not reassuring.

You let out one humorless laugh and brace your hands on the sink.

“Great.”

Because now you can’t even lie to yourself properly. You know enough to be scared and not enough to feel in control, which might be the most offensive combination possible. The drugstore is open twenty-four hours. That thought appears in your head fully formed and awful.

You stare at yourself for another long second.

You could wait. You could go to sleep and deal with it tomorrow. You could spend one more day pretending this isn’t happening.

But the second option presents itself, you know you won’t take it. Because waiting would be worse. Waiting would turn every hour into its own special kind of torture, and you are already dangerously close to your limit for the day.

So instead, you exhale slowly, grab your keys off the nightstand, and head back out the door before courage can become cowardice.

The drive to the drugstore is short enough to be rude. Vegas at this hour is all glare and strange quiet in between noise. Streetlights. Headlights. People still moving like the night hasn’t ended yet. It makes you feel weirdly detached from everything around you, like the city kept going without asking whether you were okay with that.

The parking lot is half full.

You sit there for a second with the engine running and both hands on the steering wheel.

This is stupid, you think.

Then, immediately after:

No, this is necessary.

Neither thought helps.

Inside, the fluorescent lights are mean. The whole place smells like floor cleaner and stale air conditioning. You head straight for the aisle without letting yourself hesitate because the idea of wandering around first, pretending you came in for toothpaste or shampoo or literally anything else, somehow feels worse.

You find the tests too quickly. Of course you do. Like the universe wants efficiency now. You stare at the shelf. One test. Two tests. Digital. Pink dye. Early response. All of it suddenly seeming way too cheerful for the situation.

You grab one. Then another. Then put the second one back because apparently you are still trying to perform sanity for no audience whatsoever.

At the register, you add a bottle of water and a sleeve of crackers you do not want, because buying only a pregnancy test feels too much like standing under a spotlight.

The cashier barely looks at you.

“Bag?”

“Yes,” you say immediately.

She bags it. You pay. The world does not end in aisle seven.

Rude, honestly.

Back in the car, the plastic bag sits in the passenger seat like a threat.

You do not start the engine. You just look at it. Then look away. Then back again. You think, wildly and with full sincerity, about throwing the whole thing in the backseat and driving anywhere else.

Instead, you drive home.

The apartment is still quiet when you walk back in. You set the bag on the bathroom counter and stare at it. Your hands have gone strangely steady.

That’s somehow the most irritating part. That your body can betray you all week and then go calm when it would actually be appropriate to fall apart.

You open the box. Read the instructions twice even though you already know how these work. Follow them exactly because at least one of you in this situation should be competent. Then you set the test on the counter. And step back. Immediately. Like distance might soften what’s coming.

You wash your hands even though they don’t need washing. Straighten the towel. Throw away the packaging. Pick it back up when it misses the trash. Check the time. Check it again.

The apartment is so quiet you can hear your own breathing. You keep your eyes on the mirror. Not the counter. Definitely not the counter. Because as long as you’re not looking, there’s still a version of the night where none of this followed you home.

As long as you’re not looking, Michael is just a bad decision with nice eyes and a worse exit strategy. As long as you’re not looking, the ring is still in the drawer, the certificate is still in the closet, and your life is still narrow enough to manage.

You curl your fingers against the edge of the sink. Then force yourself to lift your head. And turn.

Two lines. Bright. Immediate. Unmistakable.

For a second, your brain refuses to process what you’re looking at. It just stops. Like it hit something too hard and too fast and every thought in your head scattered on impact.

You stare at the test. Then closer. Then closer still, like proximity might somehow change it. Like maybe there’s some angle where two lines means not this. Some secret, magical interpretation they forgot to put on the box because apparently the universe hates you personally.

There isn’t. It just stays there.

Positive.

Your hand comes up over your mouth without you thinking about it.

“No.”

The word barely makes it out.

You grab the edge of the sink harder, eyes still fixed on the counter.

No. No, no, no.

Your heart starts pounding so hard it makes the whole room feel thinner somehow, sharper at the edges. The bathroom light is suddenly too bright. The air too still. The silence unbearable.

You stare at the test until the lines start to blur. Then you blink hard and they sharpen again.

Still there. Still real.

Your knees feel unreliable all at once. You sit down hard on the closed toilet lid because the alternative feels like hitting the floor, and for one long second all you can do is breathe through the tight, panicked pressure climbing up the center of your chest.

In. Out. Again.

It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Because the truth is already there, sitting on the bathroom counter in cheap white plastic.

You’re pregnant.

The words land in pieces instead of all at once.

Pregnant.

You.

Pregnant.

And somehow that’s worse than if it had hit cleanly, because your brain has time to reject each part separately before it all settles in anyway.

Your stomach turns. Not nausea this time. Shock. Fear. And then, hot on the heels of both anger.

Michael.

The name doesn’t land soft this time. It hits. Hard.

Your jaw tightens immediately, something sharp and hot cutting clean through the shock.

Of course. Of course this is how this goes. He gets to disappear. You get to deal with the aftermath.

A short, bitter laugh leaves you before you can stop it.

“Unbelievable.”

Your voice sounds strange in the little bathroom. Thin at first. Then sharper. Because what, exactly, are you supposed to do with this?

He walked out. Didn’t leave a note. Didn’t leave a number. Didn’t leave anything except a legal mess and a memory you’ve been trying to bury since the second you got home.

And now—

Now this.

Your hand drops hard against the side of the toilet seat.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

It comes out louder this time, the anger finally catching up to everything else. Because he doesn’t even know. That’s the part that really does it. 

Somewhere out there, he is completely unaffected. Sleeping. Working. Existing. Completely untouched by the fact that his impulsive one-night decision just detonated your life weeks later in a bathroom with bad lighting and cracked grout.

“He doesn’t even know,” you say, sharper now, like saying it out loud makes it worse. “He just walked away.”

And you—

You’re here.

Holding this. Dealing with this. Alone.

The word lands heavier than you expect.

Alone.

Something in your throat tightens, but the anger comes back faster, pushing it down before it can turn into anything softer.

“Yeah,” you mutter, staring at your reflection. “No. That tracks.”

Of course you’re the one stuck figuring it out. Of course you’re the one sitting here doing math and thinking about doctor’s appointments and money and what the hell you’re supposed to do next. Of course he gets to opt out without even knowing he opted out.

Your laugh comes again, sharper this time.

“That’s convenient.”

You push yourself back to your feet and brace both hands on the sink, leaning in toward your reflection.

“Must be fucking nice.”

There’s something steadier in you now. Not calmer. Just anchored differently.

Anger instead of panic. Blame instead of fear. It doesn’t fix anything. But it gives you something to hold onto. Because if you let yourself sit in the other feeling, the one underneath this, you’re pretty sure you won’t get back up.

Your eyes flick to the test again. You hate it on sight now. Hate the shape of it. Hate the stupid little window. Hate the certainty of it.

You snatch the box off the counter and start digging through it with jerky, irritated movements like maybe you missed some fine print. Maybe there’s a margin of error. Maybe the whole thing is cheap trash and wrong and you are having the worst possible overreaction in recorded history.

Instructions.

You read them again. Then again.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

You let the paper drop back onto the counter.

“Oh, that’s bullshit,” you murmur to absolutely no one.

The bathroom remains unsupportive. You stare at yourself in the mirror. You look exactly the same. That feels insulting. Same face. Same hair. Same tired eyes. Same old T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. Nothing about you looks like somebody whose entire life just shifted six inches to the left.

You laugh once under your breath.

“This is fucked.”

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just true. Because now all the things you were not thinking about have become the only things in the room. The ring in the drawer. The certificate in the closet.

Michael.

Michael, somewhere out there, blissfully unaware that the worst decision of your life apparently had follow-through.

Anger flashes again, fast and clean. Of course. Of course this is what you get. He disappears. You get nauseous. He vanishes without a note. You get a positive pregnancy test in a bathroom with bad lighting and a hand towel that still doesn’t match anything.

You brace both hands on the sink and bow your head. You don’t cry. You think maybe you should. Maybe this would feel cleaner if you cried. More normal. But all that’s there is panic and anger and a strange, frozen little center of disbelief that still hasn’t caught up.

So instead you start thinking in ugly, practical circles.

How far along? What day is it? When was your last period really? How much money do you have? Who do you call? Do you call anyone? Do you call him?

That one stops everything. Your head lifts slowly.

“No.”

Immediate. Absolute. You do not call him. You don’t even have his number. Which somehow feels both helpful and deeply offensive.

You blow out a breath and look away from yourself, away from the test, away from everything. The shower curtain has a tear near the bottom hem. There’s a water stain on the ceiling just above the vent. Ordinary apartment things. Ordinary life things.

Except nothing feels ordinary now.

You grab your phone off the counter and sit back down on the toilet lid. Search history fills the screen before you even type. Your thumb hovers.

Then:

early pregnancy symptoms

You stare at the words after you hit search like somebody else typed them. Fatigue. Nausea. Missed period. You look up from the phone and let out a thin, disbelieving laugh.

“Well, great.”

You scroll.

How many weeks pregnant am I? First prenatal visit. How soon do I need to see a doctor?

You stop there.

Because the answer to that is going to cost money. Money you don’t have. Your throat tightens. You lock the phone and set it face down on your thigh. Then stare at the floor again.

This cannot be the reason you go looking for him. That thought arrives slow and stubborn. Because that would be worse somehow. Worse than the test. Worse than the panic. Worse than all of it.

You cannot be the woman who tracks down the man she accidentally married in Vegas just to tell him she’s pregnant.

You can’t. You won’t.

The refusal settles in immediately, fierce and defensive.

No. Absolutely not.

You are not going to chase a man who left. You are not going to beg for help from someone who made disappearing look easy. You are not going to hand him this and let him decide how much it matters. If he wanted to matter, he should have stayed long enough to leave a damn phone number.

That thought burns hot enough to keep you upright.

Good.

Anger is useful. Anger is easier than fear.

You stand again, slower this time, and pick the test up between two fingers like it’s something mildly contagious.

Still positive. Still rude.

You set it back down and stare at it one last second.

Then you open the bathroom cabinet, shove it behind a bottle of aspirin and an old box of bandages, and close the door.

The result doesn’t disappear with it. Obviously. But hiding it buys you half a breath of distance, and right now that feels like the most mercy you’re getting.

You turn off the bathroom light and head into the bedroom. The apartment feels different in the dark. Smaller. Too aware.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the dresser for a long time. At the drawer where the ring is. At the closet where the certificate is. At all the things you were doing such a good job not dealing with.

Then you lie down without changing clothes, one arm over your eyes, and listen to your own heartbeat for what feels like an hour.

Sleep doesn’t come. Neither does clarity. Just the same thoughts, circling.

Pregnant.

Married.

Alone.

By the time the sun starts bleeding thin and colorless around the edges of your blinds, you still haven’t decided what to do. But you know one thing with perfect, miserable certainty. You cannot unknow this now.

—

Three months is enough time for shock to lose its drama. Not its weight. Just its shape.

In the beginning, everything had felt sharp. Immediate. Like your whole life had split open in one ugly, fluorescent-lit second and left you standing there staring at the mess of it.

Three months later, it’s different. Less explosion. More grind.

The panic doesn’t hit as often now. Not because things are better. Just because your body apparently got bored waiting for you to process it and moved on without your permission.

So you do too. Or something close enough to it. You go to work. You come home. You sleep badly. You wake up tired anyway. You learn the rhythms of this the same way you learn anything else you didn’t ask for, by surviving it long enough for it to become routine.

You keep bartending because rent does not care that your life got complicated. You smile at customers. You carry trays. You ignore the smell of tequila on bad nights because sometimes it still turns your stomach if it hits too strong and too fast. You eat what you can when you can. Crackers in your bag. Granola bars. The occasional piece of toast when your body is willing to negotiate.

You get good at moving around it. At hiding. Loose shirts. Crossed arms. A strategic apron tie. The practiced expression of someone who does not want comments from strangers who think your body is community property the second it starts changing.

Because it is changing now.

Not dramatically. Not in some movie way. Just enough. Enough that you notice it getting harder to suck in your stomach without thinking. Enough that your jeans stopped being worth the argument. Enough that one night in the bar’s employee bathroom, you catch your reflection sideways and have to look away before the reality of it hits too hard.

You are pregnant.

Still.

That sounds stupid, even in your own head. Of course you are still pregnant. But some part of you keeps expecting to wake up and find out the whole thing was a clerical error by the universe. A cosmic mix-up. Somebody else’s life filed under your name by mistake.

It never is.

Every morning you wake up in this body. Every day it’s a little more real. And somehow, impossibly, Michael is still nowhere in it. You don’t say his name much, even in your head. You don’t need to.

He lives in the shape of the problem without you naming him. In the ring still buried in the drawer. In the certificate still shoved in the closet. In the ugly practical questions you keep punting down the road because each one feels like it comes with a price tag you can’t afford.

You do what you can first. You buy prenatal vitamins after standing in the pharmacy aisle long enough to feel ridiculous. You stare at the price, put them back, pick them up again, and buy the generic ones because they’re three dollars cheaper and right now that matters.

Everything matters. Gas matters. Groceries matter. Whether you can justify buying real orange juice instead of the store brand matters.

You stop looking at your bank account unless you absolutely have to, because the number there is never good news and somehow always manages to feel personal.

The bar helps, sort of.

Tips are unpredictable, which means every decent night gives you just enough relief to make the next bad one feel worse. One weekend you make enough to breathe a little. The next you’re counting singles at your kitchen counter at one in the morning, trying to decide whether paying the full electric bill this week is optimism or irresponsibility.

It turns out pregnancy is expensive even before it becomes visible. That part pisses you off more than feels reasonable. The vitamins. The tests. The quiet mental math every time you think about a doctor. Because that’s the part you can’t keep circling forever.

You know that. You know too much not to. And that’s the cruel little joke of it all. You are exactly qualified enough to scare yourself properly. You know what early care matters for. You know the timelines. You know that “I’ll deal with it later” is a stupid plan dressed up as denial.

Which is why you finally make yourself try. Not because you feel ready. Not because you have suddenly become brave. Because avoidance, unfortunately, does not count as prenatal care.

So three months later, you’re sitting in a plastic chair that sticks slightly to the backs of your thighs, staring at a laminated sign about eligibility requirements like it might suddenly rewrite itself into something more helpful.

It doesn’t. Nothing here does.

The waiting room smells stuffy. There’s a TV mounted in the corner playing something muted with subtitles no one is actually reading. A toddler is crying somewhere behind you. Someone coughs. Papers shuffle.

Normal. Government-office normal. You hate it immediately.

Your name gets called before you can talk yourself out of being here. You stand, smooth your hands over your shirt without thinking about it, and follow the woman down a short hallway into a small office that somehow feels even more airless than the waiting room.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” she says, already pulling up your file on her computer.

You sit. Perch, really. Like you’re ready to leave at any second.

“I’m just going to go over a few things with you,” she continues, polite but efficient. “Then we’ll see what you qualify for, okay?”

“Okay.”

Your voice sounds normal. You’re almost annoyed by it.

She starts with the easy stuff.

Name.

Address.

Employment.

You answer those without thinking. You’ve had practice. You’ve been surviving on autopilot for three months now. You can recite your own situation like it belongs to someone else.

“Full-time bartender,” she repeats, typing. “And no current insurance?”

“Right.”

“Okay.”

More typing.

“Are you currently pregnant?”

Your fingers curl slightly against your knee.

“Yes.”

She nods like that’s just another box to check. Because to her, it is.

“Alright. And approximately how far along are you?”

“About twelve weeks.”

You say it clean. Like it doesn’t mean anything.

She clicks something, then scrolls.

“Okay. And your household size would be…?”

“One.”

Your answer comes too fast.

She pauses. Looks up.

“Just you?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. This one is longer.

“And the baby, once born, would count toward household size, but for now we also need to account for the other parent if applicable.”

Your stomach drops. You keep your face neutral.

“There isn’t—” you start, already trying to step around it. “It’s just me.”

She gives you a small, practiced smile.

“I understand. I just need to ask, are you currently married?”

There it is. You feel it hit before you answer. That same tight, trapped feeling from the kitchen. From the test. From seeing the word sitting there like a dare.

You hesitate. Just for a second. But she notices. They always notice.

“Yes,” you say finally.

The word tastes awful.

Her fingers move again across the keyboard.

“Okay. And is your spouse currently living with you?”

“No.”

“Are you separated?”

“…Yes.”

That one comes out slower. Less certain.

She nods, still calm, still professional.

“Alright. I’m going to need some information about him as well.”

Of course you are.

Your jaw tightens.

“I don’t have that.”

She glances up again, this time with a little more focus.

“You don’t have any of his information?”

“I have his name.”

It sounds worse out loud. More ridiculous. More real.

She tilts her head slightly, not unkind, just assessing.

“Okay. We’ll start with that. What’s his full name?”

You swallow once.

“Michael Robinavitch.”

She types it in.

“Do you know where he’s employed?”

“No.”

“Approximate income?”

“No.”

“Last known address?”

“No.”

Each answer lands flatter than the last. The room feels smaller with every one.

She pauses typing. Looks at you again.

“Okay,” she says carefully. “In order to determine eligibility, we do need to consider spousal income unless you’re legally separated or in the process of divorce.”

There it is. The part you were hoping to avoid.

Your fingers press harder into your knee.

“I’m not—” you start, then stop. “We’re not… together.”

“I understand,” she says gently. “But legally, you’re still married. So unless there’s documentation of separation or divorce proceedings, we have to include him in your case.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. Short. Sharp.

“Include him?” you repeat.

Like he’s a person you can just reach out and grab. Like he didn’t disappear. Like he exists anywhere in your life outside of paperwork and a memory you didn’t ask to keep.

Her expression softens slightly, but she doesn’t back off.

“If you’re unable to provide that information, it may delay or affect your eligibility. Another option would be to begin the process of legal separation or divorce. Once that’s documented, we can reassess based on your individual income.”

There it is. Clean. Simple. Unavoidable.

Your chest tightens. Because suddenly this isn’t theoretical anymore. This isn’t something you can keep shoving into drawers and closets and the back of your head.

This is real. This is paperwork. This is access to care. This is your life narrowing down into one very specific, very inconvenient truth. You are still married. And it matters now.

Your gaze drops to her desk. To your file. To your name sitting there next to his. Tethered. Whether you like it or not.

“Okay,” you say, quieter now.

But steadier.

“What do I need to do?”

You don’t remember standing up.

One second you’re sitting there staring at your file on her desk like maybe if you look hard enough it’ll rearrange itself into a life you actually recognize, and the next you’re on your feet with your bag over your shoulder and a polite, numb little smile stretched across your face like you borrowed it from somebody more functional.

The woman says something about documentation. About bringing in what you can. About calling if you have questions.

You nod like any of it is reaching you. It isn’t.

The hallway feels too bright on the way back out. Too narrow. Too hot.

The waiting room is still full of the same terrible little sounds it was making before, the television no one is watching, the crying toddler, papers shuffling, somebody coughing like they’ve committed to making it everyone else’s problem.

And all of it feels wrong somehow. Off. Like the room kept going while something in your life quietly shifted underneath it.

You push through the front doors and the air outside hits you hard and dry. It should feel better. It doesn’t. It just feels different.

You keep walking anyway. Past the bench by the entrance. Past the sad little patch of landscaping with the dying shrub somebody probably planted with good intentions and no budget. All the way to your car.

You unlock it on the second try because your fingers are shaking just enough to piss you off, then slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

Silence. Not real silence. Parking-lot silence. Distant traffic. An engine starting two rows over. Someone’s bass too loud through rolled-up windows. But compared to inside, it feels empty enough to break in.

You drop your bag into the passenger seat and just sit there. Hands still on the wheel. Eyes straight ahead. Breathing like you ran here.

You are still married.

The thought lands different now. Cleaner. Meaner. Not a stupid secret tucked into a drawer. Not a funny story gone bad. Not something you can ignore because you’re not dating and you’re not trying to remarry and it doesn’t matter in any practical, adult way.

It matters. It matters when somebody behind a desk looks you in the eye and asks for your husband’s income. It matters when your access to care gets tied to a man you cannot locate. It matters when your own life gets reduced to required fields you can’t fill in because the person attached to them walked out before sunrise and apparently took the rest of himself with him.

A laugh slips out. Short. Sharp. Ugly.

“Unbelievable.”

You say it to the windshield. To the steering wheel. To the whole idiotic situation.

Because of course. Of course it comes down to paperwork. Of course the thing that finally makes this real isn’t the chapel or the ring or even the test. It’s a woman in a county office saying, gently and professionally, that your husband counts.

Your husband.

The phrase makes something hot twist under your ribs.

You let your head fall back against the seat.

“Husband,” you mutter, staring at the roof of the car. “That’s insane.”

But it is. It’s insane and humiliating and apparently legally relevant, which feels like a personal attack.

You close your eyes. The office comes back in ugly little flashes.

I’m going to need some information about him as well.

We have to include him in your case.

Unless you’re legally separated or in the process of divorce.

That last one digs in the deepest.

Divorce.

The word lands heavier now than it ever has before, because until this moment it was theoretical.

A someday problem.

A thing normal people handled when they had time, money, clarity, and maybe a marriage that lasted longer than a hotel minibar tab.

Now it isn’t theoretical. Now it’s a gate. A locked one. And Michael is standing on the other side of it without even knowing it exists.

Your eyes open again. Anger comes back fast.

Good.

Anger is better than embarrassment. Anger is better than the other thing threatening underneath it, the panic, the helplessness, the horrible little pulse of, “What am I supposed to do now?”

Because what are you supposed to do?

Call him?

You bark out another laugh.

No.

Can’t call a man whose number you do not have. Can’t ask questions you have no way of asking. Can’t file paperwork with a ghost.

That thought hardens something in you.

You sit up straighter.

Look out through the windshield at the rows of parked cars shimmering faintly in the heat.

A legal husband who might as well be a rumor.

Great. Fantastic. That’s sustainable.

Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

“He really just left,” you say out loud.

Hearing it makes it worse. Not because you didn’t already know it. Because now it sounds exactly as pathetic and infuriating as it is.

He really just left. Left you in a hotel room. Left you with a certificate. Left you with his name and nothing else.

And now somehow you are the one stuck doing all the humiliating parts, sitting in a benefits office, admitting out loud that you don’t know where your own husband works, what he makes, where he lives, how to reach him.

Your face burns just thinking about it. You grip the wheel harder.

“No,” you mutter.

Not no to the facts. 

No to this. 

To sitting here and letting him stay abstract. To pretending it’ll somehow fix itself if you keep ignoring it.

Because it won’t. It’s already not.

Your gaze drops to your bag. To the folder sticking half out of it with the paperwork they handed back to you.

The neat stack of forms.

The calm little checklist of things you need.

Proof.

Documentation.

Information.

As if any of that is just lying around waiting for you to get organized.

You stare at it for a long second. Then look away. Then back again.

And there it is.

Not clarity, exactly. Nothing that generous. Just a hard, bitter sort of inevitability.

You have to find him. Not because you want him. Not because you’re suddenly interested in reopening the worst night of your life and examining it from all angles like maybe there was secret meaning hiding in the minibar peanuts and chapel lighting. Not because you need emotional closure.

God, no.

You need paperwork. You need this fixed. You need him to stop being a legal problem and start being a person with an address, a job, and a signature.

That’s it. That’s all.

The lie settles fast and easy because it’s practical, and practical feels safer than honest. You don’t need anything from Michael except cooperation.

Maybe a completed form. Maybe divorce papers. Maybe the decency he didn’t bother showing you the first time.

You swallow hard and reach for your bag. Your hands are steady now. That almost annoys you more than the shaking did. You pull the folder out. Flip through the pages without really reading them. Your own name. Blank spaces. Notes in the margin. A list of documents they’ll need.

Then, underneath that, your eyes snag on the line you already know is there.

Spouse information.

Your jaw tightens.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I got it.”

The paper, unsurprisingly, offers no apology.

You shove the forms back into the folder and toss it onto the passenger seat.

Then you start the car. Not because you know exactly what comes next. You don’t. Not fully. But because sitting in this parking lot isn’t going to turn him into a divorced man with a forwarding address. And because for the first time since that hotel room, pretending it doesn’t matter has stopped working.

By the time you pull out of the lot, one thing has settled into place with ugly, perfect certainty:

You are going to find Michael Robinavitch.

And when you do, he is going to fix this.

—

You go home. Not because you have a plan. Because anger gives you momentum, and you know better than to waste it.

The second you stop moving, this might turn back into humiliation. Into panic. Into that trapped, sick feeling from the office when a stranger looked you in the eye and calmly explained that your husband still counted.

So you keep moving. Through traffic. Through red lights that feel longer than they should. Through the same city that looked exactly the same this morning and somehow doesn’t now. By the time you get back to your apartment, your jaw aches from how hard you’ve been clenching it.

You let yourself in, kick the door shut behind you, and head straight for the closet. No pause. No hesitation.

You yank the box down from the shelf hard enough that one of your old heels topples sideways and hits the floor. You leave it there. The marriage certificate is still folded inside. Still real. Still official. Still just as stupid as it was the first time you read it. You carry it to the kitchen table and flatten it out with both hands. The paper crackles under your palms.

Your name. His name. A government seal. Signatures. Proof that one reckless night apparently had stronger follow-through than most actual relationships.

You stare at his name.

Michael Robinavitch.

Your jaw tightens.

“Unbelievable.”

Then you reach for your laptop. The search bar blinks at you. For one second, you just sit there, fingers hovering over the keys, hit by the very irritating reality that this is what your life has come to. Googling your husband.

A man you barely know. A man who walked out before morning. A man you now apparently need in order to get basic medical care.

Humiliating.

You type anyway.

Michael Robinavitch Pittsburgh

Search.

The page loads.

And there—

You go still.

A hospital result.

You click it.

The page opens clean and clinical, all neutral colors and polished formatting, like the kind of place that has its life together in a way yours currently does not. 

And then you see it. A photo. Him. No question. No hesitation. It’s him. Same face. Same eyes. Just sharper somehow. Pulled together. Professional. Contained.

Michael Robinavitch, MD

Emergency Medicine — Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center

You stare at the screen.

A doctor.

The word doesn’t settle right.

Not because it doesn’t make sense. You remember the way he talked, the way he carried himself. But because of the timing of it. Because while you’ve spent the last three months stretching tips and cutting corners and pretending everything is fine—

He’s this. A doctor. At a trauma center. With a hospital profile and a professional headshot and what looks like a life that did not pause for even one second after that night.

Your mouth tightens.

“Wow.”

It comes out flat. Sharp. 

Because of course. Of course the man who disappeared on you has a stable, high-paying, respectable career while you’re standing in your kitchen doing mental math over groceries and gas. Of course he does.

Your eyes flick back to his title.

Emergency Medicine.

You let out a short, humorless breath.

“Yeah. That fucking tracks.”

Because something about that makes it worse.

He shows up for strangers. He builds a career on responsibility. He gets to be the kind of man people trust in an emergency and he could not even stay long enough to say goodbye.

Your hand presses flat against the table. Hard.

“He’s a fucking doctor,” you mutter, disbelief twisting into something hotter. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Because that changes things. Not emotionally. Practically. Because if he’s a doctor, then he has income. Insurance. Stability. Everything the woman in that office just made painfully clear you do not have access to without him.

Your jaw sets. 

So no. He does not get to disappear. Not anymore. Not when his name is the reason you got stalled trying to get care. Not when his life is stable enough to be listed neatly on a hospital website while yours is barely holding together with tips and denial.

Your gaze drops back to the screen.

To him.

Michael Robinavitch, MD.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

You say it under your breath once, committing it.

Then lean back slowly in your chair.

Pittsburgh.

The distance hits you a second later. Not close. Not convenient. Not something you fix on your lunch break.

Your eyes flick to the hospital number on the page. You stare at it. For one second. Two.

Then shake your head.

“No.”

You are not calling. You are not giving him the chance to ignore you from a safe distance. Not giving him a voicemail he can put off. Not giving him a receptionist to hide behind. Not giving him the option to decide when or whether to deal with you.

He already disappeared once. You are not handing him the chance to do it again.

If this is happening—

When this happens—

It happens in person.

That decision settles into you fast. Heavy. Certain.

Not because it’s easy. Because it’s the only version that doesn’t make you feel completely powerless.

You close the laptop halfway.

Then open it again.

New search.

Vegas to Pittsburgh drive time.

The map loads. Long. Inconvenient. Completely unreasonable. Doable.

You stare at it.

Then let out one short, disbelieving laugh. Because of course. Of course this is what it’s come to. A road trip across state lines to track down your legal husband because the government needs his information and he couldn’t even be bothered to exist in your life long enough to give it to you.

Your fingers tap once against the table. Decision already forming.

Because what’s the alternative?

Wait?

Keep struggling?

Keep getting blocked because of a man who walked out of your life like it meant nothing?

No.

Your jaw tightens again. You look back at the route. Then at his name still open in the other tab.

Michael Robinavitch.

You nod once. Sharp. Resolved.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “No. We’re not doing this long distance.”

You close the laptop. Push back from the table.

And just like that—

Your life changes direction.

—

By the time the Vegas skyline disappears in your rearview mirror, you’ve already had three separate chances to turn around.

You don’t take any of them.

The first is when you stop for gas just outside the city and stand there at the pump with the nozzle in your hand, staring at the numbers climbing higher than you want them to.

The second is twenty minutes later when your phone reroutes around traffic and the blue line on the map suddenly looks even longer, stretching east in a way that feels almost mocking.

The third is quieter.

Meaner.

It happens somewhere out on the highway when the city finally drops away behind you and there’s nothing left but open road, the low hum of your tires, and the deeply irritating reality that you are actually doing this.

Actually driving to Pittsburgh. Actually crossing state lines to track down the man you accidentally married in Vegas because the government needs his information and apparently your life now runs on administrative humiliation.

You tighten your grip on the steering wheel.

“Nope,” you mutter to the windshield. “Still stupid.”

The windshield offers no argument.

Outside, the desert stretches wide and flat and sun-bleached in every direction, all washed-out beige and heat shimmer. The road unfurls ahead in one long ribbon, endless and indifferent. You keep your eyes on it.

There is no romance in this. No impulsive-freedom montage. No cinematic sense of reinvention. You are not a woman boldly reclaiming her life on the open road. You are tired, pregnant, underfunded, and angry enough to weaponize a Honda Civic.

That’s it.

That’s the vibe.

Your overnight bag is in the backseat next to a grocery bag full of snacks, bottled water, prenatal vitamins, and the folder with all the paperwork that started this in the first place. The marriage certificate is tucked inside, because of course it is. Because apparently you are now the kind of person who travels with legal proof of catastrophic decision-making.

The thought almost makes you laugh. Almost.

You flick on the turn signal, pass a semi, and settle back into the right lane. The road noise fills up the car. It leaves too much room to think anyway.

That’s the problem with driving. There is nothing to do but move and think and move and think, and your brain has never been a particularly cooperative travel companion.

So naturally, it starts in on him.

Michael.

His face in that hospital headshot. Too calm. Too polished. Too professional.

Michael Robinavitch, MD.

Emergency Medicine.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

The title still makes your jaw tighten every time it drifts through your head. A doctor. A whole emergency medicine doctor.

You blow out a breath through your nose, somewhere between a laugh and a curse. 

Because of course he is. Of course the man who vanished before sunrise has a respectable career, a hospital profile, and probably health insurance good enough that he has never once had to sit in a county office being told his spouse counts.

Meanwhile you are out here rationing gas station snacks and trying not to think too hard about your checking account.

That part burns all over again. Not because you want his money. You don’t. You want him to stop being a problem. You want him to fill out whatever needs filling out, sign whatever needs signing, and stop existing as this infuriating little legal knot in the middle of your life.

That’s all. That’s what you keep telling yourself, anyway.

You shift in your seat and adjust the air vent, angling it away from your face. The last thing you need is to feel car-sick on top of everything else. The morning nausea has mostly backed off these days, but it still likes to ambush you when you get too warm, too hungry, or too cocky.

You reach blindly into the passenger seat for the water bottle you left there and take a sip.

Warm already.

Gross.

You drink it anyway.

A green highway sign flashes by overhead. You don’t read it fast enough to keep it.

Good.

You don’t need landmarks yet. You need distance. Hours. Progress. Something you can measure without getting emotional about it.

You glance at the clock on the dash. Still early enough that the day feels enormous. Still early enough that Pittsburgh doesn’t feel real.

Right now it’s just a destination on your phone and a tightening in your chest every time you remember why you’re headed there.

You wonder, not for the first time, what exactly you’re going to say when you see him. The thought arrives uninvited and immediately starts making trouble.

Do you walk in calm? Do you throw the paperwork at him? Do you start with the marriage certificate? Do you start with the fact that you needed him and he was nowhere? Do you say “Hi, remember me?” Do you say “Congratulations on the medical degree and the abandonment issues?”

You snort once despite yourself.

It’s not funny. It’s just that at some point the sheer absurdity of your life becomes impossible not to acknowledge. 

You’re road-tripping to Pennsylvania to confront your husband.

Your husband.

That word still sounds fake in your own head.

It sounded fake in Vegas too, honestly, but Vegas had the decency to make everything sound fake. Neon does that. Champagne does that. Chapel music and a clearance bridal veil definitely do that.

The problem is that none of it stayed fake. The ring in your bag isn’t fake. The certificate isn’t fake. The test definitely wasn’t fake. And the baby shifting the shape of your life mile by mile is about as real as anything has ever been.

Your hand moves to your stomach before you think about it. A quick, unconscious press through the fabric of your shirt. You catch yourself and pull it back to the wheel almost immediately.

It’s still strange, that instinct. Still a little startling. Still something you don’t know what to do with.

You keep driving.

The radio stays low, more background than actual listening. Every so often a song comes on that annoys you for reasons you can’t articulate and you switch stations. Then switch back. Then finally turn it down until all you can really hear is tires on asphalt and the occasional rattle from something in the backseat every time you hit a rough patch of road.

A few hours in, you stop at a gas station somewhere ugly and forgettable. The kind of place that looks tired even in daylight. You park near the side, sit for a second, then gather your phone and wallet and step out into air that feels different than Vegas but not better. Just less familiar.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead. The coffee smells burnt. The roller grill is an active threat. You head straight for the bathroom. When you catch your reflection over the sink, it throws you a little.

Not because anything dramatic has changed since this morning. Because you look exactly like someone driving across the country fueled almost entirely by spite. Hair pulled back badly. Tired eyes. Mouth set hard.

You wash your hands longer than necessary and stare at yourself in the mirror.

“This is insane,” you tell your reflection.

Your reflection, annoyingly, does not disagree.

Back in the store, you buy crackers, a bottle of juice, and one of those little peanut butter snack packs you know you’re going to resent later but buy anyway because the alternative is nausea and self-pity.

At the register, the cashier barely glances at you.

“Long drive?”

You freeze for half a beat.

Then force your face neutral. “Yeah.”

He nods like that explains everything.

You want to ask him if it explains “tracking down my estranged Vegas husband because state assistance says he counts,” but you suspect that might slow the line down.

So you take your bag and leave.

Back in the car, you eat three crackers before you even start the engine again. Then four more. Then sit there chewing and staring out through the windshield while a pickup truck pulls in crooked two spaces over.

This is really happening. You are really doing this. There is no plan beyond get there. No real script beyond anger and paperwork and the certainty that whatever happens next, Michael Robinavitch is going to have to look at you and deal with the fact that he does not get to be theoretical anymore.

That thought steadies you better than anything else has.

You start the car. Pull back onto the highway. Keep going.

By the time afternoon starts fading toward evening, the road has changed shape a dozen times. Flat to hilly. Open to crowded. Long stretches of nothing broken up by exits with chain restaurants and gas stations and the same three hotel brands pretending to be different in increasingly depressing color palettes.

You pass trucks, towns, weathered billboards, churches, overpasses, construction zones, and enough license plates from enough states to remind you that the whole country is apparently in motion except the one man who should have been easy to find.

You keep thinking about the first thing you’ll see when you get there. Not Pittsburgh. Him.

Will he look the same in person as he did in that headshot? More tired? More real? Will he recognize you right away? Will his face change? Will he look guilty? Will he look confused? Will he have the nerve to look inconvenienced?

That last thought spikes so hard it makes your pulse kick.

“Oh, don’t even,” you mutter.

You can already feel the fury that would bring.

If he looks at you like you are the disruption here, like you are the one who showed up dragging trouble behind you instead of the woman he married and abandoned with a legal mess and a baby on the way, you may actually lose your mind in a hospital hallway.

Good to know in advance, at least.

You drive until the light starts going gold and thin around the edges. Until your shoulders ache. Until your lower back starts complaining. Until the blue line on the map gets shorter in ways that still don’t feel fast enough.

You’ll need a motel soon. Maybe food. Definitely a real bathroom that doesn’t smell like industrial cleaner and despair. But for now you keep going. Hands steady on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Anger packed neatly under your ribs like fuel. Because turning back is not an option anymore. 

And somewhere ahead of you, in Pittsburgh, Michael Robinavitch is still living like none of this has reached him.

Not for much longer.

—

By the time Pittsburgh finally rises up around you, your whole body feels wrung out.

Not just tired.

Used up.

The kind of exhaustion that settles into your shoulders and behind your eyes and makes every red light feel personal.

The city comes at you in pieces first, bridges, overpasses, concrete, flashes of skyline caught between buildings, then all at once, dense and gray and real in a way Vegas never is. Vegas performs. Pittsburgh doesn’t seem interested in that. It just exists. Heavy. Working. Unapologetic.

Your GPS keeps talking in that calm, neutral voice that makes you want to throw your phone out the window.

In half a mile, keep left.

At the light, turn right.

Like this is normal. Like people do this every day. Like it’s ordinary to drive across the country to confront the man who married you in Vegas and then disappeared before morning.

Your fingers tighten on the wheel.

“Great,” you mutter. “Fantastic.”

You haven’t slept enough. You haven’t eaten enough. Your back aches, your hips ache, and your patience burned off somewhere around Ohio. What’s left is adrenaline, stubbornness, and a thin, mean edge of anger that has kept you moving this whole time.

Because if you stop being angry, this becomes terrifying.

And you do not have the energy to be terrified yet.

Traffic thickens as you get closer. Cars hemming you in. Brake lights flashing ahead of you. The city narrowing around you with every turn your GPS makes. A bridge. A tunnel. Another light. Another turn.

Then—

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

The sign appears so suddenly it almost doesn’t register.

Until it does.

And then your stomach drops. Not because you didn’t know where you were going. Because now it’s here.

Real.

A building.

A place.

His place.

You pull into the hospital drive more slowly than you mean to, eyes tracking over the entrance, the ambulance bay, the people moving in and out under fluorescent light and late-afternoon gray. Families gathered in little tense knots. Staff in scrubs walking fast enough to say they’re busy without having to tell anyone.

A real hospital.

His hospital.

Of course.

Of course while you’ve been stretching tips, dodging bills, and getting lectured by caseworkers about your husband’s income, he’s been here.

Being a doctor.

Saving people.

Having a normal, respectable life with a hospital badge and a salary that probably covers more in a month than you’ve seen in a long time.

Your jaw tightens hard enough to hurt.

Of course he has.

You park in visitor parking and kill the engine. Silence drops around you. Not real silence. Never real silence. There’s traffic somewhere, a car door slamming, the cooling tick of your engine, somebody laughing too loudly two rows over.

But inside the car, it feels close enough.

You don’t move right away. Your hands stay on the wheel. Your eyes stay on the hospital.

Because getting here was one thing. Walking in is another. Seeing him is another. Because in another minute, maybe less, this stops being paperwork and turns back into a person. And if that person has the nerve to look at you like you’re the complication here, you’re going to say something neither of you can take back. 

That thought cuts clean through the nerves. You can work with that.

You reach for your bag, then the folder. The paperwork is inside. The marriage certificate is inside. The whole reason you’re here is inside.

Your hand brushes your shirt on the way back and catches on the ring.

You look down.

Cheap silver band. Tiny stone. Still tacky. Still real.

Good.

Let it be seen. Let him see it. Let anybody in that ER with functioning eyesight see exactly what this is before he gets the chance to act confused.

You shove your door open, get out, and slam it harder than necessary.

The air is cooler than Vegas. Damp in a way that sits differently on your skin. The hospital looms ahead of you all glass and concrete and motion, and for one ugly second you feel very small in front of it.

Then the anger comes back as you start walking. Fast enough to keep from thinking.

The emergency department is chaos the second you step into it. Not dramatic chaos. Not television chaos. Just real ER chaos. Too many people, too much noise, too much waiting and movement happening in the same space.

Every chair in the waiting area looks occupied. A little kid is crying somewhere off to your left. Somebody’s coughing. Somebody else is arguing with a clerk at the far end. Phones are ringing behind the desk. A television bolted to the wall is on, but nobody is really watching it. The lights overhead are fluorescent and unforgiving, flattening everything into the same tired shade of too much.

The air smells like disinfectant and stress.

It hits you hard.

Not because you’ve never been in an ER before. Because you have. Because your body knows this place even when your brain doesn’t.

Not this hospital.

But enough.

Enough that you clock the pressure points without meaning to. Who’s been waiting too long. Who’s about to snap. Who behind the desk is handling too many things at once. Where not to stand if you don’t want to be in someone’s way.

For one disorienting second, it knocks against something in you that still remembers working at the VA. The pace. The pressure. The constant low-grade triage of everybody’s needs, including your own.

Then that’s gone too.

Replaced by the sharp, ugly reminder that you are not here to work.

You are here because of him. 

You head for the desk.

The woman behind it looks up right away. Middle-aged. Hispanic. The kind of face that has seen a hundred versions of panic, anger, grief, and entitlement in one shift and knows how to meet all of them with the same steady eyes.

She looks directly at you.

Not rude. Not warm either. Just attentive.

“Can I help you?”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

For half a second, you just stand there, exhausted and furious and suddenly aware of how insane this probably sounds.

You didn’t drive across the country to choke now.

You swallow once.

“I need to see Dr. Michael Robinavitch.”

Her eyes stay on yours.

“Do you have an appointment?”

A short, disbelieving breath leaves you.

“Not exactly.”

“Is this about a patient?”

“No.”

Too fast. Too sharp.

You see her take that in without reacting to it. She glances down briefly, then back up.

“Dr. Robinavitch is busy right now,” she says. “If this isn’t urgent, I can take a message.”

There it is.

That calm, professional distance. That easy little wall hospitals are good at putting up. The kind that might have worked on anyone else.

Not today.

Your fingers tighten around the folder so hard the edges bite into your palm. You can feel the ring on your other hand like a pulse.

“No.”

The word comes out flat.

Then steadier:

“Then let him know his wife is here.”

That gets her.

Not dramatically. She doesn’t gape. She doesn’t recoil. But her eyes flick down for the first time, straight to your hand resting on the counter.

To the ring.

Then back up to your face.

Good.

Let her see it.

You wore it for a reason. Not because it belongs there. Because today it’s proof.

For one beat, she says nothing.

The sounds around you keep going, but they feel farther away now. Or maybe your pulse is just louder.

“I’m sorry?” she says carefully.

“You heard me.”

Your voice is colder now. Cleaner. Less shaky than you feel.

“Tell Dr. Robinavitch his wife is here.”

That changes the air.

Not silence.

But a shift.

A couple people in the waiting room glance over. Somebody behind the desk pauses. Another staff member looks up and then very deliberately looks back down.

The woman studies you for one more second.

Then nods once.

“Alright.”

She stands.

“I’m Lupe.”

“I’m not leaving until I see him.”

“I figured,” she says.

Still calm. Still making eye contact. Still not rude. Just certain.

“Come with me.”

For half a second, you almost refuse on instinct. Not because you don’t want to go. Because you don’t want to be moved. Handled. Managed.

But there’s something in the way Lupe says it that makes it clear she’s not brushing you off.

She’s taking you to him.

So you nod once.

Lupe leads you straight back.

No elevator. No clean separation between waiting room and whatever this is. Just through the open churn of the ER and deeper into it, like stepping across an invisible line.

The noise changes as you go.

Gets closer. Sharper.

Phones. Voices. Monitors. The clipped pace of people who are working too fast to afford mistakes.

Your body starts adjusting automatically. Small things. Staying to the side. Not blocking a path. Reading who’s moving where without really trying.

You hate how natural it feels.

Lupe glances back once like she notices.

Then she slows. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough.

“Right there,” she says quietly.

You follow her gaze.

And there—

There he is.

Turned halfway away from you, talking to someone with a chart in his hand. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Familiar in a way that lands before your brain can catch up.

Everything in you goes still.

Lupe lifts her voice just enough.

“Dr. Robby.”

He turns.

And there he is.

Not a photo.

Not a memory.

Him.

More tired than the headshot.

More real.

And for one long, awful second, the whole room narrows down to his face as recognition hits.

You see it happen.

The pause.

The stillness.

The way something drops out from under his expression before he can cover it.

Good.

Let him feel it.

His eyes go to your face.

Then your hand.

The ring.

That lands too.

He says your name like it slips out before he can stop it.

Barely above a breath.

And that—

That lights the match.

Because he remembers.

Of course he does.

You step forward.

Then again.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Low. Controlled. Stunned in that careful way people get when they are trying very hard not to let a room see them unravel.

For a second, you almost laugh.

“What am I doing here?”

Then you step closer.

“You have got some nerve.”

Around you, the ER keeps moving.

But not like before.

Close enough now to feel people listening.

His jaw tightens.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

That almost makes you smile.

Not because it’s funny.

Because it’s unbelievable.

“Oh, I shouldn’t be here?”

He glances around once, quick, taking in exactly how many people are absolutely not paying attention.

And that’s when you do it.

You lift your hand.

The one with the ring.

High enough for him to see it clearly.

High enough for anyone else nearby to clock it if they want.

Then you flip him off with your ring finger.

Sharp.

Deliberate.

Mean enough to feel good.

His face changes.

There it is.

That hit.

That recognition he cannot talk his way around.

You don’t lower your hand right away. You let him look at it. At the ring. At the finger. At the reality of what he left behind.

Then you meet his eyes.

And say, low and cutting—

“You have the fucking audacity,” you say, looking him dead in the eye, “to leave your wife in Vegas without even saying goodbye.”

At first, everything felt temporary. Like you were borrowing a life that would eventually be handed back to someone else. You counted the days in feedings and naps, told yourself not to memorize the way Liam’s fingers curled around yours or how his breathing evened out when he was laid agaisnt your chest. But nights have a way of fidning unraveling intentions.

The house was quiet in those early hours, the kind of quiet that made every creak sound louder than it should. You learned the floorboards by heart, memorized the soft glow of the kitchen light at two a.m, the rhythm of rocking that finally coaxed Liam back to sleep. Robby would come home smelling like antiseptic and coffee mixed with a hint of his cologne—exhaustion etched into his face, and still reach for the baby like it was instinct.

“Hey buddy,”, he’d whisper, voice barely there, as if afraid to break whatever fragile peace you’d built. 

You’d watch him then—this man who spent his days holding other people together—cradle something so small and fragile with a reverance that made your chest ache. Sometimes he’d catch you looking and give you that tired half-smile, the one that said we’re okay, even when either of you were sure. 

Some nights, Liam didn’t settle well at all. Robby would sit on the couch with him tucked against his chest, eyes closed, swaying slightly. You’d curl up beside them, resting your head against Robby’s arm, listening to the soft rise and fall of both their breathing. No one said it out loud, but those moments felt dangerously close to belonging. The paperwork was still pending. The future was still uncertain. But for now, there was warmth, quiet, and the steady reasurance that none of you were alone in this.

And somehow, that was enough to keep going. 

Sleep stopped being something you did and became something you drifted into by accident. Most nights, you ended up in the same bed without ever really deciding to. Liam’s bassinet sat on Robby’s side, close enough that he could reach out wihtout fully waking. The room stayed dim, washed in the soft amber glow of a night-light Robby insisted on keeping on “just in case”. You lay on your side facing him, knees drawn up, listening to the quiet orchestra of the night—Robby’s steady breathing and the tiny, uneven sounds Liam made in his sleep.

When Liam stirred, Robby was already moving. He never rushed. Even half-asleep, he handled the baby with a careful patience that made your chest tighten every time you watched. He’d sit up slowly, one hand braced on the mattress, the other already reaching into the bassinet. Liam would fuss softly, a thin—reedy sound, and Robby would murmur to him under his breath—nonsense words, reassurance, promises he didn’t evedn realize he was making.

“I’ve got you,”, he’d whisper. “I’ve got you.”

Sometime’s he’d lift Liam into bed instead of leaving the room with him. He’d prop himself against the headboard, tuck the baby against his chest, and let the warmth do the work. You’d inch closer without thinking, drawn in by the quiet gravity of them. Robby’s arm would come around you automatically, palm resting warm and heavy against your back like he was anchoring you there.

In those moments, the three of you fit together too easily. Robby took the harder shifts without annoucning it. Diapers, bottles, pacing the hall at 3 a.m when Liam refused to be soothed—he did it all the same calm focus he brought to his job, except this time it was threaded with something more raw. You’d hear him in the living room, murmuring softly, rocking back and forth, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. When you offered to take over, sometimes he’d let you but oftne he would shake his head gently. 

“Go back to sleep,”, he’d say. “You need it.”

So did he. But he never admitted that. After Liam settled, Robby would crawl back into bed and just lie there, staring at the ceiling. You could feel the tension in him then—the weight of unaswered questions—of futures not yet decided. You’d instinctively place your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady under your palm. He’d turn his head toward you, brown eyes dark in the low light, and for a moment it felt like he might say something that would change everything. 

Instead, he’d exhale and press a kiss to your forehead. 

“Thank you,”, he’d whisper. Not for anything specific. For staying. For holding on. For not aksing him to be certain when he wasn’t. 

You held Liam during the day, memorized his expressions, learned the subtle differences between his cries. Robby watched you do it on his days off like it mattered more than anyhting else. Like he was afraid that if he blinked, the picture would would disappear. Neither of you talked about what would happen if someone came knocking. Neither of you talked about what it would mean to give this up. But at night, tangled together in sleep with Liam breathing softly between you, the unspoken truth pressed closed and heavy: you were already a family.

Social services didn’t call ahead. They never did. Robby was halfway through charting when his pager went off, the vibration sharp and insistent. He glanced down, expecting another patient crashing or an intern fucking something up. But it was an administrative request—Social Services requesting attending physician. Safe Haven case. His stomach dropped. He texted you quickly, asking if you could meet him at the hospital. 

Quickly, you packed the diaper bag with more than necessary—extra oneise, extra bottle, the soft blue blanket Robby always reached for first. PTMC smelled the same as always—clean, sharp, familiar—but everything felt different with Liam tucked in your arms. People smiled at you as you passed. Dana, was working at the nurses desk, smiled before coming out from behind it. 

“Hey stranger.”, she smirked, pulling you into a light hug. “How’s my girl and Baby John Doe?’

“Good.”, you responded, sighing into her hug. 

It felt good to see Dana again. She was like a mother. She was more than just a co-worker, she was family. 

“Oh my goodness he’s grown.”, she pulled back lightly to view the baby. “Liam, is that what you and Robby landed on for the time being?”

You nodded. 

“How’s it been going with Robby?”, she half-smiled.

She knew the history between you two. 

You smiled, but it was the kind that didn’t quite make it all the way up.

“Good,”, you said again, softer this time, like if you said anything else it might crack. “Really good. And…that’s terrifying.”

Dana’s expression shifted immediately—nurse face gone, mom face fully on. She didn’t push. Just reached out and brushed a knuckle over Liam’s cheek, watching him stir and then settle again. 

“I figured.”, she said gently. “You don’t look like someone playing house.”

Before you could answer, Robby appeared in his black scrub top, Carhartt bottoms, and green undershirt. The moment he laid eyes on you, relief washed over his face—unguarded, imemdiate. His eyes went straight to Liam. 

“Hey.”, he said, voice low as he came over, brushing his fingers on your arms before kissing you. 

“Hey.”, you echoed. 

Dana glanced between you, then nodded toward the hall. “They’re in consult room c. This one’s about longer-term placement.”

Robby swallowed and nodded. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be around if you need anything.”, Dana touched your shoulder before walking away. Robby stepped closer. He didn’t take Liam—just rested his hand on the blanket, thumb rubbing the edge like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“They’re talking more permanent,”, he began quietly. “But nothing’s guaranteed. If she shows up—”

“I know.”, you said.

You didn’t say we’ll survive it or it’ll be okay. Neither of you believed that lie.  

Outside the consult room, Robby stopped. “If this ends badly,”, he said voice low as his hand rested on the small of your back. “I need you to know this wasn’t pretend. Not for me.”

Your chest ached. You nodded, leaning into him for half a secodn before the door opened. Inside, the same social worker who had called waited—calm smile, thick folder. She asked about routines, medical follow-ups, night wakings. You answered together without thinking, seamless. When Liam began to fuss, Robby automatically fixed his bottle quickly before handing it to you, allowing you to begin feeding him and settling him with quiet murmurs.

The woman watched, made notes “You’ve both been acting as parents, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Robby didn’t hesitate, putting his hand on your shoulder. “We are.”

The world landed heavy in the room. 

“There will be another home visit,”, she said finally. “And yes—the birth mother still has the right to come forward. She hasn’t. That matters and so does this.”

She gestured gently toward you holding Liam. When she left, Robby stayed seated, hands shaking just slightly, You leaned into him. He rested his head on your shoulder, breath unsteady. He stayed still for a long moment after she left, like if he moved too fast the air would change and undo whatever fragile progress had just been made. The hum of the hospital crept bac in—overhead pages, a cart rattling down the hall, someone laughing too loudly somewhere far away.

Liam finished the bottle and went slack with sleep, mouth parted, lashes dark against his cheeks.

“They wrote everything down.”, Robby said quietly, staring at the closed door. “Every detail. Like love can be quantified.”

You looked up at him gently. “Maybe it can,”, you said. “At least enough to count for something.”

He finally looked at you then. There was fear there, yes—but also something steadier, more dangerous. Resolve. 

“She could still come back,”, he said. “Tomorrow. Six months from now. And we’d have to hand him over like—like none of this mattered.”

Your arms tightened instinctively around Liam. “I think that’s what scares me the most,”, you admitted. “Not that she might come back. But that he’d go to someone who doesn’t know that he hates being put down when he’s half-asleep. Or that he needs his back rubbed like this.”

Robby watched your hand move, the slow, familiar pattern. “You do that without thinking.”

“So do you,”, you said. “You hum when you’re nervous. Same tune every time.”

He huffed out something like a laugh then scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not built for this kind of waiting.”

“No,”, you agreed gently. “You’re built for fixing. For intervening.”

“And there’s nothing to intervene on,”, he snapped, then immediately softened. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s okay,”, you soothed, rubbing his shoulder. “We’re both scared.”

A knock sounded directly on the doorframe. Dana again, peeking in like she didn’t want to spook you.

“Done already?”, she asked.

Robby nodded, his hands squeezed together. “For now.”

She stepped inside, eyes going straight to Liam. “Home visit means they’re serious,”, she said. “They don’t waste time otherwise.”

“Doesn’t mean she won’t come back.”, Robby sighed.

Dana knew exactly who he was referring to. “No,”, she agreed. “But it means if she doesnt….he won’t be going anywhere else.”

Silence settled again, thicker this time. 

Dana wedged lightly inbetween you both, touching your arms. “I’ve seen a lot of these cases,”,she said. “And this one feels different.”

After she left, Robby finally stood. He adjusted his stethoscope, muscle memory kicking in, but he didn’t look like a doctor anymore. He looked like a man walking out of a place that might decide the rest of his life. Robby give you a soft kiss ans told you he’d see you and the baby at home later.

At home that night, nothing looked different. The same lamp glowing soft in the corner. The same bassinet tucked beside the bed. But the wight of the day clung to everything. 

You laid Liam down carefully, thinking he was ready for bed. He stirred, fussed. 

Robby was there instantly, hand on chest. “Hey, hey little man,”, he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The baby settled. 

Later, in bed, Robby lay on his side facing you, arm draped lazily around your waist.

“What if she comes back?”, he asked quietly into the dark. 

You thought about the unknown woman. About desperation and regret and choices made too late. About how love could exist in more than one place at once and still break everyone involved. 

“Then we’ll grieve,”, you said honestly. “But until then—we love him like he’s staying.”

Robby closed his eyes, jaw tight. “I don’t know how to love halfway.”

You reached for his hand. “Neither do I.”

You weren’t sure if you and Robby could handle another loss. 

Between you, Liam breathed on, unaware of the fragile, ferocious hope holding him in place. Sleep didn’t come easily. The room was dark except for the soft glow of the night-light, the bassinet close enough that Robby could reach it without sitting up. Liam breathed evenly, small chest rising and falling like a promise Robby didn’t trust himself to make. 

He stared up at the ceiling, mind betraying him. 

He saw Liam unsteady on his feet, arms outstretched, taking those first wobbly steps across the living room while you both hovered uselessly nearby, terrified and thrilled. He saw you sitting in the living room floor, laughing, saying come on, you’ve got it while Robby cheered him on from afar, filming the moment even though he knew he’d never watch it without his chest hurting. 

Kindergarten came next—too fast, too sharp. A backpack that looked ridiculous on such a small body. Shoes with laces Liam would insist on tying himself. Robby imagined standing at the edge of the playground, pretending he wasn’t hovoering, pretending it didn’t feel like handing over part of his heart to strangers. He swallowed. 

He wasn’t supposed to think like this. Futures were dangerous. Futures were how you got broken. 

Beside him, you shift in bed. “You’re doing that thing,”, you murmured sleepily. 

He took you in his arms before exhaling, placing a kiss on your head before he felt you settle in his arms.  “What thing?”

“The quiet spiraling,”, you said, kissing him back on the lips softly without opening your eyes. 

He sighed, knowing he was guilty as charged. He took your hand, body still wrapped against him. He held it like an achor.

“I was just thinking,”, he admitted. 

You waited. You always did.

“I don’t want to be the kind of person who only loves him for now,”, he said. “I don’t want to look back and realize I kept myself distant because I was afraid of losing him.”

You blinked your eyes open thenm, eyes dark but steady. “You won’t.”

“I already am.”, he said. “I think about who he might be. What he’ll love. If he’ll hate school like I did or he’ll run toward it like you did.”

Your throat tightened. “Robby.”

“I know,”, he cut in gently. “I know it’s not promised. I know she could come back and take all of that with her. But when I look at him, all I can think is—someone has to imagine his future. Someone has to hold it steady until it’s real.”

You smiled up at him, free hand brushing in his dark hair. “Maybe,”, you began softly. “imagining it doesn’t mean you’re stealing it. Maybe it just means he has someone rooting for him.”

Robby closed his eyes, breath shaky. 

“I want us to be there when he takes his first steps,”, he whispered. “I want to complain about school drop-off traffic and science fairs and scraped knees. I want him to roll his eyes at me one day and still come to me.”

You leaned in, forehead to his. “Then we be there. As much as we’re allowed.”

He nodded once, like he was agreeing to something sacred and terrifying. Liam sighed in his sleep, reminding you both that you were doing this. 

September 17th, 2021

The house had been quiet for the past four days. 

You move in absolute silence, whether Robby’s home or not. Before the anniversary of Adamson’s death, you had asked him what he needed, whether it was distraction, company, or to be alone. He told you he wanted to be alone for the day, and you had respected that, leaving early in the morning and not returning until later that evening. You made sure he knew that he could text or call at any time and you’d come home right away, but he hadn’t, unsurprisingly. 

He came home around midnight, intoxicated. He wasn’t drunk, but he certainly wasn’t sober. You were writing lyrics on the couch, and you watched as he walked right by you to go upstairs. It had hurt, but you couldn’t fault him for it—you knew how much anniversaries could suck. 

You did what you do best—taking care of him. You packed him food for his shift the next day, cleaned the main floor, and went up to bed without a single sound that could potentially wake him up. He slipped out for work before the sun rose, forgoing his usual goodbye kiss to your forehead, leaving you alone. 

You ignored it.

Kept taking care of him, stayed quiet, moving as though there were pressure plates underneath the floorboards that might be triggered if you step too hard. It was concerning, yes, but he wasn’t the type to talk about his feelings. 

On the sixteenth he tried to pick a fight, dying to feel something other than the sadness that pooled in his chest and limbs. You didn’t let him. He had snapped, asking you why you had been so quiet as you picked at the dinner you made. 

“I know the past few days have been alot,” You had said, giving him a reassuring smile. “I didn’t want to add to your stress. Does it bug you?”

It didn’t bug him, it was exactly what he needed, like always. 

You were avoiding the topic of your upcoming tour, which you were leaving for tonight, and you still didn’t have the courage to bring it up to Robby. He knew about it, of course, and had assured you that he would be perfectly fine with you leaving so soon after the anniversary. 

At seven-fifty he walks through the front door, and you can feel that this isn’t going to go well. His shoulders sag, steps are tired and shaky, and he drops his bag to the floor with more force than usual. You take a deep breath, closing your notebook and getting up, walking over to him. 

“Hi,” You say, gaining his attention. 

“Hey,” He says back, rubbing a hand down his face, a frown tugging at his mouth. 

“There’s some leftovers in the fridge, but if you don’t want them we could order something-”

“No, that’s fine,” He interrupts. “Thanks.”

You nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

His eyes sweep over your various belongings as he walks through the living room, clothes neatly organized into piles, toiletries in bags, miscellaneous objects filling the gaps. Your suitcase is open on the floor, a few things already in it. 

“When’s your flight?” He asks, stopping at the bottom of the staircase, one hand already on the railing. 

“Late,” You answer. “It’s a red-eye, I have to leave in a few hours.”

He nods, patting the railing with his hand once, then goes upstairs. You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment, hating how horrible you feel when you should be more than excited for your upcoming shows. At least he remembered that you’re leaving. 

By the time he comes back downstairs you’re mostly packed, kneeling on your bag as you zip it up, a triumphant smile forming on your face when it closes. You notice him out of the corner of your eye, making you turn, standing up. 

“Can I ask you something?” You ask, the question coming out meeker than intended. 

Robby sighs. “Sure.”

“Is this…” You trail off, trying to find the right words. “Are you gonna’ be okay while I’m gone?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You shrug. “The timing sucks a little, does it not?”

“I don’t think so,” He counters. “I don’t need to be supervised, especially not by someone half my age.”

Oh!

“Right,” You say, shrinking in on yourself, blinking back tears. “No, I know, I just want to make sure you’ll be alright, I wasn’t suggesting that you need supervision.”

He hums, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes moving between you and your suitcase a few times before settling back on you, but he doesn’t say anything.

“It’ll go by fast,” You continue, pushing a smile onto your face. “We can call and text and I’ll be home for the holidays.”

He doesn’t know why that hurts so bad. Maybe because he feels like the entire world is ending, maybe because he has no idea what’s going to happen once you walk out that door and he wants you to acknowledge that. For you to say that it won’t be easy, it won’t ‘go by fast.’ But he has no right to ask those things of you when you just gave him the opening for him to tell you himself, and even though it seems like you are at times, you’re not a mindreader. 

“Yeah, well, we’ll both be pretty busy,” He says. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Of course,” You say, nodding. “But we’ll make it work. You’re still okay to take me to the airport, right?”

You already know what the answer will be the second you ask, practically seeing the way he turns the idea over in his head. He exhales loudly, putting both hands on the back of his neck. 

“I don’t think so,” He says, shaking his head. 

Silence stretches between the two of you. 

“Okay,” You finally say. 

“Tori can pick you up, right?”

“Yep.”

Robby closes his eyes, fighting himself internally. He doesn’t have the energy to take you to the airport, but he can see how much it hurt for him to say that. Unfortunately for you, he also doesn’t have the energy to apologize. 

“Can you help me understand why you don’t want to drive me anymore?” You ask, tone so curious instead of judgemental. He’ll never understand how you’re so good at this. 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…unecessary,” He answers. “You’ll be home before we know it, like you said.”

You nod, deciphering the meaning behind his words, trying to figure out what he really means—because you know him. You know what this is actually about. 

“This is really hard,” You say, dropping your arms to your side. “I don’t want to leave, Mike. I’m sorry that I have to.”

“This isn’t about you leaving.”

“Then what’s it about?”

He clears his throat, closing his eyes for a moment, gathering himself in whatever way he can. “I don’t want to come back from the airport and for you to not be here anymore.”

He wishes he could take those words back. To take the vulnerability back. Your chest tightens. 

“That’s fair,” You say, stepping towards him, trying to lessen the distance between you. “I know that no matter how hard this is on me, it’s a million times harder for you. I don’t need you to pretend like it’s not, I’d never for ask that.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” He counters. “Not when you have the entire world waiting for you.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as you think. “I know. But I want to.”

“I don’t,” He argues, rubbing his eyes roughly. “There’s nothing that you could say or do tonight that will make this go away by the time you leave, so what’s the point?”

Confusion crosses your expression. “Make what go away?”

“Your concerns,” He says, but it’s not what he meant. “I’m not gonna’ take you to the airport and pretend that everything’s fine so that you can have fun on your tour.”

Your jaw tightens as tears form in your throat, making you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, swallowing. 

“Don’t do this,” You say, shaking your head, moving closer again. “Don’t push me away because you’re scared that this is gonna’ hurt.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” He says. “You think you know everything? Just because you don’t get angry like everyone else does?”

“No,” You say, still calm. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing most of the time, and I feel like I’m pretty honest about that.”

He doesn’t respond, so you continue. 

“I don’t want to leave things like this,” You add, your tone pleading. “Being upset with me won’t make you feel better once I’m gone, Mike.”

He turns around, walking up the stairs, leaving you alone in the living room. You’re frozen for a minute, not believing that he would just walk away from you like that. You pull your phone out, asking Tori if she’s able to pick you up on her way to the airport. You continue packing, as though nothing even happened. 

You're laying in the nest chair when he comes back downstairs, a blanket overtop of you and a book in your hands. You don't look up at the sound of his footsteps, you just focus on quelling the pain that bubbles in your chest. You wish so desperately that he'll just come lay beside you and fucking apologize without you having to start the conversation, just this once.

It genuinely feels like your ribs crack when he heads towards the kitchen instead, his feet not even hesitating before he makes the decision. You swallow any pride that you still have, closing your book and following him, your steps quiet.

"Baby," You say, barely above a whisper, and he turns immediately.

"Yeah?" He asks, taking you in, worried that something happened. "You okay?"

You shake your head, and he can tell that you're on the verge of tears. He hates himself for not being able to give you what you need in this moment.

"Please drive me," You say. "Please."

You just want him to make a sacrifice for you this time, after making so many for him.

"Honey," He exhales, hanging his head as he braces himself against the counter. "I can't."

"You can, though," You counter, voice a bit more stable now as you find your footing. "You won't. There's a difference."

He stiffens. "It's not that simple."

"It is," You say. "It's thirty minutes, Mike."

"That's not the point," He argues, pushing off his palms, fully facing you again.

"What is the point?" You ask.

He rubs his eyes, frustrated. "I already told you."

You nod. "You don't want to come back to an empty house."

"Exactly," He breathes, thinking that you'll let him off the hook now, letting him go back to wallowing for a little while longer.

"So, what?" You say, shrugging. "I get to go by myself? That's the compromise here?"

He frowns, anger starting to build again. "This isn't something I can compromise on."

You blink once, twice, pursing your lips before speaking. "I'm starting to worry we'll never find something you are willing to compromise on."

Silence.

You talk again before he fully processes what you said.

"I understand that you're grieving, Mike, I swear," You add. "But this sucks for me, too."

He still doesn't say anything.

You swallow. "It would really mean a lot to me."

Tori picks you up two hours later.

October 2nd, 2021

Your fingers curl around your phone the second it buzzes, hope settling over you for a second until you realize that it's not from Mike. The last response you received from him was almost twenty hours ago, saying goodnight the day before. It's been like this since you left—him taking at least ten hours to text you back on a good day. You're due to go on stage in five minutes, and all you want is for him to text you back before then. He's been home for two hours now, and you've already sent him four texts throughout the day, but you bite the bullet, texting him again.

Hey, show starting soon, can we call at some point? Want to hear your voice. I love you!

You wait until the very last second to pass your phone to Isabel, your entire demeanor changed. You hear the thirty-second warning in your in-ears, check your notifications one last time, then you hand it over. She gives you your microphone in exchange, rubbing your arm a few times.

"You're gonna' kill it," She promises. "See you after."

The music changes, and you raise the microphone to your lips. "Sacramento, let me hear you!"

The audience screams. Adrenaline rips through you as you walk onto the stage, trying to push Robby out of your mind for now.

You already know that he hasn't texted back when the show's over by the way Isabel looks at you, and you sigh, pursing your lips. She holds your phone out to you, but you don't take it, shaking your head.

"Keep it," You say. "Unless something urgent came up."

"Nope," She says, tucking it away again. "Let's go get some sleep."

She leaves it in your hotel room once she leaves, bidding you goodnight. You stare at where it sits on the edge of the desk, willing it to buzz, but it doesn't.

You turn on a movie, put on a face mask, and get ready for bed. You pick your phone up as you walk back towards the bed, still seeing no response when the screen illuminates.

"Fuck me," You say, tossing it onto your bed, putting your hands behind your head as you laugh, anger throbbing against your skull. You pick it up again, opening your text conversation.

Can you please respond to me more than once every two days?

Then, because you love him, you follow up.

Hope your shift was okay, i love you. Goodnight.

You wake up to a response, shockingly, but you decide you would've preferred radio silence once you read it.

Hey, sorry, busy week. Hope the show went okay, I'm sure you were amazing.

October 15th, 2021

You aren't sure why you're so freaked out tonight.

Soundcheck had been fine, the venue's amazing, and you had the previous night off, meaning you actually got a decent amount of sleep. Still, something's just off, and you didn't know how to fix it.

Your breathing's shallow, chest and throat tight. You can't get your hands to stop shaking, and a headache looms behind your eyes no matter how much water you drink.

Robby's been a touch better about texting you for the past few days, but it still isn't enough. You even told him that you felt like he was pulling away, pleading to set aside one night a week for the two of you to catch up, no matter what city you're in. He told you that he would have to make sure he'd have time, you know, with his schedule and all.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Olivia asks, her tone suggesting that she's worried she's crossing some kind of line, considering you just met a month ago. "You seem anxious."

You nod, still pacing back and forth in the greenroom, an action that is doing anything but helping your case.

"Yeah, no, I'm good," You insist. "A little more wound up than usual, I guess, I don't know."

"You want to punch something?" She asks, and you stop, a laugh escaping at the suggestion.

"What?" You question. She picks up a pillow, patting it a few times, then standing up and walking over to you. She holds it out in front of her.

"Try it," She says.

You raise an eyebrow, then give the pillow a weak punch.

"Do not piss me off right now," She says. "Punch it for real."

You roll your eyes, but you listen, pulling back and hitting it with as much force as you can muster.

"Better," She says. "Again."

You punch the pillow a few more times, a smile on your face the entire time as Olivia hypes you up, narrating your actions like you're in a boxing match. You have to admit that you do feel better once you stop, but your anxiety still sits inside of you, simmering just beneath the surface. You pull out your phone, sending Robby a text.

Can you talk?

He replies a few minutes later.

For a second, what's going on?

You exhale, pushing some hair out of your face before sending a response.

I'm feeling overwhelmed about tonight, not sure why.

All you want is a tiny amount of validation, a reminder that you're going to crush it, and for him to tell you that he loves you.

You get none of the above when he disappears, leaving you without a response for the night.

October 19th, 2021

Olivia can't help but notice the correlation between your constant phone checking and your mood.

It's nothing crazy—you're absolutely lovely all the time, but she can see how hard the days are when you're clearly waiting for a text that doesn't come. The way you jump each time it buzzes, and how each successive notification that isn't the one you want makes you quieter.

The first thing you do after a show is look at your phone. You barely participate in conversations when everyone grabs dinner or drinks, you just constantly look like you're deep in thought, wishing for someone to pull you out. Your thumbs twirl around on the keyboard often, but she's noticed that you frequently end up deleting whatever you wrote.

She doesn't ask questions at first, not to you or your team, who clearly have some kind of clue as to what it's about. But after the past week? She's worried that you won't make it to the end of tour like this, and performing seems to be the only thing that's keeping you alive right now, so she doesn't want that to fall apart.

You're eating breakfast at the hotel, sitting directly across from her, the rest of your crew surrounding you. Conversation is constant, switching from tour logistics to family updates to whatever shitty movie they watched the night before. You, however, have barely touched the food on your plate, and you have your phone sitting upright on your lap. She knows because you keep looking down, a frown on your face each time.

"Hey," She says, your name following the word. You glance up, smiling, but your eyes are dark. "Do you want me to hold onto it?"

Your first instinct is to act confused, but you don't. Your phone has done absolutely nothing for the past few weeks other than drive you insane—she's completely in the right to ask.

You hesitate, but then you nod, passing it over the table to her. She silences it before putting it in her bag, not letting it hurt your feelings any longer.

Shockingly, you don't ask for it back, not even once.

The two of you spend the rest of the day together—going to the gym, running soundcheck, getting costumes fitted. You're there when she's about to go onstage, nodding encouragingly as she readies herself.

"You're amazing, I'm obsessed with you, you're going to kill it," You say, smoothing down a few pieces of her hair. "They're going to love you. I'll see you when you're done."

Her performance is fucking amazing, and you greet her with a jumble of excited squeals and compliments, hugging her tightly as the two of you spin in circles. You feed off of her energy, she feeds off yours, and the difference when you finally go out is exponential from how it's been for the past week. You're jumping around, interacting with the audience more, interacting with your band more, and the crowd eats it up.

It's later that night when she actually starts the conversation, very carefully.

You're sharing a hotel room for the night, so you go back together after the show.

You start to get antsy, eyes occasionally flitting over to her bag that's sitting on the floor.

"Do you wanna' go for a walk?" She asks. "Just around the hotel, we don't have to go outside."

It catches you off guard, but you agree.

"You can totally tell me to fuck off and mind my business," She starts, shuffling her feet along the carpeted hallway floors. "But...the phone thing?"

You let out an insincere laugh, shoving a nervous hand into your hair for a moment. "Right, the phone thing."

She hums. "I know we haven't known each other very long, but I've been told that I'm a good listener. And advice giver, if you'd be interested."

You come to a stop when you round a corner, revealing a dead-end containing a noisy ice machine. You lean back against the wall, then you lower yourself to the floor, tucking your knees up. Olivia does the same on the opposite side of the space.

"I wish it wasn't so obvious," You say, playing with your necklace. "I don't mean to, like, ruin the vibes, or whatever. I'm sorry."

Olivia raises an eyebrow, shaking her head. "That's not why I'm bringing this up."

"It's not?"

"No!" She exclaims. "I can tell that you're barely hanging on, so I wanted to see if I could help in any way."

You sigh, leaning your head back. "That's...nice. But I don't think anyone can help me but me."

She shrugs. "Talking something through always helps."

Isn't that the truth.

You let out a tiny laugh. "I know someone who could really stand to hear that."

"Your partner?" She asks. You nod, looking up towards the ceiling.

"Yeah," You say. "He's...not the most in tune with his emotions."

"And you are," She adds. You give her a questioning look. "I've seen the way you handle conflict and emotions and everything, however minor. You're really good at it."

"I—I guess I try," You counter, half-accepting her praise. "I grew up in a house where no one ever fucking listened or told you how they really felt, and I do not want to spend the rest of my life walking on eggshells."

Olivia doesn't have to point out the irony in your statement—you come to the conclusion on your own.

"I guess that's exactly what I've been doing," You continue, dropping your necklace, the diamond hitting your sternum with a soft 'thud.'

"Did you guys fight or something?" She questions. "Is there a reason he's being so distant?"

"Sort of," You say. "He was upset that I was gonna' be gone for so long, and he didn't handle it very well. He still isn't, obviously."

"So he's punishing you?"

You click your tongue against your teeth, nodding. "I guess so, yeah. Even if he doesn't realize it."

Olivia reaches over, putting her hand on your knee. "That's not cool, dude."

You laugh, but tears are swelling in your throat and dripping down your cheeks. "It's really not."

She shuffles so she's beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, still rubbing your knee. She lets you sit for a few minutes before talking again.

"Do you want my advice?" She asks, and you nod.

"Yes, please."

She inhales. "I'm sorry if this comes across as insensitive, because I can tell that you really love him, and I'm sure he loves you, even if he can't express it."

"Okay," You say, wearily.

"You should fucking dump his ass."

The suggestion makes you start to both laugh and cry even harder.

"I think you're right," You say, voice tight with tears. "I should fucking dump his ass."

You don't just say that in the moment—you absolutely mean it.

October 23rd, 2021

You have a night off for the first time in a few days, giving you the perfect opportunity to have a conversation with Robby.

Every time you see his name pop up on your screen it makes you dizzy. Not in the way it used to, when you were head over heels in love with the man of your dreams, but in an uneasy way, knowing that you'll almost certainly have to talk him down or that the conversation will end in clipped responses and silent tears. 

It's affecting your ability to perform, and your fans have noticed. Your comment sections are filled to the brim with speculations, concerns, criticisms. If you thought you couldn't do this before, you definitely can't any longer.

So you text him, hoping that he'll respond sometime within the next ten hours, before you go to bed. You hate that that might not be enough time.

Can you talk tonight?

It’s simple enough, doesn’t suggest that things are fine when they aren’t, but shouldn’t send him into a spiral while he’s finishing up his shift. He responds a few hours later, while you're out to lunch with your band and Olivia.

Sure, around eight?

You don't reach for your phone right away when it buzzes. You leave it in your pocket, waiting until you're on your way back to the hotel before replying.

Sounds good.

He calls at eight-oh-four, seven-oh-four for you.

“Hey,” You say, trying to picture him in your mind. He’s probably in a shirt and sweatpants, sitting on the couch or already laying in bed, wanting to forget about his day. 

“Hey,” He mirrors. “At the hotel for the night?”

“Yeah,” You say, thumbnail between your teeth as you pace back and forth in your room, Olivia slyly watching you through the window as she sits on the balcony. “I want to be upfront here, I didn’t call just to catch up. I wanted to talk about something.”

“Oh,” Robby says. “Okay. What’s going on?”

You inhale, then exhale through your mouth, trying to get your heart to slow down. “I don’t think this is working right now.”

You had planned on being a little more clear than that, but the silence that spans between you suggests that you got the point across. 

“What isn’t?” Robby asks, but you can hear the strain in his voice. He knows. 

“Us,” You answer, catching a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror, making you quickly turn away, not wanting to see how you look in this moment. How you look when you feel like you’re being the most selfish you’ve ever been, even though you know that you're not. “We—I want to break up.”

The words taste bitter in your mouth. Your hands are shaking so badly you have to stop pacing, resting your phone on the countertop and putting the call on speaker, otherwise you might drop it. 

“What?” Robby questions. “I…why?”

“Mike,” You sigh, closing your eyes. “Because I respect you and I respect myself too much to let this keep going.”

Robby laughs, angrily. “Okay, because this is very respectful. Right.”

You don’t defend yourself. You don’t need to. This is for him just as much as it is for you. 

“I didn’t come to this decision lightly, trust me,” You say. “I’ve been trying for weeks now, and nothing is getting better. That’s not fair to either of us.”

“What do you mean?” He says. “Things have been fine.”

You feel your resolve crack, the desire to stoop to his level gnawing at your skin, begging to be released.

"Are you serious right now?" You ask, finding a middle ground between 'I'm so emotionally mature' and 'fuck you, you fucking asshole.'

He doesn't answer for a second. He knows that things haven't exactly been fine, but he definitely didn't think a breakup was coming his way.

"Have things not been fine for you?" He asks, and you do look up now, making eye contact with yourself in the mirror. You hate what he's doing to you.

"No, things have not been fine for me," You say, trying to keep your voice steady. "Most days I barely even feel like you like me, let alone love me."

"Of course I love you," He says.

You shake your head, swallowing back tears. "You haven't been showing me that recently."

He takes a beat before answering. “You didn’t give me a chance.”

You hum, squeezing your eyes shut. “I gave you a lot of chances.”

“Like when?”

Like when. The question is almost offensive.

“When I asked you to please drive me to the airport,” You start. 

“That’s not fair-”

“I’m not done,” You interrupt. “When I asked if you could try not to take days to respond to my texts. When I told you that I was feeling overwhelmed before my Dallas show. When I told you that I felt a disconnect between us, and I practically begged for one night a week where we could catch up, and you brushed me off. You have had many chances to try and fix this, Mike.”

He truly believed that there was no possible way for him to have known that you were this far gone until it's laid out like that. 

“I was grieving,” He says, desperate, not wanting to let you go. 

“I know that," You say, disturbingly calm. He has no idea that you're even crying. "And while I get that, and I'm so sorry for everything you've been through, I can't keep doing this."

Neither of you speak for awhile. 

“So this is it?” He asks, still angry, but softer. 

“I don’t know what the future holds for us,” You say, your elbows resting on the counter in front of you, your head in your hands. “But I know that for right now, yes, this is it.”

“I didn’t mean to push you away.”

A small gasp falls from you, a single tear dropping off your face. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry it went like this.”

“Me too.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, you too.”

He says your name at the end of the short sentence, then the call ends. You sob into your hands, shoulders shaking with tears and gasping breaths. 

October 30th, 2021 - Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 

“Did you see her show last night?” Shen asks, the question directed towards Samira, but Frank is standing only a few feet away. 

“Oh my god, Abby wouldn’t stop watching it,” He groans, eyes looking up at the board, hands already fumbling with a pair of gloves as he decides on which patient to go see. 

“It was heartbreaking,” Samira says, emphasizing the word as she shoots Frank a tiny glare. “Its all anyone can talk about.”

“What is?” Robby asks, wondering if he’ll regret asking, but if it’s something to do with his ED then he’d rather know than be kept in the dark. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t be interested,” Collins says, joining the conversation from where she’s charting a few feet away. 

Robby huffs, smiling a bit. “Try me.”

“Remember Valentine? The singer that we’re always talking about?” Shen asks, swirling the iced coffee in his hand around as if it will magically make more of the drink appear. “She sang a new song at the end of her show last night. It was quite the piece.”

A buzzing hits Robby’s ears at the sound of your stagename, tuning out whatever Frank says in response, barely hearing the laughter from the group of young doctors at the comment. He drops the tablet that he’s holding, turning on his heel and racing off to the breakroom, yanking the door open. There’s no one in there, unsurprisingly, so he pulls out his phone. 

He types in ‘Valentine’ followed by ‘October 29th show.’ 

A million results hit the screen—articles, videos, social media posts. He clicks on the first video, not even reading the title, and turns his screen sideways. It’s from one of the front rows of your concert, you’re only a few feet away from whoever’s filming, sitting on a stool in the centre of the stage. 

“This last song is something new,” You say, microphone in your left hand, eyes casting out towards the crowd as they cheer. “I really hope you enjoy. Thank you.”

The music starts, your band kicking the song off as you nod along to the music. 

“Yeah, I was in the dark, I was falling hard, with an open heart

How did I read the stars so wrong?

And now it’s clear to me, that everything you see, ain’t always what it seems

Yeah, I was dreaming for so long”

You rise off the stool, pushing it off to the side, walking over to the main part of the stage. 

“I wish I knew then, what I know now

Wouldn’t dive in, wouldn’t bow down

Gravity hurts, you made it so sweet

‘Til I woke up on, on the concrete”

You click your microphone back onto it’s stand, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“Falling from cloud nine

Crashing from the high

I’m letting go tonight

Yeah, I’m falling from cloud nine”

Robby feels like he’s going to be sick, but he can’t stop watching. You’re so captivating, even when you’re singing a song that’s clearly about how much he’s hurt you. By the time you make it to the bridge your face is twisted, jaw muscles tight as you pull the microphone off the stand, staring out into the enthusiastic audience. 

You bend your knees slightly, eyes closed as you put yourself into the song, giving it your everything. 

“Thunder rumbling, castles crumbling

I am trying to hold on

God knows that I’ve tried, seeing the bright side

I’m not blind anymore” 

You straighten again, obvious tears in your eyes as you walk backwards during the instrumental. Your bassist catches your eyes, giving you a look. You just nod, wiping a few tears away before finishing the song, hitting the start of the final chorus. Your voice cracks, not in a bad way, but in a raw, emotional way. 

You finish the song, bringing a hand up to your mouth as the audience screams. You give a teary bow, smiling as you wave—then the video ends. 

His hands have gone numb, but he manages to open the comment section, scanning row after row. 

who the hell hurt her???

‘this is something new’ she had her heart broken so recently im gonna be sick!

the way i'd be calling her nonstop after this if i was her ex

He opens his messages, scrolling until he sees your name. The date beside it reads ‘2021-10-23’ with the last text being your ‘sounds good’ in response to him letting you know when he could call. He opens the conversation, hovering over the keyboard for a minute. 

Hey, I saw your show last night-

Delete.

It’s been a second, how are you-

No. Delete. 

Are you okay?

Absolutely not. Delete. 

He sighs, swiping out of the app and putting his phone back in his pocket. Dana pokes her head in the doorway, gaining his attention.

“Hey, we need you in trauma one, boss.”

November 27th, 2021

You reread the response he had sent you two weeks ago as you stand in front of his front door.

I'll be at work on the 27th, come by anytime.

You exhale, sliding your key into the lock, slowly pushing the door open as though he might be there, despite knowing that he won't be. It's just past three o'clock—you still have a few hours to pack up some of your stuff before he comes home. You had meant to arrive earlier, but you spent most of the morning trying to convince yourself that you were fine, so you showed up later than you wanted.

The house is exactly how you left it. Maybe a little messier, but there's pieces of you in every corner. Art on the walls, mugs in the cabinet, clothes in the closet. Your plants are still alive, shockingly, and your favourite throw blanket is folded neatly on the couch. There is one difference, though, and it's that every single picture of you has been removed or put facedown.

You reach for one of the frames on the dresser in the bedroom, flipping it back up, admiring it. It's you and him in New York, cooking breakfast in your kitchen, you over the stove and him with his arms around you, chin resting on your shoulder. You slide it into the duffel bag that's looped over your shoulder, hoping that he won't miss it too much, if at all.

You drag a few boxes deeper into the room, deciding to pack up your clothes first, since they're the things you really want. Anything else you don't get to can wait, or Robby can pack them up and ship them out to you if he gets the chance. You put your headphones in, pulling clothes off hangers and folding them, trying to keep things slightly organized.

Seeing your side of the closet so empty slows you for a second, fingers stilling on the piece of tape you're holding. You hadn't even packed everything, but it still hurts. You stick the tape haphazardly to the box, then you shove some of Robby's clothes over and close the door. Your heart thumps in your throat.

You move through the house, packing up a few of your products from the bathroom, sentimental dishes from the kitchen, a few random objects from the basement. You check the time, seeing that it's nearing five, and decide that you should have more than enough time to grab your songwriting stuff from the carriage house.

Two empty boxes sit in your arms as you step outside, shivering when the cold air hits your exposed arms. You speed-walk to the door, putting the boxes on the floor once you're inside, scanning the space. There's a thin coating of dust on the furniture, which doesn't surprise you. Robby never really spent much time out here.

You don't clean it up, despite how badly you want to. You just go upstairs and get back to work.

Robby doesn't think twice when he gets home an hour early, thankful that Jack had wanted some overtime, letting him go. He comes in through the garage, the door creaking from the cold. His eyes land on something as he's about to take his jacket off, coming to a stop on the zipper.

It's a box.

Still open, mostly filled with clothes, a few smaller knick knacks resting on top.

Oh, fuck.

He completely forgot that you were coming by today.

The date had seemed so far away when you initially asked.

"Hello?" He calls, not wanting to spook you, but he doesn't get a response. He raises an eyebrow, pulling his shoes off, going up the stairs as he calls out your name.

He swings into the bedroom, eyes raking over the space, but you're not in there. He frowns, walking to the opposite end of the house, looking through the back window just in time to see you step out of the carriage house, another box in your arms.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's tempted to hide himself in the guest room closet, but that won't work—you'll definitely notice his shoes and bag when you come in.

He takes careful steps down the stairs as you open the door, immediately seeing the evidence that he's home.

"Shit," You whisper, thinking you've lost track of time, but the clock on the wall reads six-oh-three. "Michael?"

He comes around the corner instantly. "Yeah, hey, sorry."

"It's okay," You insist, putting the box down beside the one that's already there. "I didn't think you'd be home yet."

"Jack came in early, let me go," He explains. "I forgot you might still be here, I'm sorry, sweet-"

He stops himself, but the syllable crests and washes over you like a wave of frigid water. You fold your arms over your chest, goosebumps pushing against your skin as a shiver runs down your spine.

"I can leave," He adds.

You shake your head. "No, that's ridiculous. I'm pretty much finished."

"You've packed everything?"

"Just what I need, for now," You counter. "Is that okay?"

More than.

He nods. "Of course."

You force yourself to smile, picking up the box again, gesturing to the doorway with your head. "Sorry."

He steps back as you squeeze by, then he grabs the second box off the floor, following behind you.

"I've got it," He says when you reach the front door, tugging it opening and holding it.

"Thanks," You say, walking to your car, where the trunk sits open. You set the box on top of the others, then reach for the one he's carrying. He ignores you, setting it inside himself.

"That everything?" He asks.

You nod. "Yeah, I just need to grab my jacket, then I'll get out of your hair."

The two of you walk back to the house once you close the trunk, the sound echoing on his quiet street. You're shivering by the time you get back inside, rubbing your biceps to try and generate some heat. Robby closes the door behind you, keeping the cold air at bay. He's also praying for some kind of miracle that results in your jacket going missing, forcing you to stay for a second, but the universe doesn't listen. Your jacket is sitting on the back of a chair, staring at him as you pick it up.

"Sorry again," You say, shifting on your feet. "I hope you have a good night."

He has to stop you from leaving.

"You're freezing," He protests. "Why don't you let your car warm up for a bit?"

He's pretty sure the look you give him will haunt him for the rest of his life.

"I should get going, goodnight, Michael."

You purposefully close the door as you leave, not wanting to see him for a second longer, otherwise you might shatter. You sigh once you're in your car, shoving your keys into the ignition and turning them. You wait for the engine to turn over, but it doesn't. You try again, but the outcome is the same. Your car won't fucking start.

"Amazing," You mumble, laying your forehead against the steering wheel.

You consider calling a cab to take you to the nearest hotel, since you were planning on driving back to New York once you were done packing, but you know that's ridiculous.

You swallow your pride as you walk to the door, raising a fist, knocking lightly a few times. It takes a bit for Robby to answer, and he's changed into a hoodie and jeans by the time he does. You want to make a joke, to lighten the mood somehow, but the threat of tears is suffocating you.

"Uhm, my car won't start," You say, pointing to it over your shoulder with your thumb, as if he'll be able to see that fact. "I-"

"I'll grab an extension cord, probably just needs to be plugged in for a bit," He interjects, already disappearing from your vision. He comes back holding one, his boots in the other hand. "Go sit, I've got it."

He's out the door a second later, not giving you a chance to protest. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath before taking your shoes off, setting them on the rack so they can dry. You're still standing in the entryway when he comes back, trying your hardest to hide the fact that you're shivering, even with your jacket on.

"Should only take half an hour or so," He says. You nod.

"Thanks."

He notices the shivering, of course.

"Can I get you something warm?" He asks. "Tea, coffee, hot chocolate?"

"Tea would be nice," You say, needing something to hold. "Thank you."

You follow him into the kitchen, stopping for a second before continuing into the living room, not wanting to hover. You sit in one of the armchairs, back straight and both feet on the floor like you're about to have a business meeting.

He sets one mug on the coffee table, then passes you the other, which you take with a small smile.

"Thank you," You say, again, not sure what else to say.

"Do you want something else?" He asks, referring to your puffer coat, which isn't exactly the most comfortable thing to sit in. You shake your head, not wanting to put him out any more than you already have.

"I'm okay," You insist. He cocks his head to the side, raising his eyebrows as he looks at you. "Seriously, I'm fine."

He pulls off the hoodie that he's wearing, holding it out. You put your mug down, taking it from him. He nods, then sits down on the couch. You unzip your jacket, tossing it onto the floor, pulling the hoodie over your head.

The sight of you in one of his hoodies affects him more than he anticipated.

"How's the tour?" He asks. "Still going okay?"

You nod. "Yeah, yeah, it's good."

Silence.

"How's work?" You question.

"Same old," He says.

You take a sip of your tea, trying to think of anything to say that isn't about the breakup.

"Your opener, Olivia, right?" He says.

"Yeah," You confirm.

"She good?"

"She's amazing," You say. "Super talented, really sweet. She's coming back to New York with me for the holidays."

Back to New York.

Not Pittsburgh.

"That's great," He says, nodding, sipping from his own mug. There's so much that he's been dying to say to you, but it doesn't feel like the right time.

"How have you been?" You ask, tone suggesting that you're really asking, not just trying to make small talk.

He thinks about his answer for long enough that you get the gist. Horrible, awful, devastated—same as you, basically.

"Fine," He finally says. "How are you?"

You shrug, not wanting to give away too much. "Been better, but alright, I guess."

He doesn't react, eyes falling to his lap. "Where are you off to after this weekend?"

The conversation stays surface level after that, neither of you wanting to dip into the sadness that hangs in the air around you. He asks what your favourite city has been so far, you ask about his coworkers. You tell easy anecdotes from your time away, he tells you about a patient he had a few weeks ago.

The alarm he set for your car goes off, scaring the shit out of you, making you drop your mug against your chest. What's left of your tea splatters onto his hoodie, and you gasp, putting the mug on the coffee table and assessing the damage.

"Shit, sorry," Robby says. "You alright?"

You don't respond, already pulling the hoodie over your head, not realizing that your shirt is stuck inside of it. Robby sucks in a breath, averting his eyes to the ceiling, avoiding you altogether.

You don't rush to put your shirt back on.

He watches out of the corner of his eye, seeing how you slowly you peel your shirt out from inside, shaking it out a few times, inspecting it for stains. Robby finally reaches over, taking the hoodie from your lap.

"I'll put it in the wash," He says, practically sprinting up the stairs. You pull your shirt on, sighing to yourself.

"What the fuck are you doing?" You mumble.

Robby doesn't come down for a bit. You walk up the stairs, quietly, poking your head around the corner once you reach the top floor. You take a step into the hallway just as he comes out of the laundry room, smashing into you.

His hands naturally fall to your upper arms, steadying you. Your hands are against his chest, fingers curled into his shirt.

"Sorry," He says, releasing you like you're on fire. You don't pull away.

"It's okay," You say. "My fault."

You're still pressed against him. Your shirt has shifted, revealing the top of your chest. You feel the way his breath stutters when he finally meets your gaze, giving you all the permission you need.

You press your lips to his, hungrily, hooking your fingers into the collar of his shirt. He pushes you back against the wall, hands roaming underneath your shirt, squeezing your breasts before moving to unclasp your bra. You're still kissing, mouths half open and eyes fluttered closed, neither of you pausing for long enough to think about your actions.

You disconnect for a second, just long enough for you to pull your shirt and bra off. You wrap your arms around his neck as he lifts you up, hands underneath your thighs, carrying you into the bedroom.

He tosses you onto the bed, bending down with you, hovering as he kisses you again. He's scrambling to unbutton his jeans with one hand. You take over, the action very familiar. You untie your sweatpants, shoving them and your underwear down your legs and kicking them off.

Neither of you say a word, worried that speaking might snap the other out of this. He pulls his cock out of his underwear, jeans around his thighs. You whimper against his lips, salty tears dripping into your mouth.

He doesn't give you warning before he pushes inside of you, bracing himself against the mattress, not daring to pull away from your lips. You cry out, pulling back a fraction of an inch, repositioning yourself before reattaching them. Your movements are almost frantic, hands grabbing at him, tears dripping down your face.

Your whines and moans fill the space when he buries his face into your neck. You feel his own tears on your skin, but you ignore them, threading your fingers through his hair.

He finishes inside you.

You try to kiss him again when he lifts his head up, but he stops you, kissing your forehead instead. You're both breathing heavily when he lays beside you, buttoning his pants back up.

You don't know what he's about to say when he opens his mouth, but you don't think you'll survive another rejection from him, so you climb off the bed before he can speak.

"Hey-"

You pull your sweatpants back on, shoving your underwear in your pocket, covering your chest with your arms as best you can.

"Can we-"

"I should get going, long drive," You say, already leaving the room, picking your shirt up off the hallway floor, slipping it over your head. "Thanks for your help."

You can hear Robby's rushed footsteps from upstairs as you move, grabbing your jacket and yanking it over your arms. He appears in the archway as you're shoving your shoes on, still shirtless.

"Can you hold on for a second?" He asks, breathless.

"I'll have Isabel come get the rest of my things," You say, breezing by his request. "Thanks again."

You pull the extension cord out of your car's hood, tossing it onto his front lawn. He debates running after you, but by the time he decides that he should you're already half-way down the street.

December 17th, 2021

The headline is nothing but painful.

VALENTINE spotted leaving sold-out New York City show with Actress Amandla Stenburg

But the pictures hurt worse.

It's definitely you, wearing a huge jacket overtop of whatever outfit you had on onstage, a toque and massive boots, trying to keep warm. Your arm is looped through her's, head down as you walk towards a black SUV. They open your door for you, hand landing on your fucking thigh at one point as you climb in.

He closes the app, opening your text conversation. There's five unanswered texts that he's sent you over the past three weeks, and only one response from you—from two days after he last saw you.

We can talk if you want, but I don't really have anything to say.

It's so out of character that he can almost convince himself that you weren't the one who sent it, but he knows you did.

He hovers over the keyboard, then turns his phone off, deciding against it. You've already given him a very clear answer, he doesn't need to hear it again.

At work, he can't escape you, like usual.

Dana drops by in the morning with Sophia and Ellie, having forgotten to wrap something up the night before. She parks them at the central hub, leaving them under Robby's supervision. He's reading a chart for one of the patients admitted overnight, flicking his eyes up occasionally to make sure they haven't run off somewhere.

"Oh, it's gone," Sophia says, frowning at her phone. Ellie's up on her knees on her stool, peering over her older sister's shoulder to see what she's talking about. Princess watches too, patients forgotten for a moment. "I swear, she had a picture of him in one of her September posts."

"You think she deleted it?" Princess asks. "People are speculating that they broke up."

Sophia gasps. "You didn't see?"

"See what?" Princess asks.

"She left her show last night with someone else—an actor," Sophia says, typing something in, then tilting her phone so Princess can see better.

"She looks pretty," Ellie pipes up, voice small. "You know Valentine, Dr. Robby?"

Robby's praying a monitor will go off and pull him away from the desk.

He hums. "Can't work in this ER without knowing Valentine."

"They look good together," Sophia decides, with the absolute confidence of a thirteen year old, zooming in on one of the pictures, giving a satisfied nod. "Plus, whoever she used to be dating made her cry onstage. Clearly he sucks."

Ouch.

Not wrong, though.

"Gotta' be tough for the ex," Shen adds, putting his elbows on the counter, leaning over the desk towards them.

"Yeah, imagine fumbling her, man," Donnie says, pushing off and shuffling closer to them on his wheeled chair. "How do you move on from that?"

You don't. Thanks for asking!

Meanwhile, you're warming up for your second New York show, stretching your arms out behind your head while Olivia sits in the front row. She's on her phone, singing softly, kicking her foot in time with whatever song's stuck in her head. Your phone is in her lap, face down and silenced.

You're doing an amazing job at hiding how badly your chest hurts, guilt crawling on your skin, every thought you have getting overshadowed with regret.

You keep reminding yourself that it made sense.

Amandla has a movie coming out in a few months, you have a European tour leg to sell, both of you could use a little bit of buzz.

That's what your managers had pitched to the two of you, anyway.

A part of you had been tempted to text Robby—to give him some kind of heads up, maybe even tell him that it's just PR—but you didn't. There is another part of you, however, that you're trying not to acknowledge. The part that wants him to see the pictures, believe everything the headlines are telling him, the part that wants him to hurt the way that you do.

"Doors in thirty, guys," Isabel calls, poking her head out of the wings, looking both of you up and down. Costume, hair, makeup—everything looks perfect. "Everything good?"

"Everything's perfect," Olivia says, still scrolling, flipping her phone around as if to emphasize a point. "She's officially broken the internet."

"Yeah, not a very hard task when it comes to Valentine," She counters. "You still okay with this?"

You nod, scraping at the floor with the tip of your heeled boot, leaving a small scuff mark behind. "Yeah, think so."

Isabel frowns. "Let me know if you change your mind, alright? We can call this off at any point."

"I know," You say, giving her a reassuring smile. "Thanks, Isabel."

You can feel the difference in the crowd tonight. They're running on the fuel of hot gossip, looking around to see if they can spot Amandla in the crowd, screaming your lyrics even louder than usual. You're sweating towards the end of the show, a grin on your face the entire time, playing into it.

The lights dim for a second as the opening notes to your next song play. You almost flinch at how loud everyone screams, recognizing it instantly.

It's older, from your third album, and one that you haven't played on stage before. You let the cheers from the crowd drown out the nausea pooling in your stomach, focusing on the choreography as the ad-libs play, mouthing along to them as you move.

The lights are practically off when you position yourself centre stage, bringing the microphone to your lips. They come back on in time with your first line, flashing like crazy.

"Uh-huh, I'm through, with all these hyper-mega-bummer boys like you

Oh yeah, I need, a super graphic ultra modern girl like me

We're hot, we're drunk

Well, look at her moving baby, she's the one"

You're a little shocked by how well everyone knows the words, screaming them back to you when you hold the microphone out for the last line of the chorus.

You strut across the stage during the second first, a slight skip in your step.

"Telling secrets, there on the mattress

Wearing nothing but glitter and lashes

At every party, we're the party, shaking our asses

Making out while the world collapses"

You look towards the VIP section, catching Amandla's eye, giving her a wink. The stadium explodes, heads whipping towards her, fingers pointing. They step into it, blowing you a kiss in return. You fan yourself, acting as though you might faint for a second before getting back into the song.

Anyone who said you might be 'just friends' is quiet after that.

December 31st, 2021 - New York City, New York

“Are you almost ready?”

You crane your head around towards your open bedroom door, mascara wand in hand as you sit on the floor in front of your full-length mirror. 

“Yeah, just a second!” You call back, focusing on your makeup again. Olivia manifests in the doorway behind you, leaning against the wall. 

“Our reservation is in fifteen minutes,” She says. 

“It’s a ten minute walk!” You exclaim, jokingly, closing the mascara after putting on the final layer. “I’m done, I just need shoes and a jacket.”

You move, opening your closet door, sifting through your jackets. Your fingers brush past one, the sensation of the material making you freeze, your eyes landing on it. It’s Robby’s, the one you took on tour with you and hadn’t had the opportunity to give back yet. You push the thought out of your mind, grabbing the jacket that you had in mind, pulling it on. 

Olivia hands you a pair of shoes, the exact ones you envisioned, making you grin as you step into them. 

You’re out the door and on the streets of New York City within two minutes, looping your arm with Olivia’s as you walk towards the restaurant you're meeting some more friends at. 

A gust of wind blows past, easily bypassing your jacket and hitting your skin. 

“I should’ve worn a scarf,” You groan, trying to tuck yourself into the front of your jacket. The two of you practically run the rest of the way, eagerly pulling the door to the restaurant open once you arrive. You hold it as Olivia steps inside, approaching the host as you trail in behind her, following as they start walking. 

You’re smoothing your hair down as you walk towards the massive table, eyes focused on Olivia’s back. Your group of friends start cheering once they notice the two of you, immediately standing up to envelope you with hugs and hellos. It’s a little chaotic at first, since you haven’t seen some of them in a long time, but after a few minutes you’re all sitting down, catching up and deciding on drinks. 

One of your friends says your name, making you look up from the menu. 

“I thought you’d be spending the holidays in Pittsburgh,” She says, a genuinely curious look on her face. “Or is that against the rules when you're fake dating someone else?”

Olivia is glaring at her across the table, desperately trying to get her to shut up. You force yourself to laugh, closing the menu, appetite completely gone. 

“Probably against the rules” You admit, toying with one of the rings you’re wearing. “But we broke up, actually, so it doesn't matter.”

“Oh my god,” She says, her face softening, hand reaching over to grab your arm. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry, babe. What happened?”

You shrug, wishing that the server would arrive with your drink to save you from answering. “Me being away for so long was just too much, our communication kinda’ fell apart.”

“Your communication fell apart?” She reiterates. “I find that hard to believe. You’re the most communicative person I know.”

“Yeah, well, I can only do so much,” You add, not wanting to throw Robby under the bus, but also not wanting to lie to your closest friends. “It’s fine, it was a couple months ago.”

Your friend gives you a reassuring smile. “I’m still sorry, I know you really liked him.”

You smile back, not wanting the night to become about you and your breakup. Luckily, your drink is placed in front of you a second later, and you down half of it. 

You hadn’t planned on getting drunk, but it happens anyway. A few drinks at the restaurant, two rounds of shots at the bar, and a handful of people recognizing you and insisting they buy you a drink lead to where you are now—trying to put your jacket on and keep up with your friends as you leave the bar, vision blurred. 

It’s almost eleven when you get to the club, shuffling into the very crowded space, checking your coat. Olivia drags you onto the dancefloor, and you don’t resist. Some of your other friends join you while the rest find vacant booths along the walls, wanting a minute to relax before jumping back into things. 

Olivia spins you around, laughing loudly when you stumble, a grin on your face. The music is loud, the DJ playing songs that everyone knows, and the floor shakes as everyone screams along with the lyrics. You’re only there for about thirty minutes when one of your songs comes on, making your friends scream. The ending of the previous song remixes into the pre-chorus of your song The Middle, and your heart thumps as people start singing it. 

“So pull me closer, why don’t you pull me close

Why don’t you come on over, I can’t just let you go

Oh, baby

Why don’t you just meet me in the middle?

I’m losing my mind, just a little

So, why don’t you just meet me in the middle?

In the middle”

Your friends are losing it, the people around you who have realized that you’re here are losing it, and eventually everyone knows that you’re there. You keep dancing, pushing the thought that you wrote this song about Robby out of your mind. An unknown hand shoves a microphone into your hand as the second chorus wraps up, making you stop. People are pointing at the raised platform, where the DJ stands, telling you to get on it. The DJ waves you over, nodding with approval. 

Olivia gives you a tiny push and you grin, racing over and jumping up onto the platform, bringing the microphone to your lips.

“Looking at you, I can’t lie

Just pouring out admission, regardless of my objection

And it’s not about my pride, I need you on my skin just,

Come over, pull me in just-”

You stop, pointing the microphone to the crowd, still singing the words as they yell them towards you. Your eyes scan the faces in front of you, their energy palpable. Then, like you're in a fucking movie, you see Amandla. 

And they look incredible.

She’s dancing with her friends, singing along, but their eyes are fixed on you, a smile forming when you look back. The way she’s looking at you suggests that she’s thinking the exact same things, and you feel a flash of heat rush over you. She’s watching your every move, eyes never leaving your figure, taking in your body. You shoot them a wink before jumping back into the song, giving it your all. 

“Baby, why don’t you just meet me in the middle, oh yeah

I’m losing my mind, just a little

So why don’t you just meet me in the middle?”

It feels wrong to sing this song to her, but you can’t stop. You haven’t felt the burn of desire like this on your skin in months. 

You jump off the platform, leaving the microphone behind as people start patting your shoulders and back, or even hugging you as you walk by. You’re still drunk, so you just grin, relishing in the wave of attention. The next song starts just as you make it to them, pressed against each other, nowhere to go with the number of people surrounding you. You don’t say anything as you spin around, your back against her front, her hands finding your hips as you move in tandem. 

There might be blurry pictures of this everywhere tomorrow, but you don’t care. 

You get another drink. You keep dancing. The clock moves closer and closer to midnight until there’s only a minute left. 

The next morning comes with an instant wave of nausea when you wake up in someone else’s bed. 

You sit up quickly, realizing that you don’t have a fucking shirt on, which makes you tug the duvet up to cover yourself as you look over your shoulder. Amandla is sleeping on the opposite side of the bed, blissfully unaware of the existential crisis that's about to hit you. 

Fuck me, you think, starting to look for your belongings. Your phone is sitting on the nightstand, thank god, and your clothes are relatively easy to locate once you stand up and actually take a look around the room. You’re dressed within two minutes, she doesn’t stir once, which you’re grateful for. You grab your phone, clicking the power button, then your face falls. 

Of course it’s dead, because it’s always dead.

You hope you managed to tell Olivia that you weren’t coming home at some point, otherwise a search party has definitely been sent out to try and find you. 

You grab your shoes on your way out, closing the door behind you before putting them on, wanting to decrease the odds of her seeing you. Then, you take off down the hallway at a run until you reach the elevator. 

One absurdly expensive cab ride later you’re back at your own apartment, sliding your key into the lock and pushing the door open. Olivia comes around the corner, a small smile on her face as she crosses her arms. 

“Good morning,” She says. “How was the rest of your night?”

You shake your head, leaning back against the door once it closes. “You need to tell me what happened.”

“You don’t remember?” She asks, concern flickering across her face as she takes a step towards you. 

You grimace. “Nothing after my song came on.”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Olivia reassures you. “Come on, come sit.”

She gets you settled on the couch with a bottle of electrolytes, a granola bar and an ibuprofen after you plug your phone in. 

“Tell me where you started your morning,” She says, and you give a small laugh. 

“In bed, naked, beside Amandla,” You answer. Olivia nods. 

“Solid start,” She says. “You hung out with her for a couple hours after kissing her at midnight.”

You wince, groaning, letting your face fall into your hands. “Fuck.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” She promises, putting a hand on your back, rubbing it. “You guys seem really into each other.”

You shake your head, trying to quell the panic that sits on your chest. “I can’t believe I did that to Mike.”

Olivia’s eyebrows furrow together. “What do you mean? You didn’t do anything to him. You’re single, babe.”

“I know, I know,” You say. “I just…”

You trail off, the words sitting unsaid on your tongue. I just wish it had been him. 

Because it should’ve been. 

You should’ve been spending New Years back in Pittsburgh, with him, getting dinner at a fancy restaurant before curling up on the couch with boozy hot chocolate and a shitty romcom. 

But he wasn’t yours anymore, and you weren’t his. 

The sight of your phone flashing to life on the coffee table pulls your attention away, fingers snatching it up and scrolling through the hundreds of notifications. Groupchats, tagged photos, a few voicemails from people that you’ll listen to when you can finally breathe again.

Then, you see the text that makes everything so much worse. 

I hope you’re having a great New Years. I don’t expect a reply, just wanted to say that I hope you’re doing well. Wishing you all the best in 2022. 

From Mike. 

“No,” You whisper, checking the time that it was sent—one minute after midnight. “No, no, no.”

“What?” Olivia asks, slightly panicked. You turn your phone around, showing her the text. “Oh.”

Your stomach lurches. “I’m gonna’ be sick.”

“Okay, no, you’re not, you’re okay,” Olivia promises. “It’s okay.”

Tears blur your vision. “He texted me happy new year while I was kissing someone else!”

“Hey, hey, look at me,” She says, making you turn your head. She pinches your cheek, a reassuring smile on her face. “You did nothing wrong. And he never has to know.”

January 1st, 2022

Robby hates working New Years day. 

It’s filled with people that drank too much last night who think an IV will somehow ‘cure’ their hangover, those with an injury that they got while drunk, and the occasional non-holiday emergency. But he knows that no one else wants to work it, and it’s not like he has anyone waiting for him at home, so he does. 

“Did you see those pap photos?” Shen asks, the question directed at Samira, who’s a few feet away. She raises an eyebrow. 

“Of Valentine?” She questions, and he nods. “Yeah, who didn’t?”

“Probably Dr. Grumpy over here,” Shen says, trying to get even a smile out of the older doctor, but he’s unsuccessful. Robby just keeps looking at his computer, acting as though the chart on the screen is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, even if it’s just for a laceration that needed a few staples.

“I feel bad for her,” Samira says, moving past the attempt to rope Robby into the conversation. “She can’t even walk home from a holiday party without someone writing an article about it.”

“Well, to be fair, she wasn’t just walking home,” Shen says, putting quotes around the two words. 

“What do you mean?” Samira asks, raising an eyebrow as she looks at him. “It’s her and a friend walking, is it not?”

John gasps. “You didn’t see the leaked pictures.”

Samira shakes her head. “Clearly not, and I don’t want to. I’m sure it’s just another invasion of her privacy.”

“I wanna’ see,” Donnie says from where he’s leaning against the desk. John pulls his phone out, typing something in before passing him the phone. “Holy shit, is she really with-”

“Yeah,” John says, nodding. “Crazy, right? I thought it was a PR move, but this seems legit.”

“I thought she was in a serious relationship?” Samira asks, obviously not keeping up with the latest news regarding you.

“She was,” John says. “People think they broke up a few months ago, especially after that Boston show."

Robby feels like he’s going to explode. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and opening his conversation with you. There’s still no response, which he already knew, but he was hoping that maybe he had missed it somehow. Then, he hovers over Instagram, pressing on the icon and typing in ‘valentine new years eve.’

There’s a million results within half a second, and he doesn’t need to scroll far to find the photos that John and Donnie are talking about. 

You’re outside of a club, probably having just come from whatever party you were at. The photos are grainy, but it’s definitely you—and someone else. A person with dark skin and dark hair, the same one from the photos that he saw a couple weeks ago. They're pressing you against a wall, her hands gripping your hips. You’re holding her jacket, obviously pulling them closer to you. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he swipes to the next photo anyway. 

It’s a picture of the two of you kissing. And you’re very obviously into it. 

His hands start to shake. Not from anger, from pain. 

Of course you were moving on, you were probably the entire world’s celebrity crush, meaning you could have anyone you wanted—and that wasn’t him anymore. He honestly isn’t sure why it ever was him to begin with. 

“Hey, you never know, maybe she’s like, a total diva or something,” John says, and Robby tenses. “She has been famous since she was fifteen, that’s gotta’ do something to the psyche, right?”

God, Robby wants to say something so badly. To tell him that it was so far from being your fault that it’s nauseating. But he can’t, and he won’t, and he really wants this topic of conversation to die and never be brought up again. 

“Vitals still good in room four?” He asks, gaining Donnie’s attention. 

He nods. “Yep, all good, boss.”

You don’t text him back that day. No, you text him back two days later, when you can't let it go unanswered for another second.

Hey, just getting around to answering this, so sorry!

Happy new year! I hope you had a good night :)

You spin your phone around before sending it, showing the text to Olivia. She nods.

"I think that's perfect," She says.

"It doesn't scream 'I miss you so much I feel like I'm going to die at all times?'" You ask.

"Not at all."

"Okay," You breathe. "Good."

Then you hit send.

February 25th, 2022

The next time you hear from him is at the end of February.

You're in São Paulo for the second of two back-to-back shows, then back home for two weeks before the Asia leg of your tour starts. This stretch has been far better than your North American dates before the holidays.

The lines between PR and real have blurred with Amandla, but things have been good—especially since you apologized for running out on her after New Years.

She respects your busy schedule, brushing off your apologies for delayed replies before asking you about whatever city you're in, never having to ask you where you are. They just remember when you tell them things.

Her texts come regularly and are never anxiety inducing.

They don't give you that 'this is the love of my life' high that you've had in the past, but she's good.

You both know that this almost certainly isn't going to be long-term, but you're both enjoying it for right now, so why not?

So when your phone buzzes against an empty seat during soundcheck you assume that it's her, checking in. Olivia picks it up, making sure it's nothing urgent while you're singing. Her eyes widen, juuust for a moment, but you catch it. You finish the last line of the song before walking over to the edge of the stage, crouching down.

"Who was it?" You ask.

She purses her lips. "If I say no one will you at least pretend you believe me?"

That's more than an answer.

"It was Mike, wasn't it?" You ask, tone not giving away a single thing.

"Maybe."

You nod, taking a deep breath, pushing yourself back up, returning to the middle of the stage. "Maybe a little less backing vocals this time?"

Olivia smiles, proud of how far you've come since October. Plus, you were already half-expecting him to text after you very publicly succumbed to minor heat exhaustion yesterday while signing a few autographs before the show. It wasn't bad, and you were quickly ushered back inside by your security team, but it still managed to make headlines.

You don't read the text until you're in bed, your adrenaline high completely worn off, ensuring you don't make any epinephrine-induced decisions.

Saw an article about what happened yesterday, are you okay?

Heat exhaustion can sneak up on you fast.

The second text makes you smile—because you can practically hear him saying it in your mind. You don't hesitate before replying.

Managed to make a full recovery. Also learned that I never want to live somewhere this humid.

He keeps the conversation going, and you find yourself giving in for the next fourty-eight hours. Then, you're checking your phone more often than before, waiting for his text, so you stop answering. You end things with Amandla, too.

Robby can't help but smile when he sees the first article about your rumoured breakup.

April 16th, 2022

“Cheers to finishing the Asia leg!” Your guitarist yells, holding her drink up in the air. Everyone in the booth cheers, slamming their own glasses against others. 

“You were fucking insane tonight,” Isabel says, giving you a grin. 

“The crowd was amazing,” You admit, taking a sip of water.

“Yeah, and somehow it being a million degrees made it better, not worse,” Olivia adds from beside you. “This was definitely the best show by far.”

“Absolutely,” You agree, cheersing your cocktail with her's, putting your lips on the straw. 

“So, a month off,” Your drummer starts. “What’s everyone doing?”

People start rattling off plans. Some are staying in the area for a bit longer to do some sightseeing, others are going home to their families. By the time they get to you you’re not paying attention, and Olivia nudges your shoulder with her own. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” You admit. “Just going back to New York, really. Working on the EP.”

“That’s it?” Your drummer asks. 

You laugh. “I’m fucking tired, man.”

Everyone laughs at this, some nodding in agreement. Sure, you’ve toured before, but not like this. If sleeping for thirty days straight was possible, that’s definitely what you’d be doing. 

“Are you going with her again?” Tori asks, the question directed towards Olivia, who shakes her head. 

“Nah, not this time,” She answers. “Which is devastating, honestly.”

You smile. “Yeah, a little.”

“We had a lot of fun over the holidays,” She continues. “But my mom’ll kill me if I don’t spend some time back home.”

That hurts.

Not because you don’t want her to go home to her family, but because you don’t want to be alone. 

You haven’t had a second to yourself for the past seven months, going from city to city, performing show after show, days blurring together in an adrenaline-riddled haze. Olivia had stayed with you for the majority of the winter holidays, and you spent the week that she wasn’t in New York back home with your own family. 

The impending flight back tomorrow no longer feels like a thing to celebrate, it feels like something to dread. There’ll be no crowd of loving fans to greet you, or someone to show around the city, and, worst of all, there’ll still be no Mike. 

You slam your hands on the table, interrupting the conversation as you stand up. 

“I’m getting shots, who’s in?”

You stumble into your hotel room much later that night, Olivia just behind, both of you giggling and shushing eachother like idiots. She flops onto her bed, groaning as she curls her legs up, closing her eyes. You check the time, making the very wise decision to just not sleep tonight, since you have to be up for your flight in four hours anyway. 

“I’m taking a shower,” You say. “Do you need anything in the bathroom?”

Olivia grumbles, shaking her head, already falling asleep. You snort, going into the bathroom and pulling out a makeup wipe, scrubbing your face clean. You tie your hair back, washing your face and brushing your teeth before turning the shower on, letting the water warm up while you finish your routine. 

Your phone taunts you from the countertop, fingers itching to just do it. 

You’ve already broken up, how much worse can it get?

You click on the contact before you can talk yourself out of it, bringing your phone up to your ear, hoping that Olivia won’t be able to hear you over the sound of the shower running—if she’s even still awake. 

It rings once, twice, three times. You frown, leaning back against the countertop. It rings a few more times before his voicemail starts playing, and your heart shatters. 

“It’s Robby, leave a message.”

The line beeps, and you find yourself fighting back tears, realizing you didn’t get as far as figuring out what the fuck you were actually gonna’ say before calling. So, you do the most rational thing and just hang up without saying a single word, dropping your phone like it’s on fire. 

“Fuck,” You whisper, pressing a hand to your forehead, closing your eyes as the room starts to spin. You just drunk called an ex for the first time in your entire life. 

Robby pulls his phone out of his pocket an hour later, when he finally gets a break between patients, eyes already tired and aching despite the fact that he’s only been at work for a few hours. He swears his heart stops beating for a second when he sees your name on the screen, and not just a text, which wouldn’t have been totally unprecedented, but it’s a missed call. With no voicemail. 

He frowns, quickly walking over to the bathroom, flicking the lock behind him so he can get a moment of privacy. He opens his texts, not seeing anything from you, which makes him start to worry. His thumbs fly across the keyboard. 

Hey, everything okay? Sorry I missed you, I’m at work. Can I call you when I get home?

Your response comes quickly. 

Everythings fine! Sorry to worry you, no need to call back. Hope your shift isn’t too crazy!

He sighs, hovering over the keys, wondering how to convey to you that he wants to call you after his shift. He wants to talk to you after every shift he ever has for the rest of eternity, but he has no idea how to tell you that, or if you’d even care. You could’ve butt-dialed him for all he knows, with absolutely no desire to talk to him. Sure, you’ve texted a few times since New Years, but it’s definitely not anything like it used to be. He starts to type. 

Can I please call you later?

Pathetic. Delete. 

Did you need something?

Too detached. Delete. 

You sure you’re okay?

Yeah. That’s good. He hits send. 

You don’t reply right away. He hears ‘trauma team to trauma one’ over the intercom, making a frustrated groan pass his lips, a fist coming up to slam against the wall beside him. 

“Fuck me,” He sighs, shoving his phone back into his pocket and opening the door. 

You’re sitting on the floor, headphones on and suitcase open as you pack your belongings into it. You stop, staring down at the text with a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from crying, not wanting to wake Olivia up. You twirl your thumb around in circles, slowly typing your response. 

All good. Sorry again. 

May 17th, 2022

Robby can hear the music playing from outside the front door.

Dana had invited him over for dinner after a particularly rough shift, and he had initially wanted to refuse, but he forced himself to come. He can practically hear you telling him not to isolate himself, and he's realized that he should've listened to you far more when you were together. Better late than never.

Dana mumbles something under her breath as she opens the door, turning to Robby for a second.

"Their favourite artist released some new songs last night," She says, holding it open for him as she kicks her shoes off. "They haven't stopped playing them."

They walk in as the song ends, silence encompassing the house for a second before the music starts up again. Dana moves onto the first step at the bottom of the stairs, calling up them.

"Eleanor and Sophia Evans!" She exclaims. They don't hear her, and the lyrics kick in a second later.

Oh, for the love of god.

Robby massages his temples, closing his eyes as though it'll block out the sound of your voice that echoes through the entire house. Ellie and Sophia are singing along very loudly, but it's not enough to hide the fact that this is obviously your song.

"Oh, for christ's sake," Dana says, walking up the stairs. Robby hears a door swing open, then the music stops. Robby only has a few seconds to get himself together before Sophia and Ellie come barrelling down the stairs, voices overlapping as they talk about you.

He listens to your EP when he gets home that night, each successive song making him feel worse than the one before. The last one is titled 'dear god', and the intro makes him think that this one won't somehow be about your breakup.

He's so wrong, but at least he knows that you still can't get him out of your head.

June 21st, 2022

You’re not really sure why you post the video, but something inside you feels like it’ll make you feel better, so you do. 

You and Robby haven’t spoken in a couple months, not really. You’re pretty sure that calling him two months ago was a smidge too far, and that you spooked him in some way, or maybe he’s already moved on. The idea of that makes your head hurt. 

It’s simple, just you in your hotel room, hints of the Amsterdam skyline visible through the window behind you. Morning sun scatters across the walls as you hold your guitar, fingers picking at the strings with ease. 

“Open two, double doors

Typical, pretty sure I could grow up

Probably chemical

I took up walking to turn it all off

Doesn’t feel bearable

Guess I thought when I left it would all stop

Hm, it would all stop”

You keep a steady pace with your guitar, eyes closing, throat going tight with tears threatening to spill.

“Did I fall out of line, when I called you?

When I told you I’m fine, you were lied to

How could I think that all that I gave you was enough?

‘Cause everytime I get too close I just go mess it up”

You go right into the bridge, not having written a second verse yet. 

“I keep thinking if you let me back in

We can make it better, breaking every habit

Pull myself together, you could watch it happen

Let it happen

Let it happen”

You play a few more chords, then you stop, reaching for your phone and ending the video. You trim the start and end, only posting the portion where you’re playing, not wanting anyone to see the way tears pool on your lashline. You put your guitar down beside you on the couch, uploading the video to your story with the caption ‘messing around :),’ as if it’s something casual instead of soul crushing. 

You silence notifications before climbing into bed, muffling sobs into your pillow until you exhaust yourself, thanking god that you have the rest of the day off. 

June 21st, 2022

Robby tries to avoid checking anything other than his texts in the morning before work, and he wouldn’t even look at those if he could get away with it, but someone has to make sure that no one burned the emergency department down overnight. Today is no different, a quick glance at his messages, a few responses, and then his phone is put in the front pocket of his backpack. 

In February, when the two of you texted back and forth for a few days, he was checking his phone constantly. Now, communication had since dwindled, leaving him with no good reason to look—because looking and not finding made everything worse than it already was. 

The sky is blue when he steps outside, the early summer sun already beating down with a vengeance. He has a few minutes to spare, so he decides to stop and grab a coffee before he goes in, slipping his sunglasses on as he starts the short walk. 

The coffee shop isn’t necessarily busy, it’s just the unfortunate bunch who work jobs that require them to be awake before six in the morning. The door chimes as he comes in, and the barista at the counter gives him a welcoming smile, looking awfully put together for this hour. He orders the same thing that he always does—an americano. She nods, punching it into the machine before grabbing a cup and writing ‘Robby’ on it, knowing his name by heart at this point. 

“Is that all?” She asks, and he nods. “We had to restart the machine, it got jammed, it’ll just be a little longer than usual.”

“No problem,” He says, actually grateful for the opportunity to just stand somewhere with no one waiting for him to come solve a life or death problem. He shuffles off to the side, leaning against one of the walls, hands shoved into his pockets. He even closes his eyes for a moment. 

A door leading into the back swings open, another worker stepping through it with his phone in his hand, quickly approaching the cashier. She’s picking at her nails, since no one’s come in after Robby, which gives him the perfect opening. 

“New Valentine song,” He says, excitement buzzing in his tone. 

“No shit, show me!” She exclaims, and any sense of peace Robby may have been feeling is gone. He barely has a second to fucking brace himself before your voice is in his ears, standing out against the drone of the coffee shop. He can’t exactly make out all the words, but he can still hear you, and that’s all it takes.

How had he not heard that you were releasing a new song?

The guy is already singing along under his breath, head moving in time with the guitar as the cashier watches in awe, jaw dropping when the video ends. 

“I know, right?” He says. “I hope she releases it for real.”

He wants to reach back into his bag, to grab his phone and pull up your discography, but he resists the urge. The barista calls his name, sliding his drink across the counter, and he’s out of there faster than she can say ‘have a great day.’

He expects everyone at work to be talking about it, since he’s lucky enough to work with his ex-girlfriend’s biggest fans and has never been afforded the luxury of going very long without someone saying your name or singing one of your songs. He does his best to not look at your social media or music on his own time, since he gets reminded of his worst heartbreak enough as it is. 

Today, though, no one says a thing about it. 

It’s unreasonably busy for the entire shift, but they get absolutely slammed in the last hour when a belated summer solstice party goes awry, leaving several of its attendees in dire need of medical attention. They managed to save all of them, but the dayshift wasn’t able to leave until close to nine-thirty, the sun starting to dip below the horizon as Robby starts his walk back home. 

He pivots towards the park, deciding to take the scenic route, and it’s there that he realizes he had been hoping that someone would bring up your new song all day. 

“Fuck,” He whispers, taking a hard turn and sitting on one of the benches, putting his headphones in. He goes straight to your Instagram, reading your bio, expecting it to have the title and a link to the song, but it doesn’t. 

better than the holiday xx

(IN)DEFINITE EP OUT NOW!!

The link goes to the EP that he already listened to—over a month ago.

He hesitates over your profile photo, the pink ring around it taunting him. He wants to see your face so badly, but he also worries that it’ll hurt too much. 

Why stop self-sabotaging now, right?

His phone takes a second to load the story, but then you appear on the screen. He exhales, hating how much it still stings. He closes his eyes, but he still listens to the song that you’re playing, trying to steady his breathing as he does. 

“Guess I thought when I left it would all stop, it would all stop

Did I fall out of line when I called you?

When I told you I’m fine, you were lied to

How could I think that all that I gave you was enough?”

He sits up, desperately pulling his headphones out, shaking his head as though he’s imagining things. That couldn’t be about him, could it?

Two months ago you called him, he didn’t pick, you told him it was fine.That you were fine. 

No, it had to be about him. 

He doesn’t talk himself out of it, he just calls you—right there, on that park bench. 

Your voicemail greets him, but he doesn’t let that slow him down. 

“Hey, uh, it’s Mike.”

You wake up to your alarm the next morning, set for ten o’clock on the dot, groaning as you swat your phone to turn it off. It takes you a few minutes to gather enough courage to sit up, rubbing your eyes and unplugging your phone, squinting as the screen comes to life. 

Michael Robinavitch

Missed Call (2)

Voicemail (2)

That’s one way to wake up. 

You tap on the notification right away, putting your phone on speaker as his voicemail starts to play. 

“Hey, uh, it’s Mike. I don’t…I hope this is okay, that I’m calling. You don’t have to call me back, not if you don’t want to. I guess I just wanted to tell you that…fuck, this is-”

It ends, but the next one starts right after. 

“Sorry, I just, I heard your song. I don’t know if it’s about me or not but if it is…I heard it. And you didn’t fall out of line, not ever. I…I’d really like to talk, if you’d want to.”

“Oh my god,” You whisper, moving to call him back so quickly you drop your phone. It bounces off the carpeted floor, and you practically dive after it, scooping it up and settling yourself against the wall, knees up to your chest when you press his contact. 

You remember that it’s four in the morning for him on the fifth ring, eyes going wide as your fingers work to end the call, hoping that you haven’t already woken him up. 

But then he answers. 

“...Hello?”

His voice is rough, plagued with sleep in a way that is so fucking familiar it makes your heart trip, pounding against your sternum. 

“Fuck, I am so sorry,” You say, guilt quickly overwhelming your senses. “I totally woke you up, didn’t I?”

There’s a pause. The quiet shifting of his sheets. 

“Hey,” He says, voice a bit more awake now. “Hi.”

“Hi,” You repeat, biting your lip, trying to hold back tears at how happy he sounds to be talking to you. “I totally forgot about timezones, I just…I got your message and wanted to call you back. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” He promises, reassuring you from the opposite side of the world. “I had to be up pretty soon anyway.”

“You’re working today?” You ask. 

He hums. “Yep, another day in paradise.”

That gets a small laugh out of you, and the sound sends shockwaves through his brain. 

“You’re in Europe somewhere?” He continues. 

“Yeah, Amsterdam,” You answer. “I have a show here tonight, and then I’m off to Paris for a few days.”

“Do any sightseeing?” He asks, knowing that he’s dancing around the topic that you actually called to talk about, but you don’t mind. This is the most comfort that you’ve felt in months.

“Oh, yeah, you know Isabel was all over that,” You say, laughing a bit. “We did a canal tour yesterday, and she’s been trying to convince me to go to a museum today before I need to be at the venue.” 

Robby chuckles on the other end, and then silence overtakes the two of you. You’re the one who breaks it, beating him to the punch by half a second. 

“You heard my song,” You say. “I…kinda’ didn’t think you would, honestly.”

“Oh, I couldn’t avoid you if I tried, Valentine,” He says, saying your stagename with a hint of teasing. You smile. “Not that I ever wanted to avoid you, not really.”

“Well, good,” You say. “A popstar ex is probably one of the last people you want to be trying to avoid.”

The tension is slowly breaking down, both of you falling back into a pattern that you know, love, and miss. 

“It is about you,” You admit, leaning your head back, hitting the wall gently. “I was scared that I pushed you away when I called.”

“You didn’t,” He promises. “Not even a little. I was kicking myself for not being able to answer.”

“Maybe it’s better that you didn’t,” You suggest, your smile evident in your voice. “I was pretty fucking wasted.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and you instantly regret admitting that. 

“Not that that’s the only reason I called, not at all, no, I mean, I was basically already planning on calling before I even started drinking,” You backtrack. “You know, like when you don’t wanna’ work the next day, so you start acting like you’re coming down with something the day before? You plan the whole thing out?”

You keep going when he doesn’t instantly respond, face heating up with a strange combination of embarrassment and dread, worrying that he’ll hang up on you or something.

“Like the Sabrina Carpenter song, oh my god you’ve probably never even heard it, it’s like ‘I’m just drinking to call someone, ain’t nobody safe when I’m a little bit drunk-’” 

You cut yourself off, realizing how ridiculous you sound right now. You think that he still hasn’t reacted, but then you hear his soft laughter start to build, and your shoulders relax. 

“It was premeditated?” He asks, and you groan. 

“That’s a much simpler way of putting it,” You say. 

“I liked the analogy,” He says, but you shake your head. 

“No, it was so stupid, you don’t have to lie,” You counter, laughing at yourself. Silence spans between you again for a few moments. “I miss you.”

Robby exhales on the other end of the line. “God, I miss you so much.”

“I’m so fucking glad you called.”

“Me too,” He agrees. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”

“Of course I want to hear from you,” You say. “I’ve been going insane for the past eight months without you.”

Robby senses a ‘but’ coming. He’s right.

You sigh. “But that doesn’t change why we broke up, even if I really, really want it to.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, trying to find the right words in his head. Your tone isn’t accusatory, you’re just stating a truth, and he doesn’t want it to sound like he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t want to get defensive. 

“I know, you’re right,” He admits. You don’t respond, your breath caught in your throat as you wait, praying that he won’t give you a reason to walk away again. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

You do answer this time. “Yeah, me too.”

“I had no idea what to do with myself once you were gone,” He continues. “I wish that I had done things completely different.”

“How so?”

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you before you left, for one,” He says. “I wasn’t angry at you, I was…sad. That you were leaving.”

You frown, exhaling sharply. “I was too.”

“I should’ve driven you to the airport,” He adds. “Should’ve been there for you, supported you instead of blaming you for how unhappy I was without you.”

You don’t deny that, because it’s true. 

He takes a deep breath, one you can hear through the phone. “I know that I need to let myself be vulnerable with you, even if—especially if it’s hard. I can’t keep hiding behind anger because I’m scared of admitting that I’m hurt.”

Oh, yeah, you’re absolutely done for. 

“I don’t even want to say that I’m sorry, even though I am so sorry,” He says. “I want to show you.” 

He pauses. “If you’ll let me.”

July 7th, 2022

“Barcelona!” You call, microphone to your lips, lights dimmed, nothing visible to the crowd except your silhouette. “Same time tomorrow, yeah?”

You grin as the screams and cheers reach your ears, pulling your in-ears out, resting them on your shoulders. 

“Get home safe, or go to a bar, maybe drunk call someone you miss,” You continue, glancing towards the wings even though you can’t see a thing. “I love you. Thank you so much. Goodnight!” 

The floor vibrates as you walk offstage, still grinning, a slight skip in your step that’s been missing for the past nine months. Robby’s arms are already open by the time you reach him, throwing yourself against his chest. 

“You were amazing,” He murmurs, squeezing you tight, rocking you back and forth. You lean back so you can kiss him, placing your hands on either side of his jaw, breathing in his cologne. Robby tunes out all the noise around him, focusing only on you. 

A/N - will he finally stop being a problem do we think or

you know when you read a word too many times and it starts to look wrong? that's what happened to me with this entire chapter 💀 so i apologize if there are any mistakes! I did proofread it but i've rewritten and reread this so many times by now i may have missed some things. also this series is officially long enough to be a literal novel (89k words) lmfao help me

i could honestly use some inspo for robby and val so if you have any thoughts please don’t hesitate to send me a dm or comment them below :)

time to go work on critical witness after seeing dr jack abbot!!!

happy thursday, i love you, you look incredible! see you soon :)

taglist:

The two of you sit in silence for a while. Robby finds himself taking a step closer to the edge, looking down. He could never jump off but the thought is always there. It’s lingering as if taunting him that he could finally catch a break. He continues to blink away tears.

You finally speak up, “I am so proud of you.”

Robby scoffs and looks away. You slide off the railing, now leaning against it.

“I’m serious, Michael.” He looks at you when he hears his first name. “You are the strongest person I know.”

Your heart breaks when you hear him sniffle. You had been by his side for the majority of his breakdowns but this was the one the worst you’ve seen. Normally you had been in either your or his apartment when he needed you to calm you down. Since Adamson’s death the breakdowns had been frequent.

He stifles out a sob, “I-I broke and-and I shut down.”

You reach for him, guiding him to lean against the railing with you, “Michael. You’re allowed to be vulnerable at work. It’s not you being weak.”

“People n-needed me and I let them down.” He quickly wipes his tears away.

“If you ask anyone down there, they would all tell you the same thing. You are the glue that keeps us together as a team. You reach out and intertwine your hands.

“You’re our rock,” you pause, “And rocks will break down and wear away because of what comes their way but regardless, they are always strong.”

Robby lets his body droop and his head falls into your chest while shaking, trying to stop his tears. He leans his ear against your chest to focus on your heartbeat. You don’t realize you’re crying until you notice the specks of tears splattered on your glasses which are foggy from condensation.

You lean your head against his. You hold him in silence. The both of you occasionally sniffled, finally beginning to calm down.

“I will continue to love you even if you’re a pebble.”

“Stop comparing me to a rock.” His voice muffled from your chest.

You let out a small laugh. He slowly pulls away from you. The two of you stare at each other, taking in tired and bloodshot eyes. You softly wipe his tears away. Your hands linger on his face, gently holding it. He reaches up and puts his hand on yours.

Robby’s voice cracks, “W-What if I can never give you peace? The peace that comes with life you want with me,” he pauses. Pressing his lips together hoping to prevent himself from crying again, “I-I don’t know if I could ever give that to you.”

You shake your head trying to ignore what he was saying. You had discussed it–both of your hopes and dreams. A family, a house, a wedding. A future together.

You wanted to laugh and tell him it was too late for that. To kiss him and tell him the news but you knew the time wasn’t right. Your future already future growing inside of you.

“I will be by your side no matter what. Even if you decide you don’t want to do this,” you gesture to the hospital, “anymore. I’m not going anywhere.”

He blinks away more tears. “I love you.” He brings your hand to his lips and places a light kiss on it.

You reach up and give him a soft kiss. The kiss was salty but neither of you minded. “In every lifetime. It’s you and me. Forever.”

Neither of you hear Abbot approach you until he clears his throat. “You guys could have waited until you were off the clock.”

You pull away from your boyfriend with a roll of your eyes.

“You always gotta complain about something, Jack.” You joke.

Robby lets out a sad laugh before he turns away looking back at the city. Abbot gives you a look, silently asking if he can help. You give him a nod.

You give Robby’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll meet you downstairs, ok?” He nods.

Ducking under the railing, you walk up to Abbot and place your hand on his shoulder, “Let me know if you guys need me.” He nods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You find yourself walking ahead of the two attendings, letting them talk amongst themselves. You knew that if anyone knew what Robby was going through it would be Abbot.

The voices and laughs of your coworkers catch your attention as you walk into the park. You see Donnie and Princess with a large cooler sitting at the benches. “Well well well, look what we have here,”

The two of them raised their beers in greeting you. You sit down on the bench with a tired sigh, waiting for Abbot and Robby.

Donnie holds up a beer, offering you one. “You want one?” You shake your head no in response.

Your boyfriend drops his backpack on the ground as Abbot takes a seat with a groan.

Donnie grabs two beers, tossing one to Robby and Abbot. Robby catches his with ease, cracking it open before squeezing down next in your bench space.

Abbot fails to catch his beer. He bends down to pick it up. “Nice catch,” Robby jokes at the same time you say, “That was sad,” with a laugh. Abbot reaches over and gives a whack to the back of your head.

“To the Pitt crew,” Donnie raises his drink.

“To the people we saved,” Princess added.

“And the ones we couldn’t.” Abbot concludes. You feel Robby put his hand on your thigh. You hide your surprise. You give him a smile and a gentle squeeze.

“Here, here.” The group of you toast.

Robby takes a few sips of his now almost empty beer. He gestures to you, offering a drink. You shake your head. He looks at you with concern and you give him a reassuring look, mumbling something about not feeling too well and it’s probably just a headache.

Mateo, Mohan, and Javadi greet the group with smiles and Donnie hands out more beers. You rest your eyes as the group makes small talk.

Robby’s sudden laugh jolts you. You give him a nudge and he looks at you with a sorry grin. He rubs a hand over his face still laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Mohan questions as her and Javadi look at each other concerned.

Robby sits up, “I just realized it’s your first shift.”

The intern nods.

“I’m so sorry it was a shit first day.” You feel bad for the girl. Javadi gives you a meek smile.

“I’m not,” Abbot interjects, “That was baptism by fire, baby.” He lifts his drink up.

“I can pretty much guarantee you the next one will be easier.” Robby tries to be reassuring.

You nod in agreement before speaking up, “I promise you it’s not always as bad as today was.”

“I really fucking hope so.” She jokes but you can tell she means it.

Before anyone could say anything, sirens echoed through the park. Your anxiety spikes and the group all turns to see what’s happening. Robby tenses up at the sounds and stands up. He knew he couldn’t stay longer. He looks down at you. “Well, I’m going to call it a night. Please, everyone get some rest. Tomorrow is a new day.”

You stand up with him, “I'm gonna head out too,” you give everyone a smile, “Have a good night everyone.”

A bunch of good nights and smiles were given in return.

“I’ll walk you home,” Robby says in front of the group to you. You nod knowing you’re probably just going to his place. He grabs one more beer for the walk.

The two of you began walking to his place. Robby reaches for your hand as you walk into the night. The two of you enjoy the silence, listening to the sounds of the city.

As the two of you reach the end of the park, Robby speaks up, “You sure you’re feeling ok?”

You look up at him with a raised eyebrow, “You’re asking me that?” He rolls his eyes at you.

“Normally you have a beer or two at the end of the night.”

Your feet come to a stop and Robby looks at you. He has a concerned look and you debate on just letting it out.

“Is it a bad time to say I’m pregnant?” You blurt out with a nervous laugh looking up at him.

His eyes widen. You begin to panic, blabbing out apologies.

He cuts you off, “Are you serious? Like you’re not joking right now?”

You shake your head and continue to babble, “I’ve known for a few weeks now. I’m about 11 weeks I think. I-I just didn’t know when to tell you.”

For the second time that night, Robby drops his backpack. With the biggest grin, he lifts you off your feet causing you to squeal in surprise.

He lets you back down before cupping your face and giving you a heated kiss. You hold onto him as you kiss back him immediately.

You smile into the kiss before pulling away, sudden tears filling your eyes. “I love you so much.”

He kisses your tears away, before looking down at your stomach. He gently places his hand on it and smiles. “I love you too.”

You lean up and give him another kiss, “I don’t need peace, I just need you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“They’re totally together, right?” Princess asks the group but it’s pointed at Abbot.

You can only grimace. The nurse takes one look and winces sympathetically. Vitals, questions, a wristband – everything blurs together under the harsh fluorescent lights. A wheelchair materializes, and you sink into it gratefully as dizziness swells behind your eyes.

Chaos swallows you as you’re rolled deeper into the ER proper – full of chaos, ringing phones, monitors, curtained bays. Voices echo down the halls, urgent and confident.

“Which one is mine?”

One voice cuts through everything else, strangely familiar, and when you look up, your stomach drops.

Dr. Robinavitch strides toward you, hoodie sleeves pushed up his arms, glasses slightly perched at the end of his nose as he reads the triage note in the nurse’s hand. When he looks up, recognition flashes in his eyes immediately – and mortifyingly.

Last time you'd been here, at the not-so-fun end to a night out when your friend fell from the table she was balancing on, you’d (drunkenly) whispered to her that her doctor was hot. Jules, even drunker than you were, had responded by loudly listing, in astonishing detail, all the reasons he was your perfect type and what you should do to him. 

Despite your best attempts to shut her up, she’d continued to talk, and Dr. Robby had heard all of it – as had the rest of the ER. You don't think you’d ever been more humiliated.

So the little flicker of a smirk he gives you now is both infuriating and utterly mortifying. His lips twitch into a smile before he schools his face, glancing over at the triage nurse and clearing his throat. 

The triage nurse gestures toward you, clueless to the situation at hand. “Slip and fall on ice. Right wrist injury, severe pain, decreased range of motion.”

“I’m Doctor Robinavitch,” he says, opting to feign ignorance as he crouches down in front of you to get a closer look at your hand. “But you can call me Doctor Robby.”

If you weren’t in so much pain or as mortified as you are, you could easily be very distracted by the sudden closeness. His eyes scan your arm, focused and clinical but not in a cold way. You realize you’ve been silent for a while, and blink.

“Hi, Doctor– Motherfucker!”

The curse rips out of you as he reaches out and gently takes your injured wrist, and white-hot pain lances up your arm at the contact. You squeeze your eyes shut, breath stuttering.

Dr. Robby doesn’t flinch, just raises his eyebrows with a nod. “That’s a new nickname for me, but shockingly not the worst one I’ve had today.”

“Sorry.” You grit out through your teeth, the embarrassment giving way to the far more prevalent and overwhelming pain.

“Don’t apologize,” he continues to assess, his touch gentler now. “You’re pretty dressed up tonight, are we interrupting anything important?”

You shake your head then wince at the feeling. “N-No, I just– I was walking back from my friend’s Christmas party, and then there was this patch of ice that came out of nowhere, and–”

Robby makes a humming noise. “Any drinking that might have maybe thrown you off your balance?”

You level him with a look, aware he’s referring to your previous encounter. “No, I was– I was supposed to be designated driver, and then my car wouldn’t start, so… I walked. And then suddenly I was flat on my ass on the curb outside my neighbour’s house.” 

He huffs a soft laugh, nodding along as you speak, all the while continuing to examine you – gentle but thorough, fingers lightly poking and squeezing along your arm and up to your wrist – and then he pauses.

“When you fell,” he asks, “Did you hit your head?” His tone shifts, eyes narrowed as he suddenly becomes focused on your face.

You meet his eyes and frown. “I… yeah. I think… Maybe? On the curb?”

“I’m seeing photophobia and a slowness to answer.” He says all this to the nurse, then turns back to you. “Did you lose consciousness?”

“No.” You swallow, suddenly anxious about your injuries.

“Vision go dark around the edges? Nausea? Confusion? Trouble keeping your eyes open?”

You blink. “Just dizzy. And maybe a little nauseous. And everything feels… floaty.”

He nods, jaw tightening slightly in focus. “Okay. That changes the plan.” He stands and rattles off orders efficiently. “Let’s do a CT head – non-contrast. Wrist series: AP, lateral, oblique. Let’s keep it NPO in case ortho needs sedation for reduction. Neuro checks every hour.”

“Reduction?” You echo weakly, frowning at the scary words being thrown around.

“Realign it without surgery,” he says with a soft, comforting smile. “We do it all the time. And not just for patients who call me hot.”

You wish your fall had knocked you out properly. “Damn, and here I thought I had a shot.” You mumble, watching Robby’s expression twist into a surprised smile.

You lose track of time in a haze of scans, and ice packs, and bright lights, and the sharp sting of pain meds settling into your veins. Snow begins to drift harder outside the windows, turning the night sugar-white. 

As the night progresses, the chaos of the ER is in full swing, filled with drunks, slip-and-fall victims, someone claiming holiday-related mercury poisoning – but whenever Robby passes your bay, he makes sure to check in, which only serves to solidify your budding crush on him.

You’re alone for a moment, wrist throbbing under ice packs, when your phone buzzes. Jules. You answer because it’s either that or wake up to forty frantic voicemails tomorrow.

She gasps, face filling the screen. “Oh my God, are you dying? Eleanor said you fell and broke your whole ass–”

“My wrist,” you sigh. “And I’m fine. Just… Stuck here for a while. But you’ll never guess who my doctor is.”

Jules freezes, eyes widening. “No. No. Shut up. Is it the hot one?”

You cringe. “Yes.”

She screeches. “Shut up! Babe. This is fate! This is a Hallmark movie! This is–”

Footsteps approach. “Oh shit,” you hiss, hanging up on her mid-monologue. It’s too late. Robby appears around the corner, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in deeply entertained judgment.

“That the same friend from last time?” he asks.

You cover your face with your good hand, unable to believe this is happening. Again. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations?”

“It’s my ER,” he says, smug. “And your volume control is… Questionable.”

You gape at him. “Questionable?”

He shrugs, far too casual for someone witnessing your humiliation. “I’d say adorable, but I’m trying to keep things professional.”

Your heart stutters – is he… Flirting with you?

Before you can come up with a retort, he lifts the clipboard in his hands. “I come bearing good news.” A beat. “Well, good news and slightly-less-good news.”

Your stomach drops. “Which one is the bad one?”

“That depends on your holiday plans,” he says, flipping the chart open. “Let’s start with your wrist. You’ve got a distal radius fracture – non-displaced, which is the best-case scenario for a fall like yours. No surgery needed, no heroic measures. Just a reduction, a real cast, and a few weeks pretending you’re left-handed.”

You let out a breath. “Okay. I can handle that.”

He nods. “Now the head CT…” He holds up the page, tapping it with his pen. “No bleeding. No skull fracture. Just a mild concussion.”

You sag back against the bed in relief. Then you notice he hasn’t moved. Or smiled. Or stepped away.

“…And?” You prompt.

Robby sighs and crosses his arms. “You’re staying here.”

Your eyes snap open. “Staying how long?”

“At least overnight. Longer if your neuro checks are still abnormal.” You groan loudly.

“You have a concussion,” he says, leaning one hip against the wall, his tone firm. “You’re dizzy, photosensitive, and you nearly fell off the wheelchair when radiology brought you back. We need to keep you around for observation.”

You throw your head back, sulking like a child. “You’re ruining my Christmas.”

“Trust me, I don’t have the time or energy to ruin your Christmas, I’m too busy ruining about twenty other people’s holidays right now.”

Despite everything, you snort. “Wow. Spreading holiday cheer everywhere you go.”

He shrugs. “I can call your friend for you, ask if she wants to come keep you company–”

“Don’t you dare.” 

“Don’t worry,” he says, smirking. “If you’re good, I’ll let you pick a color for your cast.”

“Wow, Merry Christmas Eve to me.” You retort.

He gives you the faintest grin as he backs away. “Thought so.”

You have to bury your face in your blanket to keep from laughing.

When early morning comes, the ER is slightly quieter. Snow falls outside the huge sliding doors, and Christmas music plays from a too-cheerful speaker someone should be yelled at for bringing in. Robby reappears, a clipboard tucked under his arm, and you frown at him. 

“You’re still here? Don’t you guys take shifts?” You find yourself asking with a disbelieving look, and he shrugs.

“It’s the holidays, we’re even shorter staffed than usual.”

“You know, some people go home sometimes.”

He shoots you an unimpressed look. “Well, if I’d gone home, I wouldn’t be here to tell you…”  He flips through your chart one-handed, then taps the page. “…that your neuro checks have been stable for six hours, your repeat vitals are rock-solid, and you’re no longer showing delayed responses. In layman’s terms? You’re good to go home.”

Relief washes over you – then fades into something gentler. “Sorry you had to spend your Christmas night babysitting me.”

“I didn’t mind.” He says this too quickly, too casually. Then clears his throat. “I mean – you were an easy patient. Cooperative. Good sense of humor. Minimal cursing.”

“I distinctly remember calling you a motherfucker.” You cock your head, and he laughs, the sound bright and surprising. The moment hangs there, warm and maybe just a little vulnerable.

Not much later, a nurse comes in to fit your sling, giving you instructions while Robby lingers in the doorway, watching you with a sort of quiet attentiveness that isn’t strictly professional. When the nurse leaves, he steps closer, careful with his hands but unmistakably present.

“You’re safe to go home. Just.. take it slow. No more ice ballet.” He pauses. “How’s the pain?”

“Oh, you know. Terrible.” You give him a tight smile.

“Good.”

“Wow, thank you, Doctor. Bedside manner of the year.”

“No, I meant – pain means you’re alive. Means you’re healing.” He grins – tired, lopsided, but real. “Maybe this is why my patient satisfaction scores are so low.”

“Well, you can consider this patient satisfied,” you say to be nice, and then immediately grimace, shaking your head. “Oh, that sounded– Jesus. Please ignore me.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, and you swear you see a pink tinge dusting his cheeks when he glances back up at you.

There’s a weird ache in your chest at the thought of leaving, despite the fact that all you’ve wanted to do for the last day is go home. 

Suddenly, you remember something that had occurred to you that morning, and you reach into your bag and pull out the tiny red knitted mitten keychain you’d bought on a whim a few days ago.

“Um. This is for you,” you say, holding it out awkwardly. “Thanks for… Well. Everything.”

He blinks, glancing between your hand and your face. “For me?” He reaches out and lifts it up, putting his glasses on to get a look at it, and your heart melts at the sight.

“It seems… Fitting,” you mumble. “Given the injury, and all.”

He clips it onto his badge, looking down at it with a lopsided smile. “That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

Warmth blooms in your face and your chest. And because you’ve survived pain, humiliation, and many scans in the last twelve hours, your courage sparks. “Robby?”

He looks up immediately, cautious but open.

“Since I’m officially not your patient anymore,” you say slowly, “I was wondering if… You’d want to get a drink with me sometime.”

He blinks. Hard. “You’re… Asking me out?”

“Yes.” You smile. “Properly. Not because of the holiday, not because I’m injured. Because I like talking to you. And because I think you like talking to me too.”

His jaw works for a second, like he’s debating something internally. Then he exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters something under his breath that sounds vaguely like “Dana’s gonna win the bet.”

You frown, trying not to be disappointed. “Is that a no?”

He looks at you, and the softness behind his eyes answers before the words do. “I can’t believe this, but,” he says quietly. “It’s a yes.” He scratches the nape of his neck, suddenly somewhat flustered. “Why don’t you give me a call when you’re feeling better, and we’ll… Talk.”

Your stomach flips pleasantly. “Deal.” You breathe.

“Deal.” He echoes, already walking backwards down the hallway.

You turn to leave, and then frown, spinning back around. “Wait, I don’t have your–”

He points at your discharge papers, and you flip them over to reveal a sticky note – his name and phone number written in quick, slanted handwriting. Your heart sings at the revelation that he’d already left you his number before you asked. 

“Hey, not bad for doctor handwriting!” You call after him as he disappears down the hall, tiny mitten bouncing on his badge, and you leave the ER with a broken wrist, a mild concussion, and something warm and bright flickering under your ribs as you smile down at the sticky note.

Pause.

He pivoted around slowly, your loud entrance having the desired effect of warning him of your arrival rather than startling him.

Soft brown eyes connected with yours in silence for a moment, you taking the opportunity to see just how downtrodden the man before you looked before his eyes flickered down to your hands, noting the beer that dangled from your fingers with a quiet huff “not an expert huh”

“Not an expert” you confirmed, taking a slow step forward “I practice this as an amateur”

He snorted under his breath at that. Turning back to the city before him, you taking that as a silent invitation to join him, planting yourself just far enough away to avoid making it awkward. “You know that’s my spot”

At that a dejected chuckle came out of him, an acknowledgement of an inside joke you weren’t apart of before shaking his head “not an expert but you have a spot”

“Never said I usually drink up here” you tossed the comment out as you twisted the top off your drink, giving his abandoned can next to him a toast before taking a swig.

The silence blanketed the two of you for a moment, somehow avoiding ever being oppressive or awkward, before he broke it “usually my spot’s at work”

“ahhh” you hummed, watching the lights of the city below you “so you’re the expert here then”

He laughed at that, a big sigh coming out of him as his shoulders finally fell slightly “never said I usually drink up there”

You let your eyes drift over his form for a second, taking the time to finally properly appreciate the man beside you “Honestly I kind of hope not, you strike me as someone with a job I wouldn’t want alcohol mixed with”

Another chuckle left the man, his chin tucking down into his chest as if to hide it “What gave that away, the scrubs?”

You smiled mischievously at him from behind the lip of your bottle, taking the time to take another swig, letting the silence between the two of you settle a bit before speaking “since you’re not offering the information that mean I get to guess?”

A deep breath left him as he looked you over for a second, clearly debating how much further he really wanted to venture into this conversation before answering with a shrug “give it your best shot”

You shifted slightly to better face him, picking your knee up and brining it onto the rooftop with you to fully look at the man before you, giving a dramatic hum before answering “Well the rooftop viewing is hinting at you being a bit of an adrenaline junkie, posture screams that you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, eyes tell me you’ve seen far too much tragedy in your time, dark scrubs to hide bodily fluid stains” you scrunched your nose up slightly at that,  pointedly ignoring the man’s startled gaze as you continued “and finally zip-up hoodie to help you contend with both inside and outside temperatures when necessary. I’m going to go with ER doc”

You tried to bite back your shit eating grin as the man before you froze on the spot, his entire body seeming to go through a system-reboot before a shocked huff escaped him, his neck forcing his head to bring his gaze back to the city as a chuckle finally escaped him “alright that was impressive”

“What can I say it’s a gift” you shrugged humbly, taking another swig before continuing “plus Ethel on the second floor will not stop talking about Michael, the handsome ER doctor who’s single and would really benefit from getting to know a nice girl like me”

At that a real laugh spilled from his lips, his eyes casting up to the sky as he sighed, giving his head a soft shake as he did so “I didn’t realize Ethel was so worried about me”

“You are alone in the middle of the night on the roof drinking”

He snapped his gaze over to you at your words, throwing a pointed look at the bottle in your hands before raising a single brow.

“Didn’t you hear I’m a nice girl”

Another sharp exhalation through his nose, another soft shake of his head, another comfortable silence wrapping around the two of you.

“Robby”

“hmm” you hummed back the silent question, raising a brow of your own in response.

“Most people call me Robby”

“Y/N” you offered your own name in response, extending a hand to him “nice to meet you Dr.Robby”

He smiled at that, the first honest one you had gotten all night, before he slipped his hand into yours “It’s nice to meet you Y/N”

-

You were there again the next night.

Robby wasn’t sure whether he had been hoping you would be or not.

Originally he had sought out the rooftop for the quiet it would offer, for the solace of it all when things got too overwhelming, another person being there threatened to ruin that.

But for some reason in his head you didn’t really count against that.

“So does the alcohol and heights thing still apply if someone else brought it”

You threw your gaze over your shoulder at his words with a warm smile and he couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t seem at all surprised to see him there, couldn’t help but wonder if you had been looking forward to this as much as he had.

“You’ll have to tell me, I thought we had decided you were the expert here”

“I believe that is what you decided” he volleyed back, handing you one of the cans as he sat down beside you, watching you crack it open and take a sip, scrunching your nose up slightly at the taste before looking down at the label.

“Okay if you’re going to start supplying the beer for these we’re going to have to work on your taste” he tried not to attach too much weight to the implied invitation in your words.

“what’s wrong with these?”

“They’re so one note, so flat, so quintessentially IPA” you spoke with heightened dramatics and he couldn’t help but note just how much he appreciated the lightness of the conversation, the inconsequence of it all, the opportunity to finally talk about something other than the hospital. “I’m fairly certain if you were to look up wheat beer in the dictionary the entry would just be a photo of this can”

“So your problem with it is that it tastes like beer?”

You glared at him at that, Robby unable to fully bite down the smirk that grew on his lips at the expression “My problem is that it tastes like beer stripped of anything that could make it interesting.”

“So it’s not bad it’s just boring”

“That’s arguably worse”

“mm no I’m fairly certain I’d rather drink a boring beer than a bad one”

“You willing spent your own money on this swill you no longer get to have an opinion” he couldn’t help but laugh at that, shake his head slightly as you went on “It’s like coffee. You know when you brew it poorly, or use a shitty machine and instead of getting the subtle fruity or chocolate notes of the beans you just get bitter brown water”

And a part of him was almost excited to be the butt of your next joke, to reveal what he had to say next, something you seemed to be able to read in his eyes. “No”

“You’re going to hate me for this”

“Michael please”

He was grinning at the use of his first name, at the sheer desperation in your tone “I’m fairly certain the only coffee I drink comes from a ten dollar machine that’s as old as I am”

You reacted as if you had been physically struck, hand going to your chest as you winced “I can’t believe you’ve never had good coffee”

“I’ve had good coffee before”

“Never experienced a proper pour over”

“I just said that’s the coffee I drink day to day”

“Never taken the time to appreciate the subtle flavors of a good brew”

“Some days it’s just about the caffeine”

“I’m making you coffee for your next shift” Your words yanked him out of the conversation suddenly, his brain taking a few seconds to fully comprehend your words.

“Wait what”

“What time do you leave? 7? 8?” You steamrolled right through his confusion, the favor already a done deal in your head.

“No you don’t have to-“

“I’ll put it in a to-go cup for you” You cut him right off, the sentence coming off so matter of fact-ly it had him chuckling.

“If I’m rushing to work I won’t have time to properly enjoy it”

You shrugged at that, throwing him a cheeky wink as you spoke “guess you’ll have to stop by early then”

A silence settled over the two of you at that, Robby taking the opportunity to properly look at you for the first time that night as you gazed over the city. “Coffee snob, can’t stand boring food, old burns on your forearms. I’m guessing chef”

You grinned at him from his periphery and Robby found himself reciprocating the expression easily. “Ethel’s such a gossip”

He snorted at that, taking a sip of his drink, suddenly a bit more excited for what the morning held for him than usual.

-

You had tried to convince the rest of the kitchen you would be fine, that surely if you just held pressure against it for another ten minutes that the bleeding would finally stop on its own.

None of them of course believed you, but in your opinion it was a valiant effort that should be noted.

You’d at least been able to fend them off from trying to go with you, the poor kid who had accidently cut you looked like he was ready to carry you there himself with the way he carried the guilt of your injury on his shoulders.

But you made it to the PTMH on your own, packed into a waiting room holding more people than it felt like it was fire rated for, and finally taken back to a room after a doctor had caught sight of the shade of red you had stained the once white prep towel you had been using for pressure.

As you were led back a part of you wondered if you should ask for him. This was afterall his hospital, you probably could’ve been seen sooner if you had pulled that card. But was it really your card to pull? You’ve sat on the roof a few times with the man, made him coffee once, did that somehow entitle you to specifically request him?

And even if it did was that really fair? The staff clearly had a system in place, prioritizing, as they should, the most severe cases first you absolutely weren’t going to mess with that.

So instead you kept your mouth shut and followed the doctor who had introduced herself as Mckay and the med student Javadi back to a bed in the ED.

You sat up on the bed as you had been instructed, Dr.Mckay moving to the computer and typing away immediately while Javadi moved to prep a suture kit, the two working together in surprisingly good tandem.

“Now Y/N since this is a teaching hospital do you mind if I let my med student take over here?” Dr.Mckay asked with a comforting smile, gesturing to the girl who didn’t look like she was old enough to be out of high school let alone a doctor.

“No I’ll happily be your pin cushion” Javadi froze at your words, giving you a wide eye look before looking over at Dr.Mckay for direction who only laughed good naturally from behind the terminal and gave her student a small nod to continue.

The rest of the appointment passed without a hiccup. Javadi stitching you up like an absolute pro and sending you on your way with instructions on how to care for it and to see a doctor in a week to get them removed.

You had almost made it through your entire visit without seeing him when on your way out you heard your name being called from behind you.

With one hand still on the door you spun around to look at who had called your name, the rapid sudden movement making you lightheaded and slightly woozy on the spot, your legs starting to wobble beneath you.

Two strong arms caught your own before the world could tilt too much, the new grounding force as well as the stillness more than enough to keep you upright and centered to the spot.

The soft, brown eyes now staring deeply into your own, however, clearly hadn’t picked up on your newfound steadiness. Snapping sharply back and forth between your own, calling your name urgently as his grip on you tightened.

“Robby I’m fine” you tried to brush him off but the man before you wasn’t having any of it.

“What’s wrong are you-“ he paused suddenly, his thumb catching on the bandage on your forearm drawing his gaze down “are you a patient?”

“I was a patient” you corrected him, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze before pulling your arms back from him “just a few stitches I’ve already been discharged”

“Few stitches and you’re feeling dizzy did they even have you on fluids?” He asked with a frown, barely listening to your “no” in response before he was pulling you into the nearest empty room by your hand.

“I don’t need fluids” you protested weakly as he ignored you completely, helping you up onto the bed and immediately going to the terminal in the room and logging in.

“Can’t believe they would send you on your way without any fluids who patched you up?” his complaint was spoken gruffly under his breath, just soft enough you weren’t entirely sure if it was a question for you or the computer.

“Robby please”

He finally paused at that, finally looked up at you and made proper eye contact, peering at you from above his glasses with a clearly displeased expression.

“Ask me the questions” His brows furrowed slightly in response, his head tilting ever so slightly to one side making you dramatically roll your eyes “fine I’ll do it. Are you experiencing any light-headedness, dizziness, or nausea?” You pretended to think on it for a second, humming softly before answering, ticking each response off on your fingers as you did so “no, no, and no”

Robby looked nothing short of completely unimpressed by your skit, merely raising a single eyebrow in response.

“I just turned around too fast” you tried to explain with no small amount of exasperation in your voice “world went off kilter for a second because of it but that’s it”

At that he sighed heavily, taking off his glasses and giving his eyes a tired rub before he straightened his posture, crossing his arms over his chest before gesturing down to your arm “what happened”

You huffed a little at how the words were less a question than a command “accident at work, got sliced by a knife. Bleeding wouldn’t stop so I came here”

He clearly wasn’t completely placated by your answer but let it slide anyway, taking a seat on a rolling stool and coming up next to you “can I see?”

Wordlessly you placed your arm in his hands, watching his fingers delicately undo the dressing Javadi had just wrapped for you minutes before. He took a deep breath once the stitches were unearthed, taking a moment to properly look at each of them as his thumb stroked softly back and forth over the skin around it.

“Stitches look good”

“Javadi did a good job”

His sharp gaze again cut up to you with a small frown on his face, his thumbs back and forth movement halting “you had a med student working on you”

“You just said she did good” you shot back with a tired laugh, a sound that finally had the corners of his lips tilting up.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Your own small smile dropped instantly at his question, at the rawness of it, the vulnerability.

“It was no big deal. I didn’t want to bother you with it”

“Bother me with it” he repeated almost bitterly under his breath with a shake of his head, pivoting slightly to reach for a new set of dressings, getting ready to start wrapping up your arm again before speaking louder this time “how long were you waiting out there”

You shrugged at that, choosing to focus your gaze down on your arm as he started to wrap it rather than the man himself “Not long, there were people who needed-“

“And yet you’re lightheaded from blood-loss”

He took in a sharp breath right after the words slipped out of him, Robby recognizing the sharpness in his tone before you could point it out to him and giving himself a deep breath to try and reset before continuing “Just- next time bother me okay. I don’t care how small it is”

“Okay” you agreed blindly, Robby seeming to notice your lack of attention and giving your wrist a soft squeeze, physically pulling your gaze up to meet his.

“I mean it. No matter what. You find yourself in the Pitt I want you to ask for me okay. Or Jack Abbot if I’m not here he’ll take care of you”

And you couldn’t help but smile softly at his concern, nodding along with him before repeating yourself with more conviction “okay”

He mirrored your smile with one of his own, giving you a nod before softly placing your arm back in your lap and backing up a bit, you having not noticed how close he had gotten over the course of looking you over. “Now you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine” you assured him “promise I’ll find the juice with the highest sugar content the minute I get back to work”

He smile fell instantly at your words, head going back into his hands as he groaned dramatically “of course you’re going back to work”

And you couldn’t help but laugh at his theatrics “dinner rush, they need me. I’ll cut back though, won’t do anything with this arm scouts honor”

“were you even a scout?” His tone was nothing short of unamused making your snort.

“I’ll send someone by with dinner for the whole staff” you tried to distract him with a grin, Robby unable to bite down his own in response.

“At least tell me someone is coming by to pick you up”

“nah I walked here”

Another dramatic groan, one you weren’t entirely sure wasn’t fully for your benefit “You’re killing me here honey”

He started to stand at that, as if he hadn’t thrown your entire world off kilter again with a simple pet name, and started to take off his gloves “Text me when you make it back to the restaurant okay” he paused after that, seemed almost unsure of his next words before he forced them out “and come by mine tonight when you’re done I’ll change your dressings for you”

“I can change my own-“

“Let me” he interrupted with a soft a plea.

You couldn’t help but pause at that, to look the man before you over once, to note the sincerity in his expression before answering “I may be pretty late” you tried to warn him, playing it off like you were trying to get him to back down, fully knowing you were hoping he wouldn’t.

“doesn’t matter” his answer came quick and without any real thought behind it, as if the conclusion were obvious “I know where to get a good coffee if I need it”

“make a guy a cup of coffee once and all of a sudden he thinks he’s entitled to more” you teased with a smirk

He chuckled softly at that, hiding his gaze down in his hands briefly before looking back up at you “You’ll come right?”

“Yeah Mike I’ll be there”

A lopsided smile grew on his face at the nickname “good” he pushed the door open behind him and stood slightly off to the side to allow you to pass, letting his hand fall to the small of your back as you did so “now get out of here before I hook you up to an IV anyways”

You laughed off the threat. Ignoring the tingle left behind from his touch as he ushered you forward, not making it very far before a blonde woman in scrubs came rushing in, nose buried in a tablet.

“Robby there you are we have a-“ she cut herself off as she raised her eyes to the scene before her, her gaze zeroing in quickly on the hand Robby still had on your spine, on the closeness between you two, a grin that could only be described as downright wolfish growing on her face as she cut her eyes to meet Robby’s “this blue tumbler?”

You raised a brow at the question, cutting your eyes up to meet Robby’s only to see his cheeks starting to go pink as he ducked his head ever so slightly with a soft sigh “Y/N this is Dana, the only person able to keep this entire ED running in something resembling order, also the person who stole the coffee you gave me the other day”

Immediately you were grinning at the woman, relishing the way she was able to make Robby sweat from beneath her gaze “You tried it? What did you think?”

She took a second longer to pull her gaze from Robby, relishing the way he squirmed before her before she smiled warmly at you “best damn cup of coffee I’ve ever had”

“Thank you!” You exclaimed in relief, giving Robby a pointed elbow in the side as you said it “this man doesn’t properly appreciate a good cup of coffee I swear. You ever been to Brewsters on Canton?”

She shook her head at your question, popping one hip to stand more comfortably as if she were settling into the conversation “that where you get it from?”

“Where I got he beans from” You nodded eagerly “you go on Tuesdays ask for Joey he’ll hook you up with the freshly roasted shit”

“Okay Dana did you need something” Robby cut in before she could respond in pure exasperation, sending the woman a silent glare that you couldn’t help but giggle at.

She seemed to bite back her own laugh as well, her smirk sent at Robby filled with mirth as she nodded “asthmatic kid’s family in asking to see you. Not an emergency I think they just got questions”

“Thank you Dana I’ll be right there” he sent her what was obviously a dismissal with a pointed glare, Dana taking the whole thing in stride and fading back from the two of you, never going too far and looking much too interested in her tablet to really be doing anything productive.

“I like her” You chuckled up at him, the corners of his own mouth tipping up despite his obvious best attempt to remain stern.

“Yeah that’s what I was afraid of”

You grinned back at him at that, reaching out almost instinctually to give his arm a soft squeeze as you started to drift towards the exit “alright doc I’ll let you get back to it”

“I mean it you feel even slightly dizzy I want you back here for an IV” he called after you, staying rooted on the spot as you parted.

“Aye yai cap” you mock saluted with a smirk “tell the woman eavesdropping in the corner I’ll send you in with a cup of coffee for her tomorrow”

“Thank you sweetheart” Dana called back with a grin, not even bothering to pretend she wasn’t doing exactly that.

You grinned back at her and with a final nod left the ED, the door barely swinging back shut behind you before Dana was beside Robby once again, the two of them watching the door close fully with vastly different expressions.

Dana chuckled under her breath, pressing the tablet in her hands to Robby’s chest as she clapped his shoulder and gave it a shake “you are so screwed Robinavitch”

Almost numbly Robby grabbed the tablet from her and peered down at it, barely noting the words that came out under his breath as he said them “yeah I know”

Dana cackled loudly at that, leaving her attending in his spot as she started to make her way back to the nursing station “oh I cannot wait to tell Abbot”

That seemed to knock Robby out of his stupor, his head whipping around to watch the charge nurse disappear around the corner. “Wait Dana”

I shake my head, not ready to deal with my brother’s antics this early in the morning, and turn back to Jennifer’s Body.

Elena follows suit, which seems to have pissed off Theo as he runs around the couch and blocks our view of Megan Fox in all of her boy-eating glory. 

“You guys need to listen, Jenna is lonely. She’s constantly working,”

“Because she has to support four teenagers, Theo. Jenna’s a grown woman; if she wants to date, she’ll date. STAY out of it.”

Theo glares at me and then turns to Elena, who just shrugs, “You herd the boss, buddy.”

Theo huffs loudly, and as he storms off, I hear him mutter, “lesbians,” under her breath. 

Dickhead. 

After Theo exits, I lean back into the couch and try to enjoy my Megan Fox. That is, until I watch as Elena reaches for the remote and pauses the movie. 

“C’mon, man.”

“Do you think he’s got a point?” 

“What? That we’re lesbians? I don’t know. Maybe.”

Elena snorts loudly, and I don’t miss the light pink tinge on her cheeks as she playfully shoves my shoulder. 

“No, weirdo. About Jenna and her not dating. I sometimes forget that her life has also been uprooted by all of this, and she deserves a chance at happiness, too.”

I think about what Elena says as she plays with her fingers. 

“I don’t know, maybe. I know that what happened to Alaric sucked a lot. But I also know what it feels like to get pushed into a relationship you weren’t ready for,” Elena gives me a sad look, “I just…maybe we could talk to her? Tell her that if she wanted to get back out there, she shouldn’t wait because of us. But, if she’s not ready, we don’t push her.”

Elena seems to like my idea because she nods and smiles, “I agree.”

I nod and then eye the remote in her hand, “Can I watch my movie now, please?”

Elena laughs and presses the play button, “My bad.”

We don’t even get into the next scene before Elena speaks again.

“Why do you think so many people think we’re lesbians?’’

I blink in surprise at her question and then look at how we’re sitting. Thighs pressed together because we’re sitting so close under a singular blanket (even though there was another one right beside us), Elena’s head practically resting on my shoulder, and my hands wrap in the edges of her sweater that I borrowed last month and never gave back.”

“I don’t know. People are delusional.”

—

I wring out the rest of the water in my hair as I exit the bathroom, a towel tied tightly around my body.

“NYAH!”

Said towel almost drops from my jumping.

“What now, Elena!?”

I quickly jog down the stairs, almost falling on two of them from my wet feet.

“Elena, what happened?”

I turn the corner of the kitchen and see Elena holding her hand gently. 

“The water is laced with vervain!”

—

“Hello, Elskan, how are you?”

“Don’t take a shower!”

I hear Elijah chuckle, “Love, is everything alright?”

“Bonnie’s father, who I guess is the new mayor, laced the town’s water supply with vervain. So y’know don’t shower.”

I hear Elijah’s smile as he continues talking, “Alright, I won’t shower here. I have my apartment in the next town over, which I can use until we figure out the mayor situation.”

“Wait! Mayor situation? Don’t even think about it, Elijah. That mayor is Bonnie’s father, which means if you or anyone else in your little family of demons tries to hurt him, I will dagger you. Understood?”

I hear Elijah sigh through the phone.

“Elijah!”

“Fine, my love. No harm will come to Bonnie’s father, you have my word.”

I hum, “Those are some famous last words if you ask me.”

“Well, when it comes to you, there is no ill intention behind my terms.”

I smile softly at his words, “I know. I trust you.”

Elijah is quiet on his end of the line.

“Elijah?”

A deep hum is my response. 

“Do you think your brother is right about this whole Silas thing. I mean, if he is enough to freak the hell out of Kol, then shouldn’t we be cautious? I love Elena, but is making her human really worth killing so many vampires and the risk of raising some ancient evil?”

“Your mind continues to amaze me, Elskan. I must say I have also gone through this equation many times in my head, and even then, I don’t have a set answer. Yes, it is sad the Miss. Gilbert has lost her humanity, but you raise a good point…how many should die for her to get it back?”

As he repeats my question back to me, a wave of guilt washes through me, “Does that make me a bad person? To think my best friend shouldn’t get the life she wants just so other people-strangers don’t suffer?’’

“Y/n, I think it is the opposite. Truly. A selfish person would never question if they were being selfish, and you, My Dear, are the least selfish person I have ever met. It’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with you.”

“Sap.”

Elijah chuckles, “Careful, Y/n.”

I roll my eyes as I close my door, “Hmmm, you see you’re always warning me, but never following through with your threats…I’m calling your bluff, Old Man.”

I hear Elijah release a harsh breath through the line, and I can't fight back the smirk on my face. 

“Elskan…don’t push me. Please.”

I walk over to my mirror and start applying my lip gloss, “If I remember correctly, My Dear,” I mimic his usual stoic tone, “You like it plenty when I push your buttons.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

Oh shit.

The confidence I originally had is long gone. 

Call me a pussy I don’t care.

“Ummm, nothing?”

“I’ll pick you up at 5. Be ready.”

Then he hangs up. 

I’m fucked. 

Literally and metaphorically. 

—

“Hello, Little Doll, to what do I owe the pleasure?’’

Kol’s sarcastic tone makes me roll my eyes as I place the hot waffle on my plate and walk it over to where my syrup is. 

“The fuck are you doing, Dickwad?”

Kol scoffs on the other end of the phone line.

“You might need to explain more, Doll. I am up to quite a bit.”

“You’re trying to kill Jeremy, Kol! The fuck do you think I’m talking about?”

Kol sucks on his teeth, “Maybe the trip I’ve been planning for us to take. No spoilers, but if you think the rollercoaster we went on last month was fast, just you wait for Six Flags.”

Kol’s joke almost makes me laugh…almost.

“Kol, seriously. Why are you doing this?”

Kol is quiet for a moment before sighing, “Listen, Y/n. Silas is evil. He can not be released onto our Earth. You have to believe me when I say that I am doing what needs to be done.”

I put my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I start cutting my waffle, “Kol. You’re evil. I mean, how bad could this Silas guy even be compared to you and your entire family?”

“Y/n- the witches have said-”

“Fuck the witches, bro! They are constantly smoking crazy shit and having crazy ass predictions because of it. Anyone or anything they don’t know is considered a threat and dangerous. What if Silas is actually just some chill guy?”

“I’m going to take your lack of urgency as a result of your choice of boyfriends dulling your ideas of danger.”

I stuff a piece of waffle into my mouth and scoff. 

“Thanks, bud.”

“I mean it, Y/n. He worries me.”

I pause chewing at the openness in his voice. 

“I know, Kol. I believe you, but…being evil to end another evil? Jeremy doesn’t deserve to be hurt because of something he never signed up for. Just remember that, please. And look out for yourself, as much as I love my friends, I know that they’re sneaky, so just look out for yourself.”

“You’ve grown soft on me, Luv. Looking out for me…if someone heard us, they would think we were soulmates.”

This makes me laugh, “Fate is against us, My Kol.”

Kol snorts, “I’ve never believed in fate, Little Doll. I must go do more evil now. I’ll call you later.”

He doesn’t. 

—

Elijah is at my front door at 4:59 wearing his usual suit and tie. 

“Changing up the attire for the occasion, are we?” My comment makes Elijh huff a breath and roll his eyes. 

“Well, you look beautiful as always, Elskan,” Elijah says as he gives me his arm and leads me to his car.

I’m wearing a black dress that hugs my upper body and flows softly around my upper knees, pairing it with a casual leather jacket that I once again stole from Elena, who had to run an errand, making her leave about an hour ago. Jeremy is also out and took Theo with him. Jenna is once again up at her work.

“Eh, it’s something that I found in the back of my closet.”

Lie. It’s Gucci. 

Elijah opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in. Elijah speeds over to the driver’s side, and it takes him just a moment to start the car and pull away from the house. 

The car is quiet for the first fifteen minutes. For the first five, I had thought we were just going to his house or apartment, or maybe even the grill, but after we passed the town border and started heading south, I became confused. 

“Sooo, uh, you want to tell me where we’re going?” 

“No.”

I scoff lightly, “Not ominous at all, Lijah.”

I feel Elijah’s dark eyes on me, and then I feel his cold hand grip mine.

“Somewhere I think you’ll like. I want it to be a surprise.”

Well, that doesn’t make me feel nauseous at all. 

—

“This would be a great way to kill me, by the way,” I say as Elijah walks me through wherever we are, with his hands over my eyes, “Very serial killer of you.”

“Patience, Love. Almost there.”

After another moment, Elijah stops both of us. 

“Ok…”

Elijah removes his hands, and after my eyes take a moment to adjust to the light, I see that we’re in a huge library. Dozens of large bookshelves surround us, reaching up towards a marble ceiling decorated with windowpanes giving a view of the night sky, and at the center of the room is a small candlelit table. 

“Elijah, this is…beautiful.”

Elijah guides me over to the table, and he pushes out a chair for me, and I sit down. Elijah walks over to his chair, and not even a moment later, a middle-aged waiter comes out of fucking nowhere. I watch, confused, as he places a bourbon in front of Elijah and then a Shirley Temple with extra cherries in front of me.

“Oh… I didn’t order anything yet,” I say, slightly confused.

The waiter, whom I understand now is clearly compelled, simply hums and walks away. 

Elijah’s chuckling turns my attention, “I put in our orders ahead of time, I hope you don’t mind.”

Ahead of time??? We made plans literally three hours ago.

“Did you have to kill someone to get us this table? Please tell me it wasn’t the librarian.”

Elijah takes a sip of his bourbon, and I can see his smirk through the glass. 

“No, I did not. I have done business with the owner before and called him to let him know I’d like to use the space.”

I nod along to what he says, “Andddd the compelled worker,” I put my straw in my Shirley Temple. 

Elijah pauses, and I see him slowly smirk, “I needed some extra help.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he interrupts me. 

“And yes, I will be paying the caterers handsomely.”

I roll my eyes. Of course, he knew I’d ask. 

“Don’t you know me so well?” Elijah smirks, and another compelled waiter walks over, pushing a cart with different types of food on it.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

—

“Wait, so you made Klaus chase the pig even though you’re the one who let it out of its pen?” Elijah leans back in his chair, “He was 12, and I was 14. If I told him to do something, he did it,” Elijah’s focus shifts as if he’s in a memory, “He spent two hours in the woods trying to find that pig, only for it to make its way back into the village by itself,” Elijah chuckles and I lean forward on my palm, as I listen to his story. Or more like listen to the sound of his laugh that I rarely get to hear. 

“What age did he stop listening because that definitely doesn’t sound like the Klaus I know now,” I snort and take a bite out of my mozzarella stick. 

Good fucking mozz stick by the way. Elijah gave the catering company a list of my favorite foods and had them prepare them for me. 

“Unfortunately, that only lasted a few more years.”

Elijah reaches over and grabs a stick and dips it into the marinara sauce next to me, and I glare at him. 

“Excuse you?”

Elijah smirks as he takes a big bite out of the stick, and I laugh when some sauce gets stuck on his chin. 

“You got some-,” I point to his chin, and he pretends not to know what I’m talking about. 

“You’re such a baby,” I laugh as I stand up and reach over to wipe the sauce off his face, but before I can touch his face, his hand grabs my wrist and pulls me closer.

“What the hell-”

Elijah’s lips are pressed firmly on mine, and I can taste the mix of bourbon and cheese on his tongue.

Not the best combo. 

Nice lips though. 

As much as I don’t want to pull away, the awkward leaning I’m doing is hurting my stomach. With one last peck on his lips, I pull away and sit back down. 

“You’ve still got marinara on your face,” I say pointedly. 

Elijah’s eyes dart around my face, “Now, so do you.”

I reach my hand up, and as soon as my fingers hit a cold texture, I glare at him.

“Asshole,” I growl as I grab my napkin, and Elijah does the same. 

We’re both silent for a moment, and I use it to admire Elijah in this light, and I’m pretty sure he’s doing the same. 

Elijah looks so…youthful. His suit jacket has been taken off, his tie loosened, and the first two buttons of his dress shirt are undone; that, along with the slightly tousled hair he has going for him right now, makes him look hot as hell. 

“You’re staring,” He says softly.

“So are you.”

Elijah’s light pink lips twitch, “Aren’t I always?”

I tilt my head, “That sounded kind of stalkerish.”

Elijah’s smirk drops, “Can you ever take a compliment?”

I smile, “Nope.”

Elijah tuts, “Of course.”

“But, thank you,” I look down at my hands, feeling slightly embarrassed. 

“You never have to thank me for admiring your beauty, Elskan. I take too much pleasure in it for it to be a task.”

Swoon.

“Thank you, but…that’s not what I meant. I meant thank you for this,” I gesture to the table filled with food, then towards the entire library, “I never thought I’d have someone care enough to do all of this for me. So thank you.”

“Elskan, you don’t have to-”

RING

The sound of my phone ringing interrupts Elijah, and I mutter a quick apology before checking to see who’s calling.

Klaus. 

“Ya. He can buzz off for tonight,” I mutter as I decline his call and even go as far as to shut off my phone since Klaus has a habit of not liking being hung up on.

  “Sorry about that, Hog chaser,” I joke, and Elijah chuckles.

“Yes, my brother always seems to have-”

RING

“Are you serious,” I mutter at the sound of Elijah’s phone. 

Elijah doesn’t take his eyes off of me as he declines the car. 

“No one is ruining this night,” Elijah smiles softly. 

I smile. 

RING

I stop smiling. 

“Just fucking answer the weirdo!”

Elijah sighs and answers the phone. 

I try to focus on other noises so I don’t eavesdrop on their conversation, but when Elijah’s face drops, so does my heart. 

“Alright. I understand,” Elijah’s voice is cold and detached as he ends the call. 

He pauses, and we both stare at each other in silence. He doesn’t need to tell me what caused the change in his mood. I already heard it. 

His brother is dead.

Kol Mikaelson is dead. 

Taglist- @madeinmyownmind-blog @shadowyturtlenight @mysterygouhl @artemis371 @origshipfan @h1231 @undyingentity @caraxes-syrax @trinityobsessesovatings @touchmyzombienerds @andja14356 @mt2sssss @welzyyy @firebirdsalvatore @rattlesnake-orchid @only4thefics@triiizzz @s0uz4s @clare141312 @phoenix-fire-fox @animegirl-12s-world @kpopaddictsthings @whump-loverz @cocolapin145 @confused-q @sstrohma @saturnsb-tch @whaat-the-heeck @certainchaosunknown @not-the-actual-president-kennedy @morning0686 @moonynaturesethetic @queenicicle @k-karinaah @always-and-forever-at @billyg4en @jin90s @lou1333 @ghostlydreamlandtraveler @moonprincess1889 @lizzy-death @kaidennnnn @lilianarodriguez263 @deadpoolssweetchimi @lou1333 @ritzzblitzz @true-fairyy @lionheart178 @hon-jenia @vasoulavl @mt2sssss @trinityobsessesovatings @pom-pom-purin-lover @tupacshakurlegend @kenyax04 @origshipfan @daisychaingirl @0yo @bingoboi19 @nattherealrat @butterfly-lover @jaethaone

@abeeigrl @faith-alons26

Elijah knew this night was going to be unpleasant.

Not because of the noise, or the inevitable family drama, or the humans who always seemed to forget how to behave when offered free alcohol in his home. No. He could handle all of that.

It was the sweaters.

He stepped into the living room and immediately regretted it. The place looked like Christmas had thrown up, then someone had gone over the mess with a glue gun and a bucket of sequins. There were blinking lights on people’s chests. There were pom-poms. There were bells. One man had somehow managed to find something that played music every time he moved.

Elijah’s jaw tightened on instinct. His fingers fumbling for a cufflink that was not there, he was desperate to have something to do with his hands besides reach for a drink.

He’d dressed appropriately. Festive, but tasteful. A dark, expensive knit. Clean lines. No patterns. No flashing lights. No… jingling.

He told himself he was attending because it was tradition. Because Rebekah had insisted. Because Hope had been excited about it, and he wasn’t completely dead inside.

That was a lie.

He was here because you were here.

Or, at least, you had said you would. And Elijah had found himself thinking about seeing you again more than was reasonable.

His gaze swept the room before he could stop himself.

He found you near the bar, laughing at something Freya had said, your shoulders relaxed, cheeks warm from the heat and the drinks and the general chaos. You were wearing a sweater too, but it was cute. It had little embroidered candy canes and it was far too big for you, with the neckline slipping slightly off one shoulder.

Elijah hated how easy it was for his expression to soften the second he saw you.

He started toward you, slow, measured, weaving through the crowd like he wasn’t affected by it at all. Like his heart didn’t do that stupid, human thing where it sped up for no reason.

He was halfway there when Rebekah appeared at his side like a vengeful ghost.

"Elijah."

He didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on you. "Rebekah."

Her gaze dropped to his chest.

He felt it happen. The pause. The silent judgment. The disappointment that came with it.

"You cannot possibly think that counts."

"Counts as what?"

Rebekah gestured broadly to the room. "An ugly sweater."

"I was not aware I was required to participate in a competition," he said, glancing around. "And if I were, I would argue that this is seasonally appropriate."

She stared at him for a beat. Then she laughed.

"Oh, this is worse than I thought," she replied. "You tried."

"I did not try," Elijah said sharply, offended on principle. "I dressed."

"That," she said, patting his chest, "is a handsome man’s winter sweater. It’s practically flirtatious."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she already hooked her arm through his and steered him toward the hallway like he was a misbehaving child.

"I am not changing."

Rebekah leaned closer, her voice dropping to something dangerous and pleased. "You are."

You swore you saw Elijah arrive at the party, but then he completely vanished. You hoped to talk to him, your feelings for him only getting stronger since the last time you spoke, but you never found him.

You tried not to be obvious about it.

You made a lap around the living room, drink in hand, smiling at people you barely knew and nodding through conversations you didn’t care about. You checked the bar. You checked the hallway. You even checked the library, because Elijah loved hiding in there when the party got too crazy.

Nothing.

It was like he’d walked in and then dissolved into the walls.

You were starting to accept defeat, leaning against the kitchen counter and pretending you were totally fine, when some sparking, shiny monstrosity caught the corner of your eye.

You turned and nearly choked on your drink.

Elijah was standing at the fridge, wearing the ugliest sweater you had ever seen in your entire life.

It was themed like a suit. A full-on knit crime scene that looked like someone had taken Elijah’s entire personality and run it through a festive blender. There were stitched lapels, little fake pocket squares, bells sewn to the sleeves where his signature cufflinks would be. It was horrible.

It was beautiful.

Elijah’s face was calm. His posture was perfect. But his eyes were the eyes of a man who had been betrayed by family.

You stared for one full second, then you lost it. A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it, and you clapped a hand over your mouth like that would undo it.

Elijah’s gaze snapped to yours immediately.

He held it. Unblinking.

For a moment you thought he might actually turn around and walk straight back out the front door.

Instead, his shoulders eased. Just a fraction. Like the sound of you laughing had physically softened something in him.

He started toward you.

The bells jingled with every step.

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt.

When he reached you, you dropped your hand from your mouth, still smiling like an idiot.

"Elijah," you managed, voice trying very hard to be serious and failing.

"Don’t," he said quietly, but it wasn’t sharp. It was tired. Resigned.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, and then immediately ruined it by laughing again. "I just… you look…"

He glanced down at the sweater. Then back at you.

He sighed. "Rebekah did this to me."

You glanced past him and, sure enough, Rebekah was across the room, watching like a proud artist admiring her work. The second she caught you looking, she lifted her glass in a smug little toast.

You turned back to Elijah. "She planned this."

Elijah’s eyes narrowed slightly. "She enjoyed it."

"You can’t tell me you didn’t see this coming."

"I thought the worst she could do was force me into something with a reindeer," he replied, voice low. "I underestimated her."

You looked him up and down, still grinning. "It’s kind of impressive, honestly."

He exhaled through his nose. "Please don’t encourage her."

"I’m not encouraging," you said, innocent. "I’m appreciating."

Elijah tilted his head, the bells giving a faint jingle. "You’re enjoying this."

You raised your eyebrows. "Am I?"

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, eyes intense and steady, and your stomach did that stupid flip it always did around him.

Then he said, quietly, "I like seeing you laugh."

The words hit you harder than they should have. Simple. Honest. Very Elijah. Like he’d meant to keep it to himself and it slipped out anyway.

Your smile softened.

"You look good," you said, because you couldn’t not say it.

He gave you a look that suggested he didn’t believe you for a second.

"In this?" he asked.

"Yes," you insisted. "In… whatever this is."

Elijah’s brows lifted. "Humiliation disguised as a sweater."

"Festive humiliation," you corrected.

He huffed a small laugh, the sound short and reluctant, like it surprised him.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice. "Did you try to fight her?"

Elijah’s gaze flicked to the side for half a second. Guilty.

"I attempted," he admitted.

"And?"

"She is relentless."

You smiled. "I would’ve paid to see it."

His eyes slid back to yours. "I’m sure you would have."

You could hear it then, the faint amusement under the annoyance. Like he was trying not to let you see how much your reaction was affecting him, and failing.

You lifted your hand without thinking and rested it lightly against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm. 

His lips parted like the contact had surprised him. Your heart picked up speed in response and you leaned in before you could talk yourself out of it.

Elijah’s gaze dropped to your mouth, dark and intent, the space between you narrowing instinctively.

Something blinked.

Both of you froze.

A wash of bright colorful light flared between you as his sweater suddenly lit up, LEDs flashing to life in the unmistakable shape of a perfectly straight tie.

Elijah looked down at himself. Then back at you.

You stared for a beat.

Then you snorted.

And then you were laughing again, laughing so hard that tears sprang to your eyes. He joined in this time, a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer with a soft little jingle.

You shook your head, your hands sliding up his arms to curl around his shoulders.

"It's awful," you said, still grinning.

He smiled back. "It is."

"The worst."

"By far."

You tilted your chin and he met you halfway, lips brushing yours once, then again, a sweet, warm kiss that tasted like peppermint.

"So bad," you murmured.

He hummed a soft, amused sound, and kissed you again.

"Miserable," he whispered.

You laughed and pressed closer, your hand slipping under the ugly, beautiful sweater to find his skin. "Maybe we should just take it off,"

Elijah’s brow ticked up and he took your hand.

"Come upstairs with me then," he said.

You laughed. "Bossy."

"Only when necessary," he replied, already pulling you away from the crowd. The bells jingled as he walked, like the sweater was tattling on him.

"Is this you saving me from the party?" you asked.

"This," he said, glancing down at the blinking tie, "is me saving myself."

No one threw a party quite like Rebekah Mikaelson. Over the many years that you and Hayley had been best friends, you had heard all about her parties. Full of laughter, dancing, and the finest liquor money could buy. It sounded amazing, but your ex-boyfriend Mike didn't enjoy parties… so you had never been to one before.

He didn't enjoy most things, actually. Not when they didn’t revolve around him.

So when Hayley burst into your apartment with a garment bag and a curling iron, declaring that you were going to the Mikaelson ball tonight, you laughed.

And then panicked.

"Absolutely not," you said, dodging the brush she was already brandishing like a weapon. "I'm not really ball material."

Hayley gave you a once-over, arching a brow at your ratty sweatpants and the hair that hadn’t seen a brush in days.

You crossed your arms over your chest. "You can't just spring this on me. I don't have anything to wear, and I don't... Look, I'm a mess."

"I'm well aware," Hayley replied. "That's why I brought backup."

The doorbell rang.

"Oh, god," you said, backing up a step.

But Hayley was already at the door, opening it with a flourish. Rebekah swept into the room, blonde hair bouncing as she set her sights on you. She was beautiful and confident and everything you wished you could be.

"Oh, dear. You are a bit of a disaster."

"Thank you for the honesty," you mumbled. "Apologies for lacking the perfect vampire constitution."

"Nothing a little blush can't fix," she said, waving her hand. "Don't worry. I have everything under control."

"You really don't," you said, but both of them were ignoring you, chatting animatedly about dresses and hairstyles.

"I don't have anything to wear, it's too late to-"

"Yes, you do." Rebekah thrust a garment bag into your hands. "My dress should fit you."

"This is ridiculous," you said.

Hayley was already ushering you into the bathroom, telling you to hurry because they only had an hour to work.

"One hour!" she called after you.

You rolled your eyes, shutting the door and taking a deep breath.

The garment bag hung from the back of the door, innocuous and threatening all at once. You stared at it for a moment, then unzipped it carefully like it might explode.

It didn’t. Instead, it shimmered.

A beautiful velvet blue dress caught the light in delicate ripples. You let out a breath and reached out, running your fingers over the fabric.

"Hurry up!"

"All right, all right," you grumbled, pulling off your clothes and sliding the dress over your head. It hugged every curve, the back plunging past your waist. It was more skin than you were used to showing. You weren’t sure if that thrilled or terrified you.

"Let me see!" Rebekah knocked on the door.

"Hold your horses," you called, smoothing your hands down the front of the dress.

They didn’t even wait for you to finish zipping it before dragging you out to sit on the edge of the couch. Hayley tackled your hair while Rebekah handled makeup, the two of them bickering affectionately as they worked around each other like a well-oiled glam squad.

"Ow! okay, that’s attached to my head," you muttered as Hayley tugged a curl into place.

"Beauty is pain," she replied cheerfully, curling another section. "Now hold still."

Rebekah smoothed something over your cheekbone. "We’re going soft and sultry. You already have the eyes, we’re just enhancing the drama."

By the time they were done, your hair fell in glossy waves around your shoulders, your lashes were long and fluttery, and your lips had just enough sheen to catch the light. You barely recognized the person blinking back at you in the mirror.

You didn’t look like the girl who spent months hiding from her own reflection. You looked like someone who belonged at a ball.

"One last thing," Rebekah said.

You turned to her, raising a brow. She held out a necklace, made of glittering diamonds… and a very large ruby in the center.

"That's way too much," you said, shaking your head.

"It's my party," Rebekah said, stepping closer and draping the necklace around your neck. "If I say it's the finishing touch, then it's the finishing touch."

"Are these real diamonds?"

"Of course," Rebekah said.

"Rebekah," you started.

"I'm loaning it to you," she said. "You can keep them for the evening, and I'll come get them tomorrow."

Your fingers found the ruby instinctively, thumb brushing over its polished surface. It didn’t feel like something that belonged to you. But maybe, just for tonight…you could pretend.

"Can I talk to you two for a second?"

Klaus looked up first, lazily amused, already halfway through a glass of bourbon. Elijah glanced over as well, more curious than concerned.

It was just before the party. The compound was nearly ready. Candlelight glowed along the walls, soft music filtered in from the courtyard, and the scent of fresh flowers clung to the air. A few staff moved in and out of the hall, but this room was quiet. Tucked away from the chaos.

Hayley stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She stayed by it for a second, like she was still deciding whether this was a good idea.

"I need a favor," she said.

Klaus leaned back in his chair, arms stretching wide along the back like he was settling into a throne. "I’m sorry, Hayley, but I can't give you another child. At least not yet. Maybe in a few-"

She hurled an unopened bottle of whiskey at his head with the kind of force that would kill a normal person. Klaus ducked and caught it midair, grinning like he just won a prize.

Elijah sighed, setting down the glass he was polishing and straightening the cuffs of his jacket. "What can we help you with, Hayley?"

She glared at Klaus as she crossed the room, then turned her attention to Elijah. "My friend is coming tonight. The one I told you about. She’s been through a lot this year."

Klaus snorted and took a sip of his drink.

Hayley ignored him. "She had a bad breakup and hasn’t really left her apartment since. The guy treated her like garbage. Told her she was nothing. It got in her head. She doesn’t think she’s worth anything anymore. And I need you to help me convince her otherwise."

Klaus raised a brow, swirling the glass in his hand. "And what exactly do you want us to do, love?"

"Nothing complicated. Just flirt with her. Make her feel good. Seen."

Klaus tilted his head, amused. "What makes you think we’re qualified for such a task?" He leaned back again, waiting for her answer with a smirk already tugging at his mouth.

"You know why," Hayley said, crossing her arms tight over her chest.

"I think I have to hear you say it," Klaus replied, eyes gleaming.

Hayley refused to bite. She turned toward Elijah instead.

Elijah straightened subtly. "I’m not sure how comfortable I am-"

"Please," she said, cutting him off. "I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important."

There was a pause. Elijah’s brow furrowed, but then he gave a single nod. "Very well."

Klaus scoffed behind his glass. "I’m not going to help unless you say the words."

Hayley sighed, leveling him with a look. "Because the two of you are the most charming and handsome men I know."

Klaus beamed like he had just been crowned prom king. Elijah remained still, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"But you also have the personality of a rabid dog," Hayley added.

"Well," Klaus said, setting his drink aside. "I suppose we can do this for you, darling little wolf. But only because you asked so nicely."

The courtyard was already glowing, lit from below by soft golds and flickering candles, with strings of fairy lights webbing across the balconies like constellations. You looked up at it all with your mouth hanging open.

Hayley had described it before, but it was so much more. The music was a low, rhythmic thrum, and the air was warm, heavy with the scent of jasmine and champagne.

And there were people everywhere. Dresses spun through the air, and laughter danced above the melody.

You felt frozen for a second. Not in fear, exactly. Just in awe. This didn’t feel like something you were supposed to walk into. It felt like something you were supposed to watch from a window or a screen.

"Hey," Hayley said, nudging your shoulder gently. "You good?"

You swallowed, nodding.

Rebekah stepped closer, reaching for the necklace around your throat and adjusting the ruby pendant. She didn't say anything, but her eyes softened as she smoothed her hands over your shoulders.

Then she linked her arm with yours and began steering you into the crowd.

"Remember," she whispered. "This is my party. That means everyone here is beneath us."

You giggled, and some of the tension bled out of your body. Hayley grabbed your other arm, and you let yourself be led further into the courtyard.

"There are some people I want you to meet," Hayley said.

"Oh I don't... I'm not sure-"

But it was too late, they were steering you towards two of the most attractive men you had ever seen. You knew who they were, Rebekah's notorious brothers. One of them was dark-haired and serious, with a jawline that could cut glass and a perfectly fitted suit. The other was blonde, smirking like he knew all of your secrets, and his tie was loosened and untucked like he couldn't be bothered to keep up appearances.

"Elijah. Klaus."

Both men looked up, and for a split second, you thought they would look right past you, these weren't the kind of men who usually gave you attention. But the blonde smiled and stepped forward, holding out a hand.

"I'm Niklaus," he said, taking your hand in his and placing a gentle kiss to the back of it.

Your heart did a funny little dance in your chest. "Hi."

He kept hold of your hand as he tilted his head. "And what's your name?"

"Y/N," you replied, and his smile widened.

"Y/N," he repeated, his accent wrapping around the syllables and making them sound exotic. "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

You laughed and shook your head, a blush creeping over your cheeks. You had no idea how to respond to him. No one had ever spoken to you like this.

"Oh, look at that blush. So precious," he said, finally releasing your hand and stepping back. "Isn't she precious, Elijah?"

The other man shifted closer, and the scent of his cologne made your stomach flutter. You were so distracted by it that it took you a second to realize he was also holding out a hand. You took it, and he pressed a soft kiss to the back of your knuckles, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Quite," he murmured, his gaze lingering on your lips.

You felt a rush of warmth at the attention, the first spark of attraction you had felt in months. It was nice to be seen.

Rebekah squeezed your arm, breaking the spell. "We're going to leave you to it. Have fun, Y/N."

"Oh, um," you said, not wanting to be left alone.

But they were already gone. Leaving you alone with two strangers. Two beautiful strangers.

You stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. You could feel their eyes on you, taking in every detail, and it made your skin prickle with heat.

"So... Uh. What do you guys do for work?"

It was a stupid question, and you regretted it as soon as you asked. But it was the only thing that came to mind.

"We don't... exactly have jobs," Klaus said, grinning. "Not the traditional sort, anyway."

"Right... I knew that." You laughed nervously, fiddling with the necklace. "Vampires don't really work, do they?"

"Not typically, no," Elijah said. "But there are ways to pass the time."

"Like throwing parties," you offered. "Rebekah’s specialty,"

"Among other things," Klaus said, flashing another smile. "Our sister enjoys being the center of attention."

He took a step closer, tilting his head as his gaze traveled down your figure once more; lingering a moment too long.

"But tonight, I’d say you might be giving her a run for her money."

You blinked. "Me?"

"That dress," he said, voice dropping into something lower, smoother. "It’s sinful. And you're wearing it like it was stitched for you by the devil himself."

Your mouth opened, then closed again.

Klaus smiled, pleased with your fluster. "Tell me something, love. Are you single?"

The question landed too fast. Too sharp.

Your breath caught. "What?"

He chuckled, lifting a brow like it was nothing. "I mean, any man would be mad to let you walk out looking like that unattended. But maybe you're into that. A little danger. A little attention."

You swallowed, throat suddenly tight. The heat on your skin wasn’t from his flattery anymore. It was that sinking, curling pressure in your chest. The kind you knew too well.

Your ex Mike used to talk like that.

Fast. Intense. Like you were being swept up in something heady and grand. Until it wasn’t fun anymore. Until the compliments turned into cages.

Your fingers pressed against the ruby at your throat. You forced a smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"I should get some air," you said, voice thinner than you meant it to be. "It’s… it’s warm in here."

You turned before either brother could say another word, slipping into the crowd as fast as your heels would let you.

You didn't stop until you reached the second floor balcony. The cool air hit your cheeks, and you closed your eyes for a moment. It helped, a little.

The voices in the courtyard echoed up from below, the music filtering out into the cool night air. You wrapped your fingers around the stone railing, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

The door opened behind you, and you glanced back. It was Elijah, standing there with his hands clasped behind him.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Fine," you replied. "It was just... too hot in there."

"Ah."

You expected him to turn and go, but he didn't. Instead, he moved closer, leaning against the railing a few feet away from you.

He held out a bottle of water. "I thought you might need this."

"Oh," you said, surprised. "Thank you."

You took the bottle, twisting off the cap and taking a long sip. It was cool and refreshing, washing away some of the dryness in your mouth.

Elijah was quiet, but his presence was soothing. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, curious about him.

"How long have you known Hayley?" he asked.

"Only a couple of years," you replied. "But we've become close. She's... she's been a good friend to me."

He nodded, looking out over the courtyard. "She is a good person."

"Yes, she is," you agreed, smiling.

There was a pause. You weren't sure what else to say, but you didn't want him to leave. You turned back to the railing, enjoying the way the cool air caressed your bare shoulders.

"I'm sorry if my brother upset you," he said.

"He didn't," you replied. "It's just... I'm not used to people talking like that. At least not to me."

Elijah tilted his head. "How do you mean?"

You shrugged, tracing the curve of the railing with one finger. "I've never been the type of girl men notice."

"I find that hard to believe."

You glanced up, startled. He was looking at you, expression sincere. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and bottomless. You could feel the intensity of his focus, the way it pulled at something inside you. It was intoxicating.

Your pulse fluttered. You bit your lip, looking away. "Thank you," you whispered.

"You're welcome," he replied, and his voice was deeper than before.

"So... What's it like living for centuries?" You tried to keep your tone light, but the words still felt silly. Elijah's lips twitched.

"You never asked Rebekah?"

"No. She scares me a little."

Elijah laughed. It was a quiet, reserved thing. But it lit up his face, making him look younger. Less serious.

"I suppose I don't know any other way, it's like asking a fish what it's like to swim."

"That makes sense," you replied. "Though, I'm sure it's not without its perks. Like all the history, art and culture you get to witness."

"Those are some of the best parts," he agreed, his expression softening. "I've lived in New Orleans for a long time, and I always enjoy seeing what changes it goes through."

"Although, there is always a point where the new becomes the normal and the old is forgotten." You sighed, leaning forward against the railing. "I've spent my whole life living in the past, and now the present feels so daunting."

Elijah looked thoughtful, considering. "It is true, things change. But the important things remain."

"Like what?"

"Music," he said. "Laughter. Love. These things will always exist, no matter how much the world changes." He paused, his eyes catching yours again. "And you can create your own history, if you wish."

You smiled, tilting your head. "Have you done that? Made your own history, I mean."

"In my own way, yes." He said, a private smile crossing his lips.

You looked at him, wondering what his story was. Wondering what it would be like to see the world through his eyes.

"So, is this a normal day for you, then? Parties and champagne and..." you trailed off, glancing down.

"Occasionally," he replied, amusement tugging at his mouth.

You straightened a bit, turning to lean your hip against the railing and look at him.

"I bet it's a nice break from... whatever it is vampires do during the day," you said.

He laughed softly, nodding. "It is, although I prefer peace and quiet if I'm being honest... Would you like a tour?"

"Sure," you said, feeling a little thrill.

"Follow me," he said, holding out an arm for you.

You hesitated a moment before sliding your arm through his, allowing him to lead you back inside the building.

He walked slowly, guiding you down a long hallway. It was quieter here, and the music and laughter faded into a soft hum.

You looked around, taking in the details. Everything was old and ornate, but it was well cared for. You couldn't help but notice the art and sculptures dotting the walls and tables.

"That's beautiful," you said, gesturing toward a painting hanging in an alcove.

"It's one of Niklaus'," Elijah replied.

"Really?" You studied it more closely, taking in the brush strokes and colors.

"Yes. He has a keen eye for beauty."

"He's talented," you said, smiling.

Elijah led you down a smaller hallway, stopping in front of a set of doors.

"This is the library," he said, opening them.

You gasped. It was a huge, spacious room, lined with bookshelves and lit by soft lamps. You stepped inside, turning in a slow circle.

"This is amazing," you said, gazing at all the ancient books lining the walls.

"It is," he agreed, moving toward a shelf and running his fingers along the spines.

You watched him, admiring the way he touched the books with reverence, like they were precious things. You wondered how many times he'd read each one, if he had a favorite.

"Have you read all of these?" you asked.

"Most of them," he said, smiling as he pulled a book from the shelf.

He flipped to a page and showed it to you. It was a detailed drawing of a necklace. The very same one resting against your skin.

Your hand reached up instinctively to touch it.

"That’s…" you trailed off. "This is the same one?"

He nodded, stepping closer.

"It once belonged to a noblewoman in 15th-century France," he said, voice quiet. "Her husband had many affairs, wasn't subtle about it either. But every time he was caught he would buy her a new piece of jewelry to make up for it."

His fingers brushed yours as he moved the pendant between his fingertips. His touch was gentle, feather-light.

"She then sold all of her jewels to Rebekah so she could run away with her lover," he continued, smiling. "It's a symbol of choosing freedom and happiness over safety and comfort."

You blinked, stunned. "And now Rebekah lends it to random girls at her parties?"

Elijah smiled. "Rebekah doesn't lend that necklace lightly. And you're hardly random."

The compliment hung in the air, soft and startling. You blushed, ducking your head.

"Would you like to see more?" Elijah asked, holding out his hand.

"Please," you said, slipping your fingers into his.

His palm was cool against yours, and his touch was firm but gentle. He guided you through the halls, pointing out different rooms and telling you stories about each one. You hung onto his every word, the way he described the past and present with equal reverence.

You passed a pair of glass doors that looked out over the courtyard. The sound of a string quartet floated through, and the laughter and chatter of the guests spilled out into the hall.

"Do you want to dance?" Elijah asked, glancing toward the music.

"With you?"

"Unless you wish me to fetch Niklaus?" he teased, raising a brow.

You smiled, shaking your head.

"No, I mean... I'd love to."

He opened the door, leading you back under the glow of the fairy lights. You could see the crowd below, swirling and laughing and dancing.

He pulled you gently toward him, one hand settling at your waist, the other holding yours.

The music washed over you, slow and sweet. You swayed together, his eyes fixed on yours, your free hand came up to rest against his shoulder.

"Thank you for the tour," you said, smiling up at him.

"It was my pleasure," he replied, his expression soft.

"I'm not really a party girl, but this is nice."

"What do you like to do, then?" he asked, curiosity coloring his tone.

"Honestly? I'm happiest with a book and a cup of coffee."

Elijah chuckled. "I can appreciate that."

"Yeah, Hayley says I need to get out more," you said.

"I agree. You're very easy to talk to."

You blushed. "That's because you're good at making conversation."

"No, it's because you're interesting."

"Really?" you asked, unable to keep the surprise out of your voice.

"Yes. You have a keen mind and a sharp wit," he said, smiling.

You shook your head, laughing. "No one's ever said that to me before."

"Then they are fools," he replied, his grip on your waist tightening slightly.

You fell silent, letting the music wash over you. It was nice, dancing with Elijah. He made you feel safe and desirable in a way no one had before.

The song ended, and you reluctantly let go of him, stepping back. For a moment your hands lingered, still linked, neither of you wanting to be the first to pull away.

Then he gently pulled you in, and his lips met yours in a soft kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed as the world around you disappeared, melting away until there was nothing but his touch and the warmth that bloomed through you.

When you parted, it was with a shy smile. He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing along your jaw.

"That was... unexpected," you said.

He smiled, leaning in to kiss you again. "Good or bad?"

"Very good," you whispered, wrapping your arms around his neck.

The music began again, a soft melody floating through the air. You pressed closer to him, letting him lead as you swayed together.

"Would you like another drink?" Elijah asked after a while.

"Sure," you replied, not quite ready to let go of him.

He smiled and held out his hand. You took it, walking beside him as he led you back downstairs into the courtyard.

As you reached the bar, Elijah glanced toward a staff member passing by with a tray of empty flutes.

"I’ll be right back," he said. "Going to fetch a bottle of something special."

You nodded, dazed, your pulse still skimming just below your skin.

Elijah disappeared into the crowd, leaving you standing by the bar, warm and a little breathless. You pressed your fingers to your mouth and laughed softly to yourself. It felt silly, but… real. Like something was shifting inside you, something that hadn’t moved in a long time.

You turned slightly, meaning to watch him go, when a familiar voice cut through the hum of music and chatter.

"She’s practically glowing," Klaus said, his tone smug. "Though I could swear I had her blushing first.”

You froze as another familiar voice joined in, this time Hayley. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it? You bring her here, dress her up, and put her in Elijah’s path… of course he plays the perfect gentleman. But even for him, I’d say he’s laying it on a bit thick tonight.” Klaus swirled his drink lazily. 

Hayley’s voice softened, almost lost under the murmur of the crowd. "She needed to feel special, Nik. That’s all. And he did exactly that. Did you see the smile on her face? Dancing with her on the balcony? She’ll be talking about that for months instead of her stupid ex."

Klaus gave a low, amused hum. "If you say so. Still, quite the performance."

"Shhh," Hayley warned, her voice dropping. "I don’t know where they went, and I don’t want Y/N hearing you.”

Your blood ran cold. The air left your lungs, leaving you lightheaded and sick. That’s when the ringing started in your ears.

You stared at the polished bar top. The ruby necklace burned against your throat.

You let him kiss you.

You let yourself believe it meant something.

That a man like that could want someone like you.

Slowly, you unclasped the necklace. The sound of it sliding off your skin was the only thing you could hear above the blood rushing in your ears.

You turned around.

Hayley was the first to spot you, her smile faltering. "Y/N-"

You walked straight toward them.

Klaus stood straighter, caught off guard. Hayley stepped forward, hands lifted like she was about to explain something that didn’t need explaining.

You held out the necklace.

"This was a nice touch," you snapped, "Expensive. Just enough sparkle to make the humiliation really shine."

"Wait, just-" Hayley started.

You dropped the necklace at her feet. Hayley stared down at it. When she looked up, her face was stricken.

"Tell Elijah I don't need his fucking pity, and I certainly don't need yours," you said, eyes fixed on hers.

You turned, pushing through the crowd without looking back. You ignored the stares, the whispers, the music fading away behind you. Past everything that had made you feel beautiful for a few brief hours.

You didn’t stop until the air was cold in your lungs and the noise of the party was far, far behind.

Elijah was in the back of his private wine cellar, trying to find something fitting for you. Something sweet and earthy.

The last hour had been one of the best of his long life. You were funny and smart and warm. It was so easy to fall into conversation with you, like the words just came.

He knew what a rare thing that was, that special spark that drew two people together. He knew he needed to nurture it, protect it, before the night ended.

So he was here, poring over the labels of his finest wines, trying to decide which one would say what he couldn’t yet find the words for.

It was a small thing, really. A tiny gesture. But you were worth it.

He grabbed a bottle of Chateau Latour from 1805, it was a good year, one he wanted to tell you about. He would, if you stayed. If the night grew long and the conversation never slowed.

He smiled at the thought and scaled up the cellar steps two at a time.

He was halfway across the courtyard, headed for the bar, when a commotion near the entrance caught his attention.

Your voice.

Sharp. Cold. Cracking with fury.

He paused, instincts sharpening.

"This was a nice touch," you were saying, voice too calm, too controlled. He followed the sound instinctively, a bottle still clutched in his hand. "Expensive. Just enough sparkle to make the humiliation really shine."

A few guests turned to look. Elijah stopped in his tracks as he saw you. Your shoulders squared, lips trembling, ruby necklace dangling from your fingertips.

"Wait, just-" Hayley started.

You dropped the necklace at her feet.

"Tell Elijah I don't need his fucking pity, and I certainly don't need yours."

And then you were gone.

Elijah stood frozen.

The wine bottle slipped slightly in his grip.

Hayley and Klaus both turned to look at him, the same look of shame on their faces. He was moving before they could speak, grabbing Klaus by the front of his shirt and pulling him in close.

"What did you do?" he hissed.

"Just revealed the truth of her evening, brother," Klaus said, smirking. "Nothing wrong with a bit of honesty."

Elijah shoved him, looking at Hayley, his expression dark.

Hayley sighed, shaking her head. "I was just trying to help her," she snapped, throwing her hands up. "I wanted her to feel desired again. I didn’t think you would go that far and lead her on!"

"I wasn't leading her on," he said, his composure cracking around the edges. "From the moment I saw her, I was…" His voice dropped. "This wasn’t a performance."

He turned on his heel before they could answer, the set of his shoulders rigid, steps fast and purposeful, cutting through the crowd.

Toward the only thing that mattered.

Finding you.

You couldn’t get to your apartment fast enough. The tears came now, blurring your vision. All you could think about was getting home and locking the door. Possibly never leaving again.

You had just made it to the gate when Elijah appeared.

"Wait," he said, his voice cutting through the roar in your ears.

"I have nothing to say to you," you said, pushing the gate open and marching up the steps.

He followed you. "Please, Y/N. Let me explain."

You fumbled with the key, struggling to fit it into the lock. Your hands were shaking so badly, you couldn't seem to get the right angle.

"I'm sorry," Elijah said, his voice low and urgent. "Tonight was a terrible misunderstanding, I wish to explain myself."

"Don't." You spun to face him, wiping at your cheeks. "Don't insult my intelligence. I get you were just trying to be nice. And I appreciate that. Really. But…" you sucked in a shaky breath, fresh tears blurring your vision. "But I can't…I can't handle being treated like a charity case, or a joke, or-"

"You are not a joke," Elijah said, shaking his head. "That wasn't... That wasn't what I was doing."

"Well, it wasn't what I wanted either," you said, your voice catching in your throat.

"Y/N-"

"Just leave," you said, turning back to the door.

You finally managed to get the key in the lock, twisting it open and stepping inside. You were about to slam it shut when Elijah spoke again.

"I would like the opportunity to show you who I really am," he said, his voice soft.

You turned to look at him, the rage and hurt bubbling up in your chest.

"I've seen enough."

You slammed the door, not caring if the sound echoed down the hallway. Not caring about anything anymore.