Having Fun

so when your professor pairs everyone up for a presentation project, he’s over the moon when the two of you end up getting paired together. maybe always sitting in the seat next to yours and asking you for clarification on parts of the lectures finally paid off.

and when he invited you to his off-campus apartment because it’s “quieter with no distractions” (he doesn’t want you looking at any of the other frat guys), you were surprised, to say the least.

not because he invited you over rather than meeting at the campus cafe, but because of the digimon posters strewn on his bedroom walls and a shelf nailed into the wall above his desk filled with shounen manga. and below that, on the wall that his desk is pushed against, is a physics-related poster.

he watches your eyes curiously flick over all the dorky merch and decorations, and he brings a hand up to scratch the back of his head. people might think that he doesn’t care about what they think of him, but he desperately wants to know the thoughts going through your mind right now.

you half-expected to see a digimon plush on his bed but instead you find a neatly made bed with navy blue sheets.

is this the same gojo satoru that you know? the heartthrob of the campus? the cool and charming fratboy?

“what’s up?” he asks, breaking you out of your thoughts. “you’re looking at my room like it’s a murder scene.”

you snort softly, shaking your head. “nothing. just… didn’t take you for a digimon guy.”

he chuckles and plops down on his bed, leaning back on his palms and manspreading. “ah. well, the secret is out. promise you won’t tell and ruin my reputation?” he jokes, smile widening when your lips curve up softly.

he takes a moment to admire you outside of a class setting. the way you stand by his desk, fingers laced together and your shoulders slightly stiff as you rock back and forth on your heels like you’re unsure where to sit and what to do.

a soft smile tugs at his lips, dimples revealing themselves. completely different to the blinding grins he blesses everyone else with. a calm blue in his eyes despite his heart hammering behind his ribs.

standing up from the edge of his bed, he pulls out his wheeled desk chair and gestures for you to take a seat.

“sit down. i’ll get us some snacks. any preferences?”

“anything, as long as it isn’t those sugary atrocities you call food.”

his head tips back with laughter, his eyes sparkling with amusement when he looks at you again. “if it isn’t food, there wouldn’t be any nutritional value on the label,” he says matter-of-factly, though jokingly, and you can’t help but huff out a laugh.

he’s grinning to himself as he leaves his room and goes to the kitchen to scour some snacks. he can’t ignore the fluttering of his heart nor the warmth creeping onto his cheeks. and he has to mentally keep himself in check.

it takes him a few minutes to grab snacks, solely because he’s trying to remember what you like to eat. trying to remember the glimpses of seeing you have lunch under the oak tree, a book in your lap while you eat. you always look so peaceful and content, even if he wanted to go up to you to talk, he could never bring himself to pop that little bubble of peace.

when satoru finally comes back to his room, where you’re scrolling on your laptop that you propped up on his desk, black frames are sitting on his pretty face. opting to switch from his round sunglasses because his contacts were drying his eyes out.

you look up from the screen and take a double look, surprised to see him wearing glasses - you didn’t even know that he needed them. and you can’t help but admire him subtly as he places a bowl of crisps on the desk next to you, along with a packet of strawberry laces, a bar of chocolate, and two cans of cola.

“… you look cute with glasses,” you murmur, keeping your eyes on your laptop, scrolling purposelessly now to avoid making eye contact.

a grin immediately jumps onto his face like that was the first compliment he’s ever received as he sits back down on the edge of his bed, propping his elbow on his knee and resting his chin in his palm. his blue eyes lock onto you as he feels a flutter in his chest and an unfamiliar churn in his stomach.

“yeah? does that mean i finally have your attention?” his tone is velvety and teasing, but he’s internally filled with giddiness. he swears he feels like he’s floating.

you turn away from your laptop to glance at him curiously. “what do you mean?”

“well, sometimes you act like i’m invisible,” he huffs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “you’re the one person who looks at me like i’m… normal.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you are normal. you’re human, not some god.”

he chuckles at your bluntness, head tilting to the side and his pearly hair follows his movement, falling to the side gracefully like it was scripted. “i like how honest you are. makes you genuine, you know.”

“what, compared to the people who kiss your ass?” you ask, rolling your eyes at the thought.

amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes. “yeah, exactly that. this is… nice,” he admits softly.

it’s a nice change from being with the other fratboys and the people who flock to him. despite his heart beating rapidly each time you look at him or smile, he feels relaxed in your presence. like he doesn’t have to play a role or act a certain way.

you examine him again, trying to read him, trying to solve him like the many equations you’re able to crack.

“is this really you? or is this a new tactic of yours to try and get me in your bed?”

he chokes on his own spit at your direct question, the apples of his cheeks and tips of his ears turning red like he’s a prude. which, clearly, he’s the opposite of. sliding his way into hearts with his smooth words and wooing girls with a smile that lives on his mouth like it pays rent there.

but when it comes to you, it’s like all his charm flies out the window. like he doesn’t know how to flirt without becoming nervous.

“no!” he exclaims, before clearing his throat. “no, i’m not trying anything, i promise.”

and from his flustered reaction, you can assume he’s telling the truth.

“hm… why do you put on that persona, then? the popular one. assuming that it is a persona.”

his body language suddenly changes and he sits straighter, something suddenly shifting in his expression and his eyes don’t give any hint to his thoughts.

“i thought we came here to work on a project, not analyse me,” he dismisses lightheartedly, a faint smile on his lips. he comes off as unbothered, but at the same time, he manages to swiftly change the subject like he wanted to.

you nod, choosing not to pry. you aren’t friends anyway. turning back to your laptop, you pick up a few crisps while you read a paper.

you hear the pop of him opening a can of the sugary drink and he takes a few sips before setting it back down on the desk, on a coaster that has a pattern subtly referencing an anime.

he grabs his own laptop, and you ask for his email to share the document with him so you can work on the project together. you both agree to do some research first and he sits back against the headboard of his bed, long legs stretched out and his ankles locked.

the packet of strawberry laces rustles slightly as he picks it up and offers you some before mindlessly chewing on them as he works on his laptop, occasionally fixing his glasses.

you’re surprised that he readily agreed to the equal split of work and didn’t waste time on getting started. when you got paired with him, you assumed that you’d have to nag him about it or that you’d end up having to do it all by yourself while he takes half the credit.

though, he can’t help but steal a few glances at you while you work. watching your concentrated face, the way you rhythmically tap your fingers on your laptop while you’re thinking, how you brush your fingers through your hair every so often when it falls into your vision.

he manages to do work for an hour straight before he itches to talk to you again about anything other than the project (he was already missing talking to you after twenty minutes).

“sooo… you like digimon?” he asks, trying to break the silence and make a small attempt at conversation with you, to get to know you.

you look up at him, and the way his hair frames his features makes him look… soft. almost boyish. his frosty eyelashes fluttering when he looks up from his laptop and towards you.

it’s like there’s a different satoru in front of you. one who suddenly doesn’t know how to flirt or make conversation, and somehow his voice is more honeyed when he speaks to you - uncertain and lacking confidence. a contradiction to the air of confidence that follows him everyday like a shadow, even with a mere turn of his head.

you’ll admit that this is somehow more charming. like he isn’t putting up a front or being someone who he isn’t. like this is him.

after a few moments of pondering the switch in his behaviour once more, you reply, “not really. i mean… i barely know the difference between digimon and pokemon.”

a scandalised look befalls his expression as his mouth falls open, halfway through eating a strawberry lace.

“you’re kidding, right?” he scoffs, unbelieving. “digimon is like ten times better in terms of the power system and the characters. it was way ahead of its time, and it’s so much more complex in terms of the world-building and the deeper themes, and--”

suddenly, he pauses. realising that he was rambling and he gives you an awkward smile.

“shit, sorry,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head again. “you probably don’t wanna hear about all that shit.”

“on the contrary, actually,” you say, having listened to his mini rant with contentment. “it’s cute and dorky.”

“i got called cute by you twice today. aren’t i lucky?” he grins, all teeth and dimples. a soft pink dusting over his cheeks. “have i wooed you yet?” he teases.

“i say ‘cute’ in the way that people would call a puppy cute. don’t inflate your ego more than it already has been.” you roll your eyes, though playfully.

his grin never falters. knowing that you find him cute in any way makes him feel like an overly excited puppy. and it sounds much better coming from you compared to anyone else.

“still cute,” he affirms. he leans forward, setting his laptop aside on his bed. “alright, for every hour of work we do, we watch one episode of digimon,” he decides, “you know, to keep up the motivation or whatever.”

a smile tugs at your lips and you consider his suggestion - it wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“and,” he continues, checking the time on the clock hanging on his bedroom wall, “we’ve already done one hour.”

he stands up from his bed, stretching his arms over his head as he looks down at you with a smile. you get a glimpse of the ridges of his abs before he lowers his arms, his smile turning mischievous when he notices your eyes flicker downwards.

but he decides not to tease. instead he waits for your answer, hopeful that you’ll say yes.

“alright, just one episode,” you agree, and he beams.

three episodes later, neither of you realise that another hour has gone by; this time, without a shred of work being done. when you glance at the clock and realise the time, you sit up straight on his sofa.

“gojo, we said one episode,” you huff, confused as to how you let the time slip past you. yeah, you probably got distracted by his quiet explanations throughout the episodes and his humming to the soundtrack, but you still don’t know how you let it happen.

when you reach for the remote, he turns to you with a pout. “wait, wait, we have plenty of time to get the assignment done.”

“well, i prefer to stick to a schedule and not waste time.”

“well, you’ll have to get used to being a little more chill, stickler,” he argues childishly, watching you pause the episode and you give him a firm look. “fiiineeeuuhh, i guess we’ll do some work.”

he drags his feet going back to his room and getting back to the project, lazily sprawled on his bed with his laptop while you sit at his desk again. he’s slightly more distracted this time around like he’s itching to do anything else. and it wasn’t the desire to watch more digimon, but to spend more time with you outside of a class or project setting.

you had left a distance between the two of you while you were sitting on his sofa watching digimon, but having you sit close to him made him feel a type of fuzziness that he’s never felt before. he thinks about having your body warmth so close to his, the way you seemed relaxed and were enjoying watching it. he can’t help but want more moments like that with you.

satoru doesn’t realise that he ended up zoning out, pretty eyes on you, glassed over with a deep yearning and a delicate blush on his cheeks.

“… gojo?” you call quietly, a concerned lilt in your voice when you notice him stuck in a trance.

“satoru.”

“huh?”

“call me satoru,” he clarifies, now back to reality and smiling at you softly.

“oh… okay, satoru,” you say, tasting his name on your tongue and the way it rolls off so sweetly.

his heart lurches. he wants to memorise your voice and how you say his name. he wants to bottle up each smile and gaze you give him. he wants to cherish every moment with you. and he can’t help the words that he says next from tumbling out.

“do you wanna go out with me?” he asks, before immediately waving his hands as if to defend himself. “i mean… not as a date, unless you want that. but like-- fuck… i just want to get to know you. if that’s okay with you. i get it if not--”

your light laugh cuts him off from his nervous rambling, and he looks at you with puzzlement and surprise and awe. his palms feel clammy and his heart thumps in his chest it’s as if he can hear it pounding in his ears.

is this what it’s like to have a crush? god, i just made myself look like a fucking loser. but she’s so cute when she laughs i can’t even be upset.

“sure.”

“yeah, whatever, that’s okay. i didn’t think you’d want to-- wait, what?” he looks stunned, like he was prepared for you to turn him down. or at least hesitate before saying yes. maybe he would’ve had to wait for a few more of these sessions before you agreed.

“i said sure. although, i wouldn’t want to term it as a date. not yet, at least. getting to know each other sounds nice if you bring along this you, not the other you.”

his mouth parts slightly, his mind racing with thoughts. “… this me? you like this version of me?” he asks, sounding shocked. and here he thought he was making a fool out of himself.

you nod, giving him a sweet smile that makes his heart trip over itself. “the real you, right?”

“fuck, if i had known that you like this… nevermind, it doesn’t matter now. okay. okay, i’ll plan something for us.” he can’t bite back the smile of pure giddiness, and he feels like a lovesick schoolgirl, internally swinging his legs back and forth. a rush of ideas already come to him - the hard part will be choosing a single plan.

“i look forward to it, satoru,” you say, and he clings onto every word. “but we do still have our project to do.”

he doesn’t deflate like he did before at the mention of the assignment. because this time he has something to keep him motivated. and at least he knows that this won’t be the only reason you guys hang out. if anything, he’s more eager.

“yes, ma’am, whatever you say.”

This time, it’s intentional.

You don’t pretend not to see him when the bell over the coffee shop door gives its familiar, anemic jingle. You don’t hide behind your mug or your laptop or the righteous indignation of someone who absolutely cannot be interrupted because bacteria are plotting mutiny back in the lab.

No. This time, you straighten a little in your chair, lift your hand, and say his name.

“Robby.”

He stops mid-step like someone’s yanked a cord attached to his spine. Turns. Finds you.

There’s a half-second where his face does something unguarded—surprise first, then something warmer, softer, quickly masked behind the careful neutrality he’s been wearing like a second skin lately.

You don’t give him time to talk himself out of it.

“Hey,” you add, already reaching down with your foot to hook the leg of the empty chair beside you and tug it out. The scrape against the floor is loud, decisive. “C’mere. Sit. Coffee’s on me. I owe you.”

You feel absurdly proud of that sentence, like you’ve just performed minor surgery without anesthesia.

He hesitates. Of course he does. He’s very good at hesitation—at pausing on thresholds, at standing in doorways like he’s not sure he’s allowed to enter the room.

Then he exhales, a short huff that might be a laugh if you squint, and comes over.

“Careful,” he says, glancing at the chair like it might be a trap. “You say things like that, I might start expecting follow-through.”

“Don’t worry,” you reply dryly. “This is a one-time experiment. For science.”

That earns you a real smile. Small, but real. It does something irritatingly effective to your sternum.

He sits.

Up close, you notice things you hadn’t before—or maybe you had, but now you’re letting yourself catalog them. The faint shadow under his eyes. The way his jacket smells faintly like cold air and soap. The fact that he angles his body toward you without seeming to realize he’s doing it.

You flag down the barista before he can protest.

“Two coffees,” you say. “Whatever he usually gets. And put it on my tab.”

Robby opens his mouth.

You raise a finger. “Don’t.”

He closes it again, lips twitching. “You’re bossy.”

“I’m decisive.”

“Terrifying quality in a woman.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Funny. People usually say that about me like it’s a compliment.”

The coffees arrive. You slide his toward him, your fingers brushing briefly against his knuckles in the process.

It’s nothing. Barely contact. Static-level interaction.

Your brain, unfortunately, reacts like you’ve just been struck by lightning.

You pull your hand back a little too quickly and wrap it around your own mug, grounding yourself in the heat.

This is fine. This is normal. People touch all the time. You are not fourteen. You are a highly educated adult with a graduate degree and a grudge against gram-positive organisms.

“So,” he says after a beat, blowing on his coffee. “You look… less homicidal than last time.”

“Give it a minute.”

That makes him laugh—quiet, surprised, like he didn’t expect the sound to come out of him.

You launch into it before you can overthink it. About the lab. About contamination. About the PhD student who somehow pipetted nothing into six different wells and still acted shocked by the result.

“They’re not incompetent,” you say, gesturing sharply with your mug. “They’re creative. In the worst possible way.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “That sounds familiar.”

You squint at him. “You do not get to relate. You save lives. I argue with colonies of MRSA that refuse to behave.”

“You make them sound personal.”

“They are personal.”

That earns you another look—this one lingering, amused, a little intrigued.

“I didn’t know bacteria could hold grudges,” he says.

“Oh, they do. They remember slights. They pass them down through generations. Antibiotic resistance is basically inherited spite.”

He watches you as you talk, chin resting lightly on his hand, eyes warm in a way that makes you acutely aware of the space between your knees under the table. The fact that if you moved even a few inches, you’d probably bump into him.

You don’t. Obviously.

Because you’re very mature.

Conversation stretches. Loosens. Slips its watch and forgets the time. You talk about work in the way people only do when they trust the other person to understand the absurdity of it. The dark humor. The exhaustion. At some point, without making a big deal of it, he tells you.

“Therapy's been... helpful,” he says, like he’s mentioning the weather. His gaze drops to the coffee cup, thumb tracing the rim.

You feel something settle in your chest. Something quiet and heavy and unexpectedly tender.

“That’s… good,” you say carefully, because this is not the moment for flippancy. “I’m glad.”

He nods. “Yeah. Me too. It’s—” He exhales. “Hard. But… better.”

You don’t ask questions he hasn’t offered answers to. You don’t dissect him like a case study. You just sit there, present, letting the silence be kind instead of awkward.

“I’m proud of you,” you say finally.

His head lifts. He looks at you like you’ve said something dangerous.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You keep saying things like that, I might start believing I deserve it.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “You do.”

For a second, neither of you looks away.

The air between you feels charged—not dramatic, not explosive, just… aware. Like something leaning forward without touching.

Eventually, he clears his throat. Smiles again, softer this time.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he says. “And the chair. And the—” He gestures vaguely between you. “This.”

You shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere near earnest. “Told you I’d get the next one.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You did.”

You don’t leave.

That becomes apparent somewhere around the third refill—water this time, because the barista has started giving you a Look—and the point where you’ve abandoned any pretense of checking the time on your phone. The laptop stays closed. Your notebook remains untouched. Whatever productive lie you told yourself about only staying for half an hour dissolves quietly and without resistance.

You talk.

Really talk.

It starts light, because that’s safer. Because neither of you is ready to poke anything tender with a stick.

He tells you about a night shift that went sideways in a way that would be funny if it hadn’t involved a patient who tried to leave AMA high on pain meds with an IV still taped to his arm.

“He made it to the parking lot,” Robby says, deadpan. “Security found him arguing with a vending machine. Claimed it stole his pudding.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. Water nearly goes up your nose. Dignity dies a small, unceremonious death.

“Did it?” you ask.

“Unclear. The machine refused to comment.”

You shake your head. “That’s nothing. We once lost an entire rack of samples because someone—” you pause, narrowing your eyes “—who shall remain nameless—decided the incubator was ‘too crowded’ and took matters into their own hands.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Uh-oh.”

“They rearranged plates like it was a puzzle. Mixed dates. Mixed strains. It was biological anarchy.”

“You sound personally offended.”

“I was. I named those cultures. In my head.”

He laughs again, softer this time, eyes crinkling at the corners. There’s something about making him laugh that feels… grounding. Like you’re tugging him, gently, into the present.

Time stretches. The café thins out around you. Chairs start flipping upside down on tables, one by one, like a slow, polite warning.

You drift into stupid stories. The kind you only tell when you’re comfortable. When you’re not auditioning.

He tells you about an intern who fainted during their first code and woke up apologizing to the patient.

You tell him about the time you yelled at a centrifuge like it could feel shame.

“I maintain,” you say firmly, “that it deserved it.”

“I believe you,” he says. “You have that energy.”

“What energy.”

“Intimidating competence.”

You preen internally. Outwardly, you scoff. “Please. I’m a delight.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “Debatable.”

Your knees knock under the table when you shift, light but undeniable.

Neither of you moves away.

Eventually, the barista approaches with the careful smile of someone about to enforce a boundary without causing a scene.

“Hey, sorry,” she says gently. “We’re closing.”

You blink, disoriented, like you’ve surfaced from deep water.

“Oh—shit. Sorry,” you say immediately. “We didn’t—”

“No worries,” she says. “Just… letting you know.”

You gather your things, suddenly aware of the quiet. Of how late it is. Of the fact that you don’t want this to end yet, which is deeply inconvenient.

Outside, the night air is cold and clean. Your breath fogs faintly as you stop just beyond the door, hands tucked into your sleeves.

“Well,” you say. “That escalated.”

Robby shifts his weight, hands in his jacket pockets. He looks… hesitant. Like he’s choosing words carefully. Like he’s standing on the edge of something and knows it.

“So,” he begins, then stops. Clears his throat. “Um.”

You wait.

“There’s—” He gestures vaguely down the street. “My place. Not far. If you wanted to—”

You raise an eyebrow, heart giving an unhelpful, traitorous little jump.

He immediately backtracks.

“Just—” he says quickly. “I mean. To talk. No—no expectations. I don’t want this to sound like—”

“It doesn’t,” you say, before he can spiral himself into oblivion.

He still looks mortified.

“I just—” He exhales. “I’m bad at this part.”

You consider him. The careful honesty. The way he’s leaving space for you to say no without consequence.

“Okay,” you say.

His head snaps up. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat. “Talking. No expectations.”

A beat.

Then his smile breaks slow and genuine, like something easing loose.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. That’s—good.”

You walk side by side, close enough that your shoulders brush occasionally. Each time it happens, it sends a small, electric awareness through you—nothing dramatic, just enough to register.

This is new, you think. This carefulness. This choosing.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Robby hasn’t had someone in his apartment in months who wasn’t there to distract him from himself.

That realization lands quietly, the way uncomfortable truths usually do—mid-sip, mid-thought, too late to dodge. He’s standing in the kitchen doorway with a beer he forgot he opened, watching you sit cross-legged on his couch like you belong there, like couches are meant to be occupied by you specifically.

You’re laughing.

Not the polite, socially mandated exhale-through-the-nose laugh. Not the brittle one people use when they’re exhausted but determined to pass as human. This is real laughter—uncontained, a little ugly around the edges, warm. The kind that doesn’t echo afterward. The kind that doesn’t leave silence ringing like tinnitus when it stops.

Robby clocks that immediately. Of course he does. He notices everything. Comes with the job.

He also notices—annoyingly—that his chest feels… lighter. Which is stupid. He hates when feelings sneak up on him unannounced.

You have a glass of wine in one hand, the cheap-but-not-embarrassing kind he keeps around for guests he doesn’t expect to keep. You’ve kicked your shoes off without asking. He registers that too. He doesn’t mind. That also annoys him.

“You’re judging my bookshelf,” he says, because silence feels dangerous and sarcasm is safer.

You glance up at him, eyes bright. “I would never.”

He arches a brow. “You’re literally squinting at it.”

“I’m trying to decide if this is an intellectual bookshelf or a ‘this made me feel something during residency’ bookshelf.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s accurate,” you say easily, turning back to the spines. “You’ve got trauma memoirs next to medical textbooks. That’s a cry for help if I’ve ever seen one.”

Robby snorts before he can stop himself. He hates that you’re right. He hates more that you say it without malice, without that soft, careful tone people use when they think he might shatter.

No one here is trying to fix him.

That might be the most unsettling part.

You lean forward, peering at a book he hasn’t touched in years. “This one—did you actually read it or did you buy it during a particularly bleak Amazon spiral?”

“I resent the implication,” he says. “I had it delivered. That’s different.”

You laugh again, quieter this time, and the sound settles into the room like it’s always been there. Like it fits between the sagging couch cushions and the faint hum of the refrigerator and the street noise filtering up through the windows.

Robby takes another sip of beer he forgot he was drinking and watches you notice things.

The plant first.

You twist slightly, inspecting the sad, drooping leaves on the side table. “You know this thing is only mostly alive, right?”

“It’s thriving,” he says automatically.

“It’s surviving,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Look, it’s green. That’s a win.”

You hum thoughtfully. “I admire your optimism. Objectively misplaced, but emotionally brave.”

He smirks. “You sound like my therapist.”

You nod, accepting it without commentary, and Robby feels something unclench. No follow-up questions. No gentle probing. Just information, received and filed away.

You shift, tucking one leg under the other, and gesture vaguely around the apartment. “I like this place.”

“That’s concerning.”

“No, really,” you say. “It feels… lived in.”

Robby almost laughs. Almost says something self-deprecating and deflecting and safe. Instead, he watches the way you’re tracing the edge of the coffee table with your finger, the way your shoulders are loose, unguarded.

“You’re the first person who’s sat on that couch without checking their phone every thirty seconds,” he admits.

You look up at him. “Should I start?”

“Don’t you dare.”

You grin. “Okay. I’ll respect the sanctity of the couch.”

Conversation flows after that, easy and unforced, like a river that doesn’t bother with rocks. You talk about nothing. You talk about everything. Stories braid together—his, yours—overlapping and looping back, filling the spaces between sips and laughter.

You tell him about a student who insisted on naming all her colonies after fictional characters. He tells you about an intern who walked straight into glass doors and needed stitches. You argue about music. You bond over mutual disdain for paperwork. At some point, you’re close enough that your knee brushes his, and neither of you moves away.

Robby notices. Of course he does.

He doesn’t catalog it as a mistake.

That’s new.

“You’re quiet,” you say eventually, glancing at him sideways.

“Just enjoying the novelty,” he replies.

“Of what?”

“Company that doesn’t make me want to crawl out of my own skin.”

You consider that, then raise your glass in mock solemnity. “High praise.”

He clinks his beer against it. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You smile, softer this time, and something in his chest tightens—not painfully. Just… there. Present.

Robby thinks, distantly, that this is dangerous. That letting someone sit in his apartment, in his space, in his silence, without armor or agenda, is a bad idea.

He doesn’t say it out loud.

He doesn’t need to.

For now, you’re still laughing. And for once, when the sound fades, the quiet doesn’t rush in to punish him for it.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Time stretches the way it does when no one is watching the clock.

You keep talking.

At some point you end up on the floor, back against the couch, because the carpet is surprisingly soft and the wine makes gravity feel optional. He sits opposite you, legs stretched out, shoulders relaxed in a way that still feels faintly unreal, like you’re watching a rare animal behave naturally in captivity.

“So,” he says, tilting his bottle toward you. “Tell me about the PhD. You’ve hinted. Repeatedly. Usually with murder in your eyes.”

You snort. “Oh, I was stupid. Like, aggressively stupid.”

“Bold opening statement.”

“I picked RNA research,” you say, deadpan. “On purpose.”

He groans in sympathy. “Jesus.”

“Exactly. Everyone warned me. Everyone. ‘RNA is fragile,’ they said. ‘RNAse is everywhere,’ they said. ‘You will suffer,’ they said.”

“And you said?”

“‘I’m built different,’” you reply. “Turns out I am not.”

He laughs, a low sound that makes his shoulders shake. Encouraging. You continue.

“I swear to God, RNAse isn’t even a molecule. It’s a state of being. It’s on your gloves, in the air, in your soul. You look at your samples wrong and they disintegrate out of spite.”

“So how many times did you almost quit?”

You consider. “Define almost.”

He grins. “How many times did you actively fantasize about faking your own death?”

“Weekly,” you say without hesitation. “Sometimes daily. I wanted to claw my face off. Or pivot into goat farming. Something with fewer pipettes.”

“And yet,” he says, gesturing at you. “Doctor. PhD. Still standing.”

“Out of pure stubbornness,” you say. “And spite. Mostly spite.”

He lifts his bottle again. “Honestly? Respect.”

You feel a strange warmth bloom at that. Not the wine. Something steadier.

He tells you about residency next, prompted only by your raised eyebrows and the dangerous glint in your eye that says your turn. He starts with, “This is going to permanently damage my reputation,” which of course means you’re already delighted.

“I once intubated the esophagus,” he says.

You gasp theatrically. “Robby.”

“I know. I know. In my defense, it was three in the morning, I’d been awake for thirty-six hours, and the attending was actively screaming.”

“What happened?”

“I realized when the patient didn’t improve and my soul left my body.”

You dissolve into laughter. Actual, uncontrollable laughter. You try to contain it and fail. Your shoulders shake. Tears prick at your eyes. You press the heel of your hand against your face, mortified and delighted all at once.

“I’m sorry,” you wheeze. “I’m so sorry. It’s just—”

“I lived,” he says dryly. “Barely.”

“You’re telling me the man who terrifies interns once tried to ventilate a stomach.”

“Yes.”

“And survived.”

“Character building.”

You laugh harder. There are actual tears now, blurring the edges of the room. Your ribs ache. You can’t remember the last time you laughed like this with someone—unguarded, unafraid of the silence afterward.

When it finally subsides, you swipe at your eyes and inhale shakily. Your gaze lifts without thinking.

He’s looking at you.

Not watching, not assessing. Just… looking. Soft around the edges. Present.

Something settles in your chest. Heavy. Certain.

Fuck it, you think.

Before your brain can intervene, you lean forward, pluck the bottle from his hand, and set it down beside your glass. The clink sounds absurdly loud in the quiet that follows.

He blinks. “What—”

You don’t give him time to finish.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s careful, but not restrained. Exploratory. A question more than a statement. Your mouth moves against his like you’re learning the shape of him, like you’re mapping something you already suspect you want.

He freezes.

Just for a second.

Long enough for your heart to spike and your brain to start drafting a contingency plan involving dignity and the nearest exit.

Then his hand comes up, warm and sure, fingers tangling gently in your hair. He kisses you back, deeper this time, pulling you a little closer, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold you there.

Your breath catches. Your thoughts scatter. So much for composure.

When he pulls away, it’s slow. Reluctant. He doesn’t go far—just enough to look at you, foreheads almost touching.

“What changed?” he asks quietly.

You swallow, then smile, light and deliberate. “Only cows never change their minds.”

He huffs a laugh, but his eyes stay serious.

You tilt your head, considering him, considering yourself. The years. The nights. The choices you made because they were necessary and the ones you made because you were afraid.

“I sacrificed too much for my career,” you say, honest and steady. “Too much time. Too much sleep. Too much of myself. I’m not sacrificing the rest for someone who’s clearly refusing to help himself.”

You pause, watching his expression shift—not defensive, not wounded. Just listening.

You tilt your head a little.

Then, quieter: “I might’ve been wrong about you. You were struggling. But you did something about it.”

You meet his eyes. Hold them.

“That matters.”

His hand comes up, cupping your cheek like it’s something fragile. Like you are. The gentleness of it almost knocks the breath out of you.

“You weren’t wrong,” he says softly. “I just wasn’t ready yet.”

Something in your chest loosens. You smile—not sharp, not sarcastic. Just real.

“I’m glad you are now.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just leans in again, resting his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he’s memorizing the moment.

For once, you don’t pull away first.

You kiss him again.

This time you don’t ask permission—not from him, not from yourself. It’s still careful, technically, but the care is fraying at the edges, giving way to something warmer and more insistent.

He makes a small sound when your mouth meets his again, barely there, something like surprise. You take advantage of it, shifting closer on the carpet, knees brushing his thigh, then pressing in fully. His warmth seeps through denim and fabric and bone, grounding and distracting all at once.

Your brain attempts a running commentary—this is reckless, this is ill-advised, this is statistically unlikely to end cleanly—and then promptly shuts up when his hand slides from your cheek to the small of your back.

Good. You never did like interruptions.

You thread your fingers into his short hair, testing the texture of it, learning the shape of his head under your palm. It’s softer than you expected. That feels unfair. You tug, just a little—not enough to hurt, just enough to see.

His breath hitches.

You file that away immediately. Useful information.

“Oh,” you murmur against his mouth, half amused, half triumphant.

He exhales something that might be your name, or might just be a surrendering sound, and kisses you back harder. Less restraint now. His thumb presses into your spine like he’s checking that you’re real, that you’re still there.

You tilt your head, deepen the kiss, curious. You’re good at curiosity. It’s practically a personality trait. You explore the way he responds—how he follows when you pull back a fraction, how he leans in when you slow down, how his breathing changes when you kiss just at the corner of his mouth instead of fully committing.

You shift closer again, practically in his lap now, and his other hand comes up reflexively, settling at your waist. He freezes for half a heartbeat, like he’s checking himself, then relaxes when you don’t pull away.

“Okay?” he asks quietly, forehead brushing yours.

You smile, sharp and fond. “If I weren’t okay, you’d know.”

“Because you’d tell me?” he asks.

“Because I’d lecture you,” you correct. “At length.”

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating right through you, and you kiss him again before he can say anything else. This one is slower, heavier with intent. You feel it everywhere—the way he holds you closer, the way his breathing goes uneven, the way his fingers flex at your waist like he’s restraining himself out of habit rather than lack of want.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

His pupils are blown. His mouth is slightly swollen. He looks… undone. Not shattered. Not spiraling. Just openly affected.

That does something to you. Something dangerous.

“Hi,” you say, because apparently now is the time for awkwardness.

He huffs a breath. “Hi.”

You brush your thumb along his jaw, feeling the faint rasp of his beard, watching the way his eyes track the movement. You lean in again, slower this time, deliberately kissing the spot just below his ear.

His breath catches—properly this time.

There it is.

You smile against his skin, satisfaction curling low and warm in your chest. Not conquest. Not control. Just the quiet thrill of being wanted by someone who is fully present for it.

You pull back again, resting your forehead against his.

“So,” you murmur, dry even now, because some instincts never die. “Do you think this is a bad idea?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says. “I think it’s just… overdue.”

For once, you don’t argue.

You kiss him again, less careful still, and let yourself stay there—close, breathing the same air, learning him one hitch at a time.

It stops being something with a clear beginning and end and turns into a continuous thing—press, pull back, adjust, return. Like breathing. Like your body has quietly decided this is the correct configuration and is no longer consulting you about it.

He shifts slightly, one hand coming up to the back of your neck, fingers warm and firm. Not controlling—guiding. He angles your head just enough to deepen the kiss, slow and deliberate, and the change in pressure does something to you.

You make a sound.

It’s small. Soft. Mortifying.

It slips out straight into his mouth before you can catch it, traitorous and honest.

And then he groans.

Low. Unfiltered. Like you’ve just confirmed a hypothesis he was afraid to test.

Oh.

Well.

You feel heat bloom up your neck, equal parts embarrassment and vindication. So you do the only reasonable thing, which is to double down.

You shift closer, closer, until sitting near him is no longer sufficient. You move without fully deciding to—one knee sliding over his thigh, then the other, until you’re practically crawling into his lap. If this were a paper, you’d call it a loss of experimental control.

He exhales sharply as you settle there, hands coming to your hips on instinct, pulling you in before you can second-guess yourself. You feel solid against him, his chest warm under your palms.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at you, voice a little rough. “You sure?”

You tilt your head, breath still uneven, dry wit hanging on by a thread. “If I weren’t sure, I wouldn’t be actively violating your personal space.”

That gets a huff of laughter out of him, fond and wrecked all at once. “Fair.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you forget to be self-conscious about the sound you make when he does. You hook your fingers into his hair again, learning the way he reacts to pressure, to closeness, to the shift of your weight.

His hands slide up your back, steady and grounding, like he’s making sure you don’t drift away. He pulls you even closer, until there’s no polite distance left to pretend at. Your forehead brushes his temple. Your breath mixes.

You break the kiss just long enough to rest your forehead against his, smiling despite yourself.

He kisses you again, slow and intent, and then his mouth drifts—unhurried, deliberate—down the line of your jaw, to the soft place just below your ear. His lips linger there, warm, exploratory, like he’s memorizing you by touch alone.

Then his teeth close gently.

It’s not sharp. It’s not rough. It’s just enough to make your breath catch and your carefully maintained composure go out the window entirely. He runs his tongue over the spot like an apology and a promise at the same time, and you very nearly forget how lungs work.

“Oh,” you breathe, eloquent as ever.

Your body reacts before your brain can file a complaint. You shift your hips instinctively, seeking friction, closeness, more, and the response is immediate—he groans against your skin, low and unmistakable, the sound vibrating straight through you.

Well. That’s unfair.

You grab his shirt, dragging him back up to kiss him again, mouths fitting together with a little less patience now. Tongues tangle. Teeth knock. It’s messy in the way that feels inevitable rather than clumsy, like neither of you is interested in pretending this is still polite.

You press closer, fully committed now, and feel him shift under you, adjusting his balance. One of his hands leaves you reluctantly to brace behind him on the floor.

“Hang on,” he laughs breathlessly, breaking the kiss just long enough to keep from toppling backward. “My back is not good enough anymore to be rolling around on the floor like I’m thirty.”

You snort, forehead resting against his. “Tragic.”

He smiles up at you, eyes warm, hand still firm at your waist. “You’re trouble, sweetheart.”

That—that—is apparently your final straw.

Something in your chest flips, sharp and sudden. Sweetheart. Said casually. Fondly. Like it fits. Like you fit.

You swallow, then do the bravest thing you’ve done all evening.

You pull back.

Reluctantly. Painfully. Like peeling yourself away from something magnetic.

He blinks up at you, confused for half a second, and you take advantage of it. You crawl off his lap, smoothing your clothes in a way that suggests you’re definitely not rattled. You get to your feet and extend a hand down to him, expression composed, eyes bright with challenge.

“Well,” you say lightly, dry wit back in place but something warmer underneath it now. “You can always show me your bedroom.”

You arch a brow, just a little.

“Assuming your back can handle the walk.”

He looks at your hand. Then at you.

Then he laughs—soft, disbelieving, delighted—and takes it, fingers warm and steady around yours, and leads you down the short hallway toward the bedroom. The apartment is dimmer back here, softer somehow—lamp light instead of overheads, shadows that make everything feel closer, more private.

You make it approximately three steps before you lose patience entirely.

You tug him back by the hand, turn into him, and kiss him again—quick, hungry, unplanned. The kind of kiss that says I know where this is going and I’m tired of pretending I’m patient about it.

He laughs into your mouth, startled but pleased, one hand coming up automatically to your waist. “We’re almost there,” he murmurs, like that’s a reasonable objection.

“I know,” you say, kissing him again anyway.

When you finally make it into the bedroom, he nudges the door shut behind you with his foot. The room smells faintly like clean laundry and something unmistakably him—soap, maybe, and that indefinable warmth of a space that’s actually lived in.

He backs you toward the bed, hands sure, guiding, and just as he’s about to lay you down, your brain abruptly reasserts itself.

“Wait,” you say, palm pressing lightly to his chest.

He freezes instantly, eyes sharp but calm. “Okay.”

You gesture down at yourself, suddenly very serious. “I’m still in my outside clothes. They’re probably disgusting. Public transport-adjacent. Full of germs. Possibly MRSA.”

He stares at you for a beat.

Then he laughs—real laughter, head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking.

Before you can protest further, he gives you a gentle shove. Not rough. Just decisive. You fall back onto the bed with a soft bounce and an undignified little yelp that you will be thinking about at three in the morning for years.

He follows you down easily, bracing himself on his forearms, smiling like he’s just won something.

“I lie on this bed in my work clothes all the time,” he says. “Trust me, whatever you’re carrying can’t be worse than that.”

You squint up at him. “That is deeply unsettling information.”

“That's the truth.”

You huff, half-laughing, half absolutely aware of how close he is now. “Now I’m concerned for my personal safety.”

“Too late,” he murmurs, amused. “You’re already here.”

You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to kiss you again, sarcasm melting back into something warmer and more dangerous.

“Yeah,” you say against his mouth, smiling despite yourself. “That checks out.”

He slows down.

Not because he has to—but because he wants to.

His fingers find the first button of your shirt and pause there, like he’s checking in without words. You watch him through half-lidded eyes, heart doing something deeply unprofessional in your chest.

“Still okay?” he asks quietly.

You give him a look. “If you stop now, I’ll complain.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. He unbuttons the shirt anyway, one button at a time, deliberate enough to make it unbearable. Each inch of newly exposed skin gets his attention—his mouth warm, unhurried, reverent in a way that makes your stomach flip.

You hadn’t anticipated reverent. That feels dangerous.

He slides the shirt from your shoulders, hands warm and sure, and unhooks your bra with a practiced ease that is frankly rude. When it falls away, he stills.

He looks at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

It’s not hunger exactly—though that’s there too. It’s awe. Open and unguarded and absolutely undoing.

“Hey,” you murmur, suddenly aware of yourself in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with being seen.

He exhales, almost a laugh. “Sorry. Just—wow.”

You roll your eyes weakly. “Try not to make it weird.”

“I’m failing,” he says softly, leaning in again.

His mouth traces a path down your neck, unhurried, warm, grounding. You tilt your head back without thinking, giving him better access, and he takes it like an invitation rather than a demand.

His hand cups one of your breasts, steady and warm, thumb brushing slow arcs that make your breath hitch despite your best efforts at dignity. Then his mouth follows, lips warm against your skin, lingering just long enough to make you painfully aware of every nerve ending.

He sucks gently at one of your nipples—nothing rough, nothing hurried—and your body betrays you completely.

You whimper.

It is, objectively, an embarrassing sound.

Your brain registers this after it happens, far too late to intervene.

“Oh,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and his tongue circles the same spot, slow and deliberate, just enough to make you squirm against the bed.

You laugh breathlessly, giving up the fight, and let yourself stay right there—unraveled, responsive, and very aware that this is no longer about restraint at all.

He keeps going, unhurried in a way that feels intentional rather than teasing, like he’s paying attention to every reaction you don’t quite manage to hide.

His mouth trails down your stomach, warm and steady, kisses pressed like punctuation marks. You suck in a breath when he dips lower, when his fingers find the button of your pants and pause there, waiting just long enough for you to notice.

You lift your head on instinct, hair mussed, dignity in tatters. “You know,” you say dryly, “it’s not really fair that you’re the only one staying fully dressed here.”

He glances up at you, mouth still dangerously close to your skin. “Is that a complaint?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “A serious one. Take your shirt off.”

That does it.

He straightens, amusement flashing across his face, and reaches for the hem of his scrub top. In one smooth, practiced motion, he pulls it over his head—scrubs and the T-shirt underneath gone together like he’s done this a thousand times without thinking.

You do, unfortunately, think about it.

His chest is broad, solid, lightly dusted with dark hair. Not carved marble, not trying to be anything other than real—warm and lived-in, a hint of softness there that feels earned rather than apologetic. Very much a man who exists in the world and is comfortable doing so.

You swallow.

You reach for him, fingers hooking into the thin chain at his neck. You tug just enough to bring him down to you, reclaiming his mouth in another kiss—slower, deeper, a little more insistent now.

Your hand slides lower, more impatient than you’d intended, fumbling briefly at his belt. You huff softly in frustration, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to smile.

“Got it,” he says quietly, already helping, hands moving without fuss or hesitation.

He shrugs out of his pants with minimal ceremony, coming back to you immediately, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. When his thigh presses between yours, the reality of his arousal registers unmistakably.

Oh.

You inhale, steadying yourself, and meet his gaze again. He looks intent, focused, still gentle in the way that matters most.

“Still okay?” he asks softly.

You smile, a little breathless, a little smug. “More than.”

And you pull him back down to you before either of you can overthink it.

He slows again—not to stop, not to tease, but because he seems to know exactly what the pause will do to you.

His hands slide to your hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your pants. He looks at you, checks your face, your breathing. You’re already nodding, already impatient, already far past subtlety.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more promise than question.

He draws them down slowly, deliberately, like he’s cataloging every hitch in your breath, every involuntary shift of your body. Fabric drags over skin, over knees, pooling away until there’s nothing left to hide behind. Your brain stutters somewhere around this is taking too long and don’t rush him and oh, absolutely rush him.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He notices. Of course he does.

A corner of his mouth lifts, smug and fond all at once. “You’re very patient,” he says dryly.

You scoff, mortified and honest. “I am absolutely not.”

That makes him laugh softly, and before you can regroup, he leans in and kisses you—mouth warm, insistent, grounding. It steals what little composure you had left. You kiss him back like it’s necessary for survival, like you’ve already accepted that dignity is not making it out of this room alive.

His hand skims down your stomach then—unhurried, confident, devastating. Just a pass of warmth and intent, nothing rushed, nothing accidental. It’s enough.

You make a sound into his mouth. Soft. Pleading. Entirely unplanned.

Then he groans, low and immediate, and any lingering self-consciousness evaporates. His kiss deepens in response, like that sound flipped a switch. His hand stays where it is, steady and certain, and your body arches toward him without waiting for permission.

You break the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to his, voice rough and honest.

“That,” you manage, “felt deeply unfair.”

He smiles against your cheek, amused and tender and very present. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

And when he kisses you again, slower this time, you don’t try to be composed at all.m

He leans in close, close enough that you feel the warmth of him before you register what he’s doing.

His finger brushes your folds—slow, deliberate—an unmistakable invitation rather than a command. You inhale sharply, already betrayed by your own reaction, and part your legs without thinking.

That’s apparently all the encouragement he needs.

You make a small, helpless sound at the back of your throat—mortifying, reflexive—and your back arches before you can stop it.

He smiles against your ear, voice low and maddeningly calm.

“God,” he murmurs. “You’re soaked already.”

“Sweetheart,” he adds, softer now, and that word lands somewhere deep and dangerous.

Your fingers tangle into his hair. You make another sound—less dignified than the first—and he responds immediately, clearly paying attention to every reaction you give him.

He murmurs something appreciative under his breath, thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles on your clit that have you arching again, breath breaking in ways you are absolutely not proud of.

“So responsive,” he says quietly, like it’s an observation rather than a tease. “I barely touch you and you’re already—”

You cut him off by pulling him back into a kiss, because if he finishes that sentence you may actually break.

Your thoughts scatter. Your body answers him far more honestly than you ever would.

You don’t regret it for a second.

He keeps you right there—balanced on the edge between sensation and thought—until thinking simply… stops.

His fingers drag along your walls teasingly, easing in and out in an unhurried rhythm that has nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with control. Your attention narrows to the warmth of him, to the way your breathing stutters around his touch, to the gentle press of his thumb still tracing lazy, gentle circles on your clir that make it impossible to focus on anything else.

When your hips move without permission, chasing sensation on instinct alone, his other hand comes down, firm but gentle, holding you still like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Not restrictive. Just steady. Anchoring.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, like he’s coaxing rather than correcting. “I’ve got you.”

The praise slips in quietly after that—soft, encouraging words that make your chest ache and your knees weak all at once. He says your name like it’s something precious. Like it belongs right there on his tongue.

You make a small sound—helpless, honest—and his breath hitches in response, just enough to tell you he feels it too.

Your hand reaches for him almost without conscious direction, fingers brushing his erection through the fabric, unmistakable even with layers in the way. The reaction is immediate—he groans softly against your mouth, the sound low and wrecked and deeply satisfying.

He exhales a laugh that’s more breath than sound, forehead resting briefly against yours as if to steady himself. “You’re trouble,” he murmurs, fond and reverent all at once.

You would probably make a sarcastic remark about that—if you had a single coherent thought left to spare.

Instead, you stay right where you are, held steady by his hands and his voice, letting yourself exist in the moment without commentary, without armor, without pretending you’re not exactly where you want to be.

Your hand keeps moving—slow, deliberate at first, then a little less so as your patience evaporates entirely. You’re dimly aware that you’re trying to say something, that words are forming somewhere upstream, but the combination of his touch and the way he reacts is turning language into a completely optional skill set.

You attempt a sentence. It dies halfway out of your mouth.

He notices. Of course he does.

He leans down, close enough that you can feel his breath against your cheek, his forehead brushing yours. His voice is quiet, almost amused, threaded with warmth.

“What do you want?” he asks.

Your brain freezes. You swallow, try again, fail spectacularly.

He smiles—soft, patient, devastating. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

That does it.

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, gathering what little coherence you have left, then open them and meet his gaze. Honest. Bare. Done pretending.

“I—” Your breath stutters. You clear your throat, utterly unconvincing. “I want to feel you inside me.”

The words land between you, fragile and unmistakable.

His expression shifts—not rushed, not wild. Focused. Intent. Like he’s taking you seriously in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“Okay,” he says gently.

He withdraws his hand, slow and deliberate, and you actually whine at the sudden absence before you can stop yourself. Mortifying.

You lie there, breathing hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure as he reaches to the bedside table. The moment stretches, filled with the quiet rustle of movement as he puts a condom on, and the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

Pull it together, you tell yourself sternly. You are an accomplished adult. You can survive thirty seconds without losing your mind.

You fail.

Your breathing stays uneven. Your fingers curl uselessly in the sheets. You watch him like he might disappear if you look away.

He glances back at you, catching your expression, and his mouth curves into something fond and reassuring. “Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”

He chuckles softly, moving back toward you, and whatever comes next feels suddenly inevitable—in the best possible way.

He guides you gently, turning you onto your side with a care that feels grounding rather than cautious. His hand is warm at your waist, steady, like he’s reminding you that you’re not falling—you’re being held.

He eases slowly into you, fitting himself to your back, and the change in sensation steals the air from your lungs. You inhale shakily, a soft, helpless sound escaping you before you can stop it. You’re dimly aware of how ridiculous you sound—and then you stop caring entirely.

He kisses the side of your neck, slow and reassuring, lips lingering there as his arms come around you, drawing you back until you’re flush against his chest. It’s close in a way that feels intimate rather than overwhelming, protective rather than consuming.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low and steady against your skin. “I’ve got you.”

You cling to that. To him. Your fingers curl into his arm, your thoughts scattering like startled birds.

He stays still for a moment, breathing with you, letting you gather yourself, adjust to the fullness and the delicious stretch. Soft praise slips from him—quiet encouragements, the kind that make your chest ache and your knees weak all at once. He says your name like it’s something precious.

When he finally moves, it’s slow, measured, his hips rolling in a way that feels deliberate and grounding rather than urgent. The rhythm pulls a sharp sound from you—half swear, half plea—and you clutch at him instinctively, head tipping back against his shoulder.

“Oh—wow,” you manage, eloquence truly dead now.

He chuckles softly, mouth brushing your ear. “Yeah,” he says, fond and reverent. “Just like that.” You let yourself stay right there, held and steady and very much present, breathing him in as the world narrows to the quiet sounds between you and the certainty of his arms around you.

He keeps the pace unhurried, almost languid, like he’s deliberately stretching the moment until it fills every corner of you.

You’re held close the entire time, your back pressed to his chest, his warmth steady and grounding behind you. His hands wander—down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, then up again, over your stomach and back to your hips—never rushed, never careless. Each pass feels intentional, like he’s mapping you by touch.

It’s… a lot.

Your thoughts scatter almost immediately. Any attempt at commentary dissolves into soft, helpless sounds you don’t even bother trying to contain anymore. Whimpers slip out. Broken, breathless noises follow. His name tumbles from your lips before you can stop it, unplanned and completely honest.

He responds to every one of them.

His mouth finds your neck again, kissing there slowly, then your shoulder, lips warm and lingering. When you twist just enough to catch his mouth with yours, he meets you instantly, kissing you deep and steady, like he’s right there with you, nowhere else.

“That’s it,” he murmurs between kisses, voice low and reverent. “You’re doing so good.”

Your knees threaten to give out even though you’re not standing.

His praise continues, soft and constant, threaded with warmth rather than urgency. He tells you how good you feel, how responsive you are, how every sound you make goes straight through him. Each word lands heavy and grounding, like reassurance wrapped in heat.

“Listen to you,” he murmurs fondly. “Such pretty sounds.”

You make another one immediately, because apparently humiliationdidn't matter to you anymore.

You clutch at his arm, your head tipping back against his shoulder, breath uneven and helpless.

He stays close, keeps you steady, kisses you again like he has all the time in the world.

He doesn’t rush anymore—but he doesn’t hold back, either.

The rhythm shifts, growing less measured and more hungry, like something has tipped and there’s no point pretending otherwise. You’re still held tight against him, his chest solid at your back, but now the movement has an urgency to it that steals the breath right out of your lungs.

Your throat goes hoarse without you noticing when it happens. The sounds you make are louder now—unfiltered, honest, completely unguarded—and some distant, sarcastic corner of your brain observes oh good, this is how his neighbors learn personal details about your life.

He seems… delighted.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice warm and steady, like the noise is something to be proud of. “Don’t hold back.”

You try to say something—anything—but it comes out as a tangled string of half-words and broken thoughts, incoherent even to you. Your hands clutch at him, fingers digging into his arm, your back arching instinctively against his chest like your body knows exactly what it wants even if your brain is long gone.

He kisses your neck again, slower now, grounding you even as everything inside you feels like it’s spinning. His breath is warm there, lips lingering, reassuring.

And then his hand finds your clit and it makes everything else fade.

Not rushed. Not abrupt. Just right.

Your breath stutters, a sound tearing out of you before you can stop it, and he responds immediately, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles that make your vision blur and your thoughts scatter entirely.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, close to your ear. “It’s okay.”

You cling to his arm, shaking, overwhelmed in the best possible way.

“Just let go,” he says gently. “I’ve got you.”

You let go.

And he’s right there with you, holding you steady as everything else falls away.

It builds too fast for you to track.

One moment you’re barely holding together—lungs stuttering, muscles wound too tight—and the next everything breaks loose all at once. The sensation hits you like a wave you didn’t brace for, sharp and overwhelming and utterly consuming.

You shake against him, body betraying you completely. Your legs tense, drawing in as if that might somehow contain it, and a sound tears out of your throat that you don’t recognize as your own until it’s already gone. Any remaining pretense of composure evaporates.

He presses fully into as if pulled by the force of it, breath breaking against your neck. He makes a rough sound there, low and unguarded, and you feel the moment ripple through him in answer, his body tensing as he follows you over the edge.

He holds you tight, arms firm around you, grounding you as everything shudders and settles. His teeth catch gently at your shoulder—not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you in the moment—and he stays there, breathing you in, like he’s making sure you don’t slip away.

For a few seconds, the world narrows to warmth and closeness and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.

When your breathing finally evens out, you sag back into him, spent and boneless, mind still fuzzy around the edges. He kisses your neck again, softer now, lingering.

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly. “I’ve got you.”

You let your head rest against his shoulder, eyes closed, and think—dimly, fondly—that for once, you don’t feel the need to argue.

He turns you carefully, like he’s aware you’re still unsteady, one hand firm at your waist, the other guiding your shoulder until you’re facing him. Your legs feel like they’ve given up on you—so you let yourself lean into him without argument.

He gathers you in immediately.

Not hurried. Not possessive. Just… there. Arms wrapping around you, solid and warm, pulling you close until your forehead rests against his collarbone and your breathing has somewhere safe to land.

“You were incredible,” he murmurs softly, voice low and sincere. “So good. You did amazing.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. Your throat tightens—not unpleasantly, just… full. You laugh weakly, breath still uneven, fingers curling into his back like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“You say that like I accomplished something,” you manage, voice a little wobbly but honest. “I feel like I just… fell apart entirely.”

He smiles against your hair, a quiet huff of amusement. “Sometimes that’s an accomplishment.”

You tilt your head back just enough to look at him, still overwhelmed, still faintly shaking, and nod once. “Okay,” you concede. “Then—yes. That was… very good.”

He chuckles softly and tightens his hold just a fraction, like he’s pleased with that answer.

You stay there, pressed together, while your body slowly remembers how to exist. His hand traces slow, grounding paths up and down your back, steady and reassuring, like he’s reminding your nervous system that it’s over now. He kisses your temple, your hairline, your forehead—gentle, unhurried, intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.

Some distant, dry part of your brain notes that this—this quiet, held moment—might actually be more dangerous than everything that came before it.

You don’t pull away.

You let your weight settle into him, let yourself be held while the world comes back into focus, and think—softly, almost in disbelief—that maybe this closeness is the part you’ll remember most.

Eventually, the intensity ebbs enough that the world comes back into focus in manageable pieces.

He helps you sit up, one hand steady at your back like he’s not entirely convinced you won’t tip over if he lets go. Your legs still feel vaguely ornamental. He presses a glass of water into your hand, watching until you take a few obedient sips.

“Good?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “I think my legs don't work anymore.”

That earns a soft laugh, fond rather than amused.

He ushers you into the bathroom and turns on the shower, testing the water before stepping in with you. You lean against him under the steady warmth, forehead resting briefly against his chest as the tension slowly drains out of your limbs.

You brush your hands along his back absently—and then pause.

“Oh,” you murmur.

“What?” he asks.

“You are,” you say, carefully diplomatic, “ridiculously knotted.”

He exhales through a laugh. “Perks of the job."

“Turn around,” you say, already positioning your hands. “Before your spine files for divorce.”

He does, obedient and a little sheepish, and you work your thumbs into the tight bands of muscle as best you can. He lets out a quiet sound—half relief, half surprise.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

You just hum, focused, methodical. You stay like that for a while, letting the water beat down as you work slowly, patiently, coaxing what little relaxation you can out of muscles that clearly haven’t been asked nicely in years.

“It’s no wonder your back is shit,” you mutter. “You’re carrying all of this around like it’s normal.”

He chuckles. “I thought I was the doctor here.”

You snort. “I may not be a doctor, but I do have a shitty back from all the lab work. Which makes me extremely qualified.”

“That tracks,” he says warmly.

When you finally step out of the shower, everything feels quieter—inside and out. He wraps a towel around you without fuss, gentle and practiced, and for a moment you just stand there, damp and calm and strangely unguarded.

Back in the bedroom, he hesitates just a beat too long before speaking.

“I—uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can get you something to sleep in. If you… want to stay.”

There it is. Careful. Awkward. Hopeful but not demanding.

You look at him and answer honestly, without hedging. “I’d like that.”

Relief flickers across his face, quick and unguarded. He hands you an old T-shirt—soft, worn thin, unmistakably his—and it feels comforting the moment you pull it on, like borrowing something familiar.

You curl up together on the bed, fitting easily, like this isn’t the first time your bodies have negotiated space. He wraps an arm around you, solid and warm, and presses a kiss to your hair.

You let yourself sink into him, muscles finally unclenching, thoughts mercifully quiet.

For once, you don’t analyze what it all means.

You just stay.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

He wakes to absence.

Not the dramatic kind—no slammed doors, no echoing quiet—but the specific, intimate wrongness of an empty bed where there shouldn’t be one. The sheets beside him are cool already, the imprint of your body softened, erased by time and his own shifting in sleep. His brain, ever efficient at catastrophe, supplies panic before consciousness is fully online.

Of course. Of course you’re gone. Of course last night was a beautifully elaborate hallucination brought on by exhaustion, caffeine, and whatever part of him still believes he doesn’t get to keep things.

His chest tightens, sharp and immediate, the familiar spike of adrenaline that usually precedes a bad shift or a worse phone call.

Then he smells coffee.

Not the sterile, hospital kind that tastes like punishment. Real coffee. Warm. Nutty. Slightly bitter. The kind that implies intention. Planning. A person who expects to be here long enough to drink it.

He lies still for a second, staring at the ceiling fan he’s been meaning to fix for six months, letting that scent recalibrate his nervous system. His pulse slows, embarrassment rushing in to replace panic. Congratulations, Robby, he thinks dryly. You slept with someone and immediately assumed abandonment. Very on brand.

He drags himself out of bed, sheets tangling around his legs, and pads down the short hallway toward the kitchen. Each step feels oddly careful, like he might startle the moment into vanishing if he moves too fast.

You’re there.

In his kitchen. In his T-shirt.

His T-shirt, which he recognizes with a flash of absurd pride—it’s the soft gray one, the good one, the one he never wears to work because it makes him look like someone who has his life together. It hangs loose on you, collar slouching off one shoulder, sleeves rolled up like you mean business.

You’re standing in front of the stove, squinting at a frying pan as if it has personally insulted you. There’s an egg involved. Possibly two. One of them looks… questionable.

For a split second he just watches.

This is not a fantasy image. It’s too specific. Too unpolished. There’s a faint crease between your brows. You’re barefoot. You’re holding a spatula like it might bite. His coffee maker is already half empty, steam curling lazily into the air.

Domestic. The word lands unexpectedly and knocks the air out of him.

You sense him immediately—turning your head, eyes finding him without hesitation.

“Hey,” you say, easy, warm, like this is the most natural thing in the world. “Hope you don’t mind me snooping around.”

The idea that he ever could mind is so ridiculous it almost makes him laugh out loud. Mind? He’s fairly certain if you set fire to his kitchen right now he’d just thank you for the warmth.

“Uh,” he says eloquently, leaning against the doorframe because his legs have apparently decided they’re frozen now. “No. Yeah. Please. Snoop. Rearrange furniture. Change the locks.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the pan. “Good. Because I may have already violated several unspoken kitchen boundaries.”

He steps closer, the cool tile under his feet grounding him, and peers into the pan. The egg is… aggressively cooked. The edges are crisping toward carbon.

“I’m better with bacteria than food,” you add, grimacing. “Which is not comforting.”

That does it.

He laughs—really laughs. Not the polite exhale-through-the-nose thing he does when coworkers make bad jokes, but a full, unguarded sound that startles even him. It feels good. Dangerous. Like stretching a muscle he forgot he had.

He moves behind you without overthinking it, arms sliding around your waist with an ease that surprises him. You lean back into him immediately, like this, too, has always been allowed. Like there was never a question.

He presses a kiss to your temple—gentle, instinctive—and registers the quiet click in his chest as something settles into place.

This is happening, he thinks. You are standing in your kitchen, half-naked, holding a woman you slept with, who is attempting breakfast. Try not to self-sabotage immediately.

“Hey,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly toward him. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. Then, honest because it feels safe to be: “Better than okay.”

You smile at that—not big, not performative. Just real.

You flip the eggs in the pan with a decisive flick of the spatula. One lands with a suspicious thud.

“Coffee’s decent,” you say. “Food is… questionable at best.”

“I’ve eaten worse,” he says solemnly. “Hospital cafeteria. 3 a.m. Nothing but grease and sodium.”

You snort, setting the plate aside. He pours himself coffee, leaning back against the counter beside you. The kitchen feels smaller with both of you in it. Fuller. Like it’s being used properly for the first time.

There’s a comfortable pause—not awkward, not charged. Just quiet. He studies you in the corner of his vision: the way you move, unselfconscious, the way you belong here without trying to.

This is the part where he usually screws it up, a cynical voice whispers. Overthinks. Pulls back. Makes a joke sharp enough to cut the moment before it can ask anything of him.

Instead, he clears his throat and says, as casually as he can manage, “So, you maybe wanna get dinner together?”

The words hang there, simple and terrifying.

You turn to look at him fully now, expression unreadable for half a second that feels like a lifetime.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’d like that.”

No qualifiers. No hesitation.

Something warm spreads through his chest—relief, yes, but also something else. Hope, maybe. The dangerous kind that implies a future.

He nods, pretending this is all very normal. “Cool. We can… uh. Eat food neither of us personally destroys.”

“Bold assumption,” you say dryly. “But I appreciate the optimism.”

He smiles into his coffee, the cynical part of him quiet for once.

For the first time in a long while, the morning doesn’t feel like something to survive. It feels like something to stay in.

He doesn’t mean to pull you closer.

It just… happens. Like breathing. Like gravity remembering its job.

You’re still half-turned toward him, mug warm in your hands, when his arm tightens almost absentmindedly around your waist. The movement surprises a laugh out of him—soft, incredulous, the kind that slips out when something feels too right and your brain hasn’t caught up enough to ruin it yet.

God, he thinks dryly, you’d think I’d never touched another human being before. Get it together.

But he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he dips his head, drawn by the quiet smile at the corner of your mouth, by the way you’re already leaning in before he’s fully decided. His lips find yours unhurriedly, like he has nowhere else to be, like time isn’t something sharp and finite for once.

The kiss is slow. Exploratory. Morning-soft.

You hum into his mouth—just a small sound, content and unguarded—and something in his chest gives way completely. His hand slides up, fingers tangling into your hair without ceremony, learning its texture, the weight of it. He kisses you deeper, not rushed, not desperate, just present. Thorough. Like he’s paying attention in a way he usually reserves for procedures that require absolute focus.

You respond immediately, fingers curling into his hair, the other hand bracing against his shoulder as if to anchor yourself—or him. The contact is grounding. Real. Your thumb brushes his collarbone absently, and he has the distinctly unhelpful thought that if anyone from work could see him right now, they’d never stop making fun of him.

Michael Robinavitch, soft. Mark the calendar.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath warm, smiling despite himself.

Your eyes flick up to his, fond and amused, and the look hits him harder than the kiss did. It’s not evaluative. Not cautious. It’s just… there. Like you’re not bracing for him to disappear or pull away or make a joke sharp enough to deflect.

The realization makes him uncharacteristically quiet.

He kisses you again, shorter this time, softer. His hand stays at the back of your head, thumb brushing your temple like it belongs there. When you sigh into him, relaxed and warm, he feels it all the way down to his bones.

This is dangerous, his brain observes mildly. You are enjoying this. That’s how it starts.

But even that thought lacks its usual bite.

You rest your forehead against his shoulder afterward, exhaling, fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt—his shirt on you, which his brain keeps circling back to like it’s a thesis topic.

“Okay,” you say lightly. “If we keep doing that, breakfast is absolutely going to burn.”

He glances toward the stove. The eggs are beyond saving. A thin curl of smoke confirms it.

“Yeah,” he admits. “That ship sailed.”

You turn in his arms to deal with the pan, and he lets you go reluctantly, hands lingering at your waist a second longer than necessary. He leans back against the counter again, watching you move through his kitchen like you’ve earned the right.

The coffee, the eggs, the quiet. The easy way you fit.

He takes a sip of his drink, feeling something settle—something unfamiliar and fragile and very much alive.

For once, he doesn’t try to analyze it to death.

He just stands there, smiling like an idiot, and lets the morning happen.

Taglist:

It was also distinctly you. Your signature scent clinging to the fabric and feeding its way into his soul. Burrowing warmth and comfort clinging to his bones and senses,  an intrinsic sense of safety clutching at his heart as he wraps it around his body. He uses the scent throughout the chaos of the day to ground himself. 

Small, private, moments between traumas and patients, with the collar pulled up close to his face. The same feeling from that morning blanketting him and pushing him to carry on and finish his day. It was like you had left a piece of your soul in the hoodie, something only he could see and experience and it soothed him much more than he would admit to anyone. 

So wrapped up in the comfort of the black hoodie, he doesn’t notice his gray one also disappearing. It was different from the others, heavier and fleece lined. Perfect for cold winter mornings and staying inside, it was near pristine and never worn into the hospital. 

In the still somewhat warm September days, it was unnecessary to wear, even if Michael liked to lounge around the house in it. So he doesn’t notice that it’s gone for weeks. As the Autumn chill begins to sweep in through the city in mid November, he goes looking for it to bask in its warmth without having to put the heating on in the house. When he notices its absence, he's perplexed. 

Michael was quite a meticulous man, house and clothing perfectly organised so he could just grab and go. His hoodies and sweatshirts were all hung up in seasonal order and he hadn’t had need to put the grey one on since early spring so he was sure he couldn’t have misplaced it. Was sure it wasn’t in the laundry. He almost tore his house apart looking for it, but then you walked in with the ingredients needed for dinner and it was forgotten about. 

He spent the rest of the night wrapped up in you. Arms around your waist as you cooked and swayed to the soft music playing through your phone speaker and told him about your day. How you were dreading this 2 week long work trip you were going on and that you would rather be spending thanksgiving weekend with him, curled up on the couch with a shitty holiday movie playing. 

You spent the rest of the night, curled up on the sofa with legs tangled and bodies almost indistinguishable from one another and Michael couldn’t have been more content. Your lavender and chamomile scent clearing the exhaustion from his body, he realised then what the scent meant to him. It meant home.

When he found the grey hoodie, folded neatly, at the foot of his bed after you left the next morning he felt like he was going insane. Or he was being haunted by some fae creature, obsessed with hoodies. When he lifts it, the scent of lavender and chamomile hits him like a truck.

Not in a bad way, but the best way possible. It’s deliberate, he thinks, and he vaguely remembers the sound of your perfume bottle spraying just a bit more than usual before you walked out of the room. You were going away for two weeks and yet you had left a little piece of yourself for Michael until you returned. He didn’t think about where the hoodie had come from, thought maybe you had found it when looking through his shirts before bed last night, but he was grateful to have it back and to have a little piece of your soul attached to it as he pulled it over his body. 

When his favourite blue hoodie went missing, the one he usually wore into the hospital that was stable of comfort and control, was when he started to finally pay attention and put two and two together. He noticed it a few days after you left, his first day back on shift (and the first time he had truly taken the grey hoodie off unless he was sleeping) and he went to grab it from his coat hanger. But it was gone. 

He stood there in the silence for a few minutes, just staring at the empty spot where it should be, his eye brows scrunched as he racked his brain trying to think of where it could be.  Then it clicked in his mind. An image of you, your bag close to your side and the familiar blue fabric peeking out at the top as you leaned over and gave him a kiss with a promise to let him know you arrived at your destination safely, flashing into his mind. 

You had taken his hoodie. You had taken the black one and the grey one as well. He smiled to himself, realisation sinking into his bones. It flustered him slightly, the thought that you wanted something of his. Not just wanted, but held onto and cared for and worse so much that was sure the scent of you would never leave the fabric (not that he wanted it to). 

Michael Robinavitch was never a romantic, didn’t believe in fairy tales and happily ever after. He had so many heart breaks (of his own creation, mind you) that love was never something on his radar before. His walls were built high, the pain and trauma from his job usually stopping him from forming meaningful connections. But you had managed to bulldoze through those thoughts, settling yourself right inside his rib cage and into his heart with the simple action of just wanting something of his while you were away. The same way he wanted something of yours. 

It was a moment not only of realisation, but reckoning. The force of the feelings inside of him is so strong that it batters against his bones, little minuscule cracks appearing in the fabric of him only to be healed by the thoughts of you, together. The shared love and joy of a future Michael thought he would never get. 

He folds the realization up, tucking it gently beneath his ribs and keeping it safe. Until you return, that moment, that vulnerability and acknowledgment is only for him. The world does not get to see it, at least not yet. 

When you return two weeks later, emotionally and physically exhausted due to work and insane plane delays because a snow storm decided to blow through Pittsburgh and ground all incoming flights, all you want to do is curl up in bed and sleep the weariness away. Where you expect a cold empty apartment to greet you as you walk through the door, to your delight and astonishment, there's heat and spices. The bubbling of something delicious on the stove, candles burning gently on coffee tables and counters and one Doctor Michael Robinavitch, wrapped up in his gray hoodie, staring down intently into a cookbook like it was a medical journal spilling out secrets about human anatomy. 

As the door clicks shut and you take your shoes off, Michael turns with a soft and welcoming smile. It warms you up from the inside, a breath you didn’t know you were holding leaving your lungs as the realisation that home is no longer just your apartment but another person settles inside you. 

You missed him, not just in the love sick I want to talk to you every day kind of way. But the bone deep kind. Where your soul has been quietly calling out to his since you left and is at peace now that you’ve reunited. Instantly, you feel lighter in his presence. The stress of everyday life and work and travel melts from your shoulders the minute you step out of the hallway and into his open arms. 

He places a soft kiss, first to your forehead, then your lips. He doesn’t say the words welcome home, but you feel it in the way he holds you. The way his arms anchor themselves around your shoulders, holding you so tight against him that you can feel and hear his steady heart beat under his chest. You think you can hear the words I love you and I missed you in the rise and fall of his chest, in the metronome beat of his heart. 

When you pull apart, he cups your cheeks playfully as he eyes the very familiar blue hoodie that you are absolutely drowning in with a quirk of his eyebrow. 

“I’ve been looking for this.”

You giggle at him, pressing a soft kiss into his palm as you innocently bat your eyelashes, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and chuckles at you, placing another kiss to your lips before he pulls you further into the kitchen and gets you to sit on one of the bar stools at the island. 

“Dinners almost ready”

You prop a hand on the island and lean your chin against your palm as you watch him move, a smile on your lips. You liked this, the quiet domesticity of it all. How it felt right. Like it was predestined and written into the fabric of time and space. 

When Michael catches your eye, he leans forward on the island facing you with a raised eyebrow, “Something on your mind honey?”

You bite your lip at the pet name as a shiver of heat spills down your spine, “Just thinking I could get used to this”

“Yeah?”

There’s a serious tone in Michael's voice now, not one that causes concern but one that has your nervous system lightening up in anticipation.

“Yeah, my very own hot doctor making me dinner? It’s a girl's dream"

You tease him lightly as you lean forward on your arms now, lifted slightly off the chair to get closer to Michael as he chuckles at your antics. But still he leans in closer, now only millimeters from your face. 

“How ‘bout we make it an everyday occurrence? All you gotta do is come home to me every night and wake up in bed next to me every morning, I’ll even throw breakfast in there for free”

You know your answer immediately, even though he hasn’t really asked the question and the anticipation you felt earlier flutters back to life and it feels like lightning is shooting through your nerves.

“Michael Robinavitch, are you asking me to move in with you?” Your tone is light, teasing but still serious as you lean in closer again, “Because the answers yes.” 

It’s two fourty-six in the morning when you make it up to bed. 

It’s your last day in Pittsburgh tomorrow, or…today. Your flight back to New York leaves in just over twenty-four hours, the notification sitting on your lock screen every time you look down at it. It’ll be the longest you’ve been away from Robby since, well, you don't want to think about it. A billion responsibilities had somehow landed within the span of the same four weeks, leaving you booked and busy for the foreseeable future. 

Your newest album is mostly finished, but there’s still a few things that need to be fixed. Rehearsals for your upcoming North American tour with your band, dancers, and crew will take up the majority of your time, probably running for at least twelve hours on the days that you aren’t recording. A week of vocal rest after recording ends. Promotional photoshoots. Final costume fittings. The American Music Awards.

It’s nothing you aren’t used to, but it feels heavy this time - you don’t want to leave Robby or your newfound friends. You just need to get through the next four weeks, then you’re back in Pittsburgh until the start of your tour. 

You tiptoe over to Robby’s nightstand, carefully picking up his phone. You enter the password, your birthday, then tap on the clock icon. Of course his five o’clock alarm is still set, the green ‘on’ switch illuminating your face. Without a second thought you turn it off, then replace his phone on the nightstand, smiling to yourself. Then, you climb into bed beside him, shoving yourself up against his back and wrapping around him like a koala. His breathing shallows for a second, then returns to the steady, deep breaths that indicate he’s still asleep. His hand, however, moves to sit on the thigh of the leg that you’ve tossed over his waist. 

The next morning, for once, you wake up before him. It’s a talent of yours - staying up until ungodly hours of the night and still waking up at a reasonable time. The sun is well above the horizon, shining through the cracks in the blinds. 

You pick your head up off of Robby’s chest, slowly, then you take him in. 

He’s on his back, the arm that had been holding you against him now outstretched on the bed. His other arm is up by his head, bent and tucked underneath his neck. The wisps of sunlight creep up his neck and chin, illuminating his face beautifully. 

God, you love him. 

You feel around for your phone, finding it underneath your pillow. You ensure your ringer is off before snapping a few photos of him, grinning to yourself as you flip through them. Then, you move them to the folder titled ‘mike ♥️’, where five years worth of images sit. Sometimes, when he’s staying late at work or out for drinks with Jack, you’ll swipe through it, reminding yourself of everything you have. 

Getting out of bed is a success, so you move on to the next task on your list. You wanted to leave Robby with everything he might need for the next four weeks, despite knowing that he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He had agreed on your plan for the day when you pitched it yesterday, promising that it would only be a few errands before the two of you could just relax. Well, you can relax. Robby is physically incapable of doing that. 

Flour, baking powder, sugar, salt, milk, eggs - all laid out on the counter. You pour them into a mixing bowl, whisking gently until they’re combined. You place a frying pan on the stove, turning the heat on medium-low before pulling out the toppings you bought yesterday out of the fridge. Slices of strawberries and bananas are arranged on one of your very nice wooden cutting boards, and you pour some blueberries into a little bowl. 

Then, it’s formulaic. 

You don’t have to guess when Robby will get up, he’s the lightest sleeper you know. He probably woke up to the sound of the fridge closing after you pulled all your ingredients out, but the fact that he hasn’t come downstairs just yet makes your heart skip, knowing how badly he needs a break. 

Pancakes stack up on two plates, your favourite playlist playing softly through the speaker sitting on the counter. Your voice intermingles with the music in the way that Michael absolutely adores. He can hear it as he comes down the stairs, footsteps quiet in hopes that you won’t hear him at first. Then he can just watch for a second, taking you in, taking in his absolutely unbelievable life. 

You harmonize with the chorus of ‘You’re Still the One’ by Shania Twain, spatula in hand, acting as a makeshift microphone as you stand over the stove. Robby can’t help but lean against the arched threshold between the living room and kitchen, brown eyes soft with devotion and warmth. He crosses his arms over his chest as he looks at you, thinking about how this exact view belongs in fucking museums. 

One of his shirts sits perfectly on you, navy blue fabric shifting each time you move, exposing the pair of black underwear you’re wearing. His eyes fall to your bare thighs, the sight of them absolutely mouthwatering. 

You flip the final pancake just as the second verse of the song starts. You know Robby’s watching, of course, but you let him look. You’ve had tens of thousands of eyes all watch you at once, but none of them feel quite as good on your skin as Robby’s do.

His gaze follows you as you place the pancake onto one of the plates, switch the stove off, turn the music up, then finally look at him. 

“But just look at us, holding on,” You sing dramatically, one hand gripping the countertop as you sink down a few inches, spatula still functioning as a microphone. The effect is instant, a wide grin taking over his face and a huff of laughter escaping his chest. “We’re still together, still going strong…”

You practically strut towards him, Popstar Brain taking over for a moment as you close the gap. The spatula is pushed towards him, your face expectant and adoring. He knows you’ll sing along with him, you always do, but he still feels butterflies each time you do this. He's definitely not a singer, despite how much you lie to him and claim that you're going to write a duet and force him to record it with you so the entire world can hear his beautiful voice. 

He can’t say no to you. If it were anyone else (cough cough, Jack and Dana during karaoke nights, cough cough) he’d shake his head, refusing. But you make it so easy for him to let go, to stop caring about what he sounds like. Because you love him, terrible singing voice and all. 

“You’re still the one I run to,” You both sing, matching grins plastered on your faces as you walk backwards, beckoning for him to follow closely, keeping the spatula at an equal distance. God forbid the microphone doesn’t pick up his cadence!

“The one that I belong to.”

Robby doesn’t attempt the small riff at the end, but you execute it perfectly, the way you always do. 

“You’re still the one I want for life.”

Your back hits the cold marble of the countertop, your body moulding with Robby’s as he stands in front of you, hands slipping underneath your shirt and landing on your back as you throw your head back, the move perfectly choreographed by this point. 

This time, Robby sings the background ‘you’re still the one’ while you continue on with the main melody. 

“You’re still the one that I love, the only one I dream of-”

You’re not satisfied with his backup vocals, insisting that he finish the chorus strong with just one look. He shakes his head at your antics, his smile returning while you wave the spatula in front of him. 

“You’re still the one I kiss goodnight.”

The final line of the chorus is yours. 

“You’re still the one.”

The instrumental continues, you toss the spatula haphazardly, mostly aiming for the sink but not batting an eye when it clatters to the floor. Robby leans back slightly, creating about a foot of space between you, then hooks two fingers into the waistband of your underwear, pulling you towards him. You sling one arm around his neck, the other splayed dramatically as he dips you. You bring one of your legs up, knee bent and toes pointed, just like you’d hit the pose on stage. 

Robby pulls you back into him, kissing you. It’s solid, deep, safe. Your hands sit on either side of his jaw as you kiss him back, warmth erupting in your chest. Neither of you move when the kiss breaks, foreheads touching and cheeks flushed from the once in a lifetime performance you just gave. 

“Pancakes?” He mumbles, and you nod. 

“Always.”

You can't remember when it started, but now you always made him pancakes the day before leaving. It didn’t matter where you were going or why, you still made pancakes. Robby doesn’t eat pancakes any other time, wanting to preserve the bittersweet memories that they hold until the day that he dies. Of course he always remembers the scene of you leaving, but he also remembers this. Singing, dancing, loving.

Robby tops his with bananas, blueberries, and whipped cream. You slather your own with strawberries, bananas, maple syrup, and a perfect square of butter - right in the centre. You sit on the counter, ankles crossed. Robby stares, corners of his mouth turning up as you curate the perfect bite. A slice of banana, a slice of strawberry, a chunk of the butter slab, enough maple syrup to soak through the entire layer. Once you’ve taken your first bite he shifts his focus onto his own plate, still smiling to himself. 

When you’re both done Robby starts cleaning the kitchen. He takes your plate and fork from you, but you don’t move from your spot on the counter as he turns on the sink, rolling up the sleeves of the hoodie he’s wearing and grabbing the sponge from the cabinet underneath. 

“Are you-”

“Shhh,” You hush, just as he starts to scrub at one of the plates. “My show is on.”

He scoffs playfully at how ridiculous you are, but you’re being dead serious. You take him in - forearms tense, biceps pressing against the fabric of his hoodie, glasses resting on top of his head. You could watch him wash dishes all day. 

He tries to speak to you again, asking where you want to go for coffee once you’re both dressed and ready to go. You don’t respond. He says your name once, twice. 

“My. Show. Is. On.”

He shakes his head, finishing up with the dishes in silence, as per your request. The pair of you go back upstairs once he’s done, getting ready to start the day. You slide around each other, knowing exactly where the other will be at any given time, carefully swapping positions as you move between the bedroom and ensuite. To an outsider, it looks rehearsed, because it is. You go into the bathroom first, doing your hair and makeup for the day. Robby gets dressed, then slips behind you to use the mirror, hands ghosting over your waist for a moment. He starts on his hair and beard, always taking a bit more time with it whenever he’s going out with you. 

You finish in the bathroom, setting your final product down. Robby takes a half-step backwards, letting you go pick out an outfit. He’s always finished just as you slide your engagement ring onto your left hand, coming up and hugging you from behind. You lean into him, breathing in his cologne, eyes closing. It’s everything. 

“Ready?” He asks, kissing the back of your head as he holds you. You hum, nodding. 

The sky is bright blue, a few picturesque clouds floating by. Robby pauses by the front door, looking back at you.

“How warm is it?”

You pull out your phone, checking the weather app. “Seventeen.”

Robby doesn’t respond, he just stares at you until you realize. 

“Oh, sorry, I forgot,” You say, just like you always do. “It’s sixty-three.”

“Why don’t you just switch your app?” He asks. You glare at him.

“Why don’t you switch yours? The majority of the world uses celsius.”

“Celsius doesn’t make any sense,” He counters. “Fahrenheit is more precise.”

“That’s what Big America wants you to think,” You say, grabbing a thin jacket off the hook. 

Robby bites back a laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Big America?”

“Yeah, like Big Pharma, you know?” You explain, bending down to pull your shoes on. “You’re close with them, so, makes sense that you’d also be into Big America.”

He does laugh this time, eyes crinkling in the way that you love so much. You look up from your shoes, a bright grin on your face. He pulls you back up once your shoes are tied, then grabs his keys out of the bowl. The keys. Your eyes widen as he spins them around his finger, the Ferrari logo catching a few rays of sun. He catches them in his palm, grabs his sunglasses, then leads you out to the garage. 

You can’t help but smile as you climb into his sports car, putting your bag on the floor as Robby opens the garage door. He turns the ignition over, the car roaring to life. The top is open, wind hitting your face as he pulls out of the garage. 

“Music?” You ask, grabbing his phone and looking over at him, watching as he thinks for a moment. He spares you a quick glance when he stops at a stop sign, mischief written all over his expression. 

You shake your head. “I am not playing Sports car right now.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just gestures to the stereo. You groan, pulling the song up and pressing ‘play.’

You pretend to be mad for the entire first verse while Robby nods along, thumbs tapping the steering wheel in time with the music. He cranks the volume during the pre-chorus, gaining the attention of the other drivers stopped at the same intersection as the two of you. You desperately reach to turn it down, but Robby grabs your wrist and intertwines your fingers together, resting your hands on the centre console. You cover your face with your free hand, shaking your head as your cheeks heat up. Despite that, you’re laughing, which makes Robby smile. 

Robby lets you pick the music after that, and you curate the perfect queue that ends right as he’s pulling up outside the coffee shop. He opens his door first, you sit patiently. You don’t miss the way a few people look him up and down, his jeans hugging his thighs just right. You sit patiently as he walks around the car, knowing he’d just make you get back in if you dared to open your own door. 

He tugs on the handle, then extends his hand to you. You take it, he closes the door, letting you go and putting his hand on your lower back. He pulls the door to the coffee shop open, holding it as you step inside, placing your sunglasses on top of your head, eyes lifting to the chalkboard menu above the counter. 

Once you decide on what you want to you step forward, a kind smile on your face as you address the barista. Robby steps up behind you, his pointer finger curling around the back belt loop of your jeans. You order an americano for Robby, an iced banana bread latte for yourself, and a vanilla bean scone. 

You tap your credit card against the machine, thanking the barista before moving out of the way, letting them help the next person. Robby presses a ghost of a kiss to your temple, humming. 

“Thank you, peach.”

“Of course,” You say, toying with your necklace as you wait. Robby’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and you catch a glimpse of ‘Dana Evans PTMC’ on the screen. You roll your eyes at the fact that he still has ‘PTMC’ in her contact name, snickering to yourself as he answers it. 

“Everything okay?” 

He steps outside. He better not have to go to work today, you might just lose it if he does. Most of the time you’re perfectly fine with the fact that his job can take him away at a moments notice, but not today. Not when you’re about to lose him for a month. 

“Oh my god, holy shit, woah, I-”

You turn around at the voice, seeing a girl not too much younger than you standing a few feet away. 

“You’re…you’re Valentine, oh my god!”

“Hi,” You greet, smiling at her. “How are you, stunner?”

“Wow, I can’t believe this is happening, I’ve loved you for like, ever,” She continues, her voice shaky. “This…this is insane.”

“That’s so sweet, thank you,” You say, genuinely, ignoring the looks from the other people in the coffee shop. “Do you want a picture? My fiancé can- oh my fucking god.”

The girl collapses straight into you - better you than onto the corner of a table, or worse - making you stagger backwards. You bring your arms up around her, carefully laying her down on the floor. The two baristas come around the counter immediately and a few people stand up from their seats. The ones who didn’t see what happened crane their necks, trying to figure out what’s going on. You make eye contact with an older man, pointing at him so he knows that you’re talking to him directly - something Robby told you to do if you were ever in an emergency situation. 

“Can you please go get the man who’s on the phone outside?” You ask. “Jeans, dark grey hoodie.”

He leaves, and you focus on the girl again. You put her on her back, fingers naturally falling to her carotid. Robby was really rubbing off on you. 

She still has a pulse, thank god. 

“Hey, you with us?” You ask, pressing your knuckles to her sternum and rubbing up and down a few times, quickly. She groans, hands coming up and pushing your fist away from her chest. She squints at you, eyes opening the tiniest amount as the bell at the top of the door rings. 

“Hey,” You say, smiling down at her. “Can you hear me?”

She nods, eyes slightly more open now. 

Robby’s on the floor in seconds, kneeling beside you, sleeves already rolled up. “What d’you got?”

Old habits die hard.

“She passed out,” You answer. “Responded to a sternal rub right away, didn’t hit her head or anything.”

“You watched it happen?” He questions, turning the flashlight on on his phone and shining it into her eye. She blinks, turning away from the light, but Robby still sees enough to know that her pupils are equal and reactive. 

“Yeah, she fell right into me,” You explain. 

When the girl focuses on the two of you again, Robby takes charge this time. 

“Hey, I’m Robby, I’m a doctor,” He says. “You passed out for a second. Can you tell me your name?”

“Dom,” She answers, lifting her head off the ground and looking around. “Dominique.”

“Okay, Dom,” Robby repeats. “Has this ever happened before?”

The reality of the situation sets in for her, and she snaps into a seated position, frantically looking around. Her eyes land on you. 

“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing,” She groans. “I’m fine, I’m so sorry-”

“Hey, it’s okay,” You promise. A few people are still watching, but most have returned to whatever they were doing now that the crisis has passed. “I assure you we’ve both seen far worse. Are you okay?”

“Yes, yeah, I’m good, thank you,” She says. “I came here to get something for breakfast, I was up all night studying, then I saw you and-”

She trails off, gesturing around herself. 

“What’re you studying?” You ask, getting her into a chair with Robby's help (more like he gets her into the chair with your help, but whatever). 

“Film,” She answers, rubbing her eyes. “I left a ton of our screenings until the last minute, I still have a few to get through. Dumb decision.”

“Oh, we’ve all made plenty of those,” Robby says, giving her a reassuring smile. “Can’t tell you how many all-nighters I pulled in med school. Can you follow my fingers?”

He holds his hand up, moving back and forth. Her eyes track them perfectly. He almost turns to you and asks ‘how do we proceed?’ but he catches himself. 

“Alright, well, no signs of anything other than a syncopal event,” He says, and you shift your gaze onto him. 

“English, Dr. Robinavitch?”

You know what a syncopal event is, but you can tell that Dom doesn’t by the way she looks at him like he has three heads. 

“Right,” He says. “You just fainted, nothing to be too concerned about unless it happens again.”

“I’ll get you something to eat, do you have any allergies?” You ask. Dom shakes her head, and you turn around and go back to the counter. Robby watches as you talk with the barista for a second, then they reach into the pastry case, placing a muffin in a paper bag and passing it to you. They hand you a bottle of water from the fridge as well. You place both things in front of Dom when you get back, noting that she already looks a lot better. 

You and Robby sit with her while she eats, asking her a few questions and encouraging her to call her roommate to come and walk her back to their apartment. Once she puts the phone up to her ear you turn to Robby. 

“Everything alright?” You ask, referring to the phone call from Dana that had been interrupted. Robby nods, then shrugs. 

“They’re down an attending,” He admits. 

You nod, slow, trying to accept the fact that he needs to leave. “Oh.”

“I told her I’m unavailable,” He adds, and you perk up. “She told me to tell you that she says hi, and that her daughters can’t wait for the new album.”

You’re about to respond, but Dom puts her phone down, ending the call. 

“She coming?” You ask. 

“Yeah, she’s leaving right away,” She says. “I should warn you, she’s also a huge fan.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” You say. “We can get you that picture once she get’s here.”

Dom’s roommate is lovely, and Robby gladly snaps a million photos for them. You keep talking with them for a few minutes while Robby goes back inside to get your drinks and scone. They wave to you as they walk away, and you wave back. As soon as they’re facing the opposite direction they start talking lowly, and you catch a few bits of the conversation before they round the corner. 

“Is that her fiancé?”

“Oh my god, yes, he’s so not what I was expecting.”

“No, but he’s so hot, and he’s a doctor? Are you kidding me?”

“How do you think I felt when I woke up to him above me? No wonder she wants to-”

You bite your lip to keep from smirking. Robby’s completely oblivious as he comes back outside, drink tray and a paper bag in hand. He hands you your drink, and you start walking down the street, side by side. 

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any hotter,” Robby starts. “You did a sternal rub? You’re killing me.”

You laugh, bright and unrestrained. “I’ve learned a thing or two from you over the last five years.”

Robby hums. “You’d make a pretty excellent physician.”

You grimace. “Yuck.”

He laughs. “Fair enough. Seriously, though. Level-headed, empathetic, confident. I’d be lucky to have you working in my ED.”

“Never in a million years,” You say. “I’m accustomed to a very specific lifestyle, one that doesn’t involve getting bodily fluids on my clothes everyday.”

“Me too,” Robby agrees. “I’ve grown pretty used to flying first class.”

You snort, shoving him lightly. “I’m sticking you in economy the next time we fly together.”

He puts a hand over his heart, acting as though you shot him. You roll your eyes, taking a sip of your latte. 

“Is it good?” He asks, gesturing to the drink. 

“It’s amazing,” You say. “You wanna' try?”

He nods, and you pause at the edge of the sidewalk, handing him the cup. He takes a small sip, making a single ‘hm’ noise once he’s swallowed. 

“Not bad,” He says, passing it back to you. “You want a sip of mine?”

“Absolutely not.”

You’ve finished your coffee by the time you get loop around the block, arriving back at Robby’s car. He takes your empty cup, tossing it in the recycling bin along with his own before opening your door for you, holding your hand as you step in. He presses a kiss to the back of your hand. 

He doesn’t start the car right away once he's inside, instead he pulls your scone out of his pocket, handing you the folded paper bag. You gasp, having forgotten all about it. You pull the pastry out of the bag, taking a careful bite, making sure that your hand is in place to catch any crumbs. 

“Oh my god,” You say. “We have to come back here. This is so fucking good.”

You move, instinctively, at the same time he does. You extend your hand towards him as he leans slightly over the centre console, biting into the scone. You pull back, taking another bite of your own. He nods while he chews, showing he agrees with you. He turns the car on, you put on music again. You finish about two-thirds of the scone then tuck the rest of it back into the bag for Robby. 

The grocery store is quieter than you had expected for a Saturday morning. You don’t bother with sunglasses or a hat, usually not having any issues in Pittsburgh. If you were in New York, or, god forbid, Los Angeles - it would be a different story. 

“What’s on the list?” Robby asks, grabbing a cart out of the lineup, pushing it through the automatic doors. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, then open the note on your phone. Robby lifts his one hand off the handle as you come up beside him, letting you move in between him and the cart. You step up onto the bottom shelf of the cart, putting your forearms on the handle as you scroll through the list. Robby’s arms are on either side of you, keeping you in place. The first time you had ever done this Robby was convinced you were going to get kicked out of the store, but you had insisted that he’d be fine. You were right. 

He pushes you and the cart through the aisles, grabbing items as you pointed them out, adding a few extra things that he knows you’ll want for tonight without waiting for you to ask. Peppermint tea, sour candy, popcorn. 

You’re almost done with the list when an all-too familiar song starts playing over the speakers. You don’t acknowledge it, hoping that Robby won’t notice. He does.

“Is this…”

He trails off, stopping the cart and focusing on the song for a moment, not sure which one it is. He just knows that it’s you. 

“Cause I’ll be switching the positions for you

Cooking in the kitchen and I’m in the bedroom 

I’m in the Olympics, way I’m jumping through hoops

Know my love infinite, nothing I wouldn’t do

That I won’t do, switching for you”

“Ah, Positions,” Robby says, nodding once like he’s just solved a mystery. “Who was the inspiration for this one, again? I can’t seem to remember.”

Your face burns, hot and far too entertaining for Robby, who’s grinning like a mad man as he starts pushing the cart again. He puts something else in the cart but you don’t even see what it is, too busy trying to get yourself together. You pass someone in the aisle who’s humming along to the song, blissfully unaware of the fact that you’re directly behind him until he stands up, turning away from the shelf, eyes landing on the sight that is you and Michael sandwiched together on the cart. 

“Yo, isn’t this your song?” He asks. 

“Sure is,” You say, forcing a smile onto your face. “Nice to meet you!”

He says the same thing as Robby continues pushing you towards the checkout. You climb off the cart, begrudgingly, placing the various groceries onto the belt. Robby helps, then steps ahead of the cart to greet the cashier and start bagging everything. You watch, stuck on the other side, moving along with your items after placing the divider at the tail end. You take advantage of Robby being at the opposite end of the till, rolling the cart past the Moneris machine and planting yourself in front of it, blocking him from paying. 

You tap your card, thanking the cashier and taking the receipt in your hand. Robby’s watching you, an amused smile on his face. He puts the bags of groceries in the cart, and you steer it back out to the parking lot, sticking it behind his car. You don’t lift a finger as he puts helps you into the passenger seat, puts the groceries into the trunk compartment, then returns the cart to the bay. 

It’s nearing three when you get back home. 

Groceries are put away, comfy clothes are on, music’s playing through the speaker in the kitchen. You bound down the stairs in the same shirt you were wearing this morning and a pair of fuzzy shorts, spotting Robby on the couch, glasses on and phone in hand. You get a minor running start and jump onto the spot beside him, making him jump.

“Jesus,” He breathes, clutching his chest. “You’re gonna’ give me a heart attack.”

“A heart attack isn’t something you give,” You counter, climbing onto his lap, tucking your knees up and leaning against his chest. He wraps his arms around you. “Cardiac arrest, maybe.”

“My cardiac vessels are weakening as we speak,” He pushes. “You stress me out too much.”

“I am a very peaceful presence,” You protest, rubbing your cheek against his hoodie, hands coming up to play with the strings absentmindedly. 

Robby snorts. “Of course you are, honey.”

You sit there for a bit, toying with his hoodie, vision going in and out of focus as your eyes grow tired. 

“You want to take a nap?” Robby asks. 

“No,” You say. “Then I’d miss out on this.”

Robby frowns, hugging you a little tighter and kissing your head. “We’ll be back together before you know it, sweet girl.”

You shift closer to him, impossibly. “Let me inside your ribcage.”

“Would if I could.”

You go quiet again. 

Then, you give in, since your eyelids feel like solid concrete.

“Okay, a quick nap.”

You just lay down on the couch, nestled on top of Robby like he’s a mattress. His arms hold onto your waist, keeping you from falling off while you drift away. 

He wakes you up thirty minutes later, as he promised he would before you fell asleep, hand brushing wisps of hair out of your face. He kisses your forehead, your eyes fluttering before you squint at him. 

“Good morning,” He says, and you frown, eyes still heavy with sleep. 

“Hi,” You mumble. “What time is it?”

“Four-thirty,” He answers, showing you his phone. You smile. 

“You woke me up on time.”

He smiles. “Yeah. Don’t want to waste a single second.”

You insist on spending the rest of the day relaxing. Robby protests in every way imaginable, throwing out hesitations and talking about all the things he could do. You try to get him to agree for a solid ten minutes before you grow sick of it, hands gripping the bottom of your shirt and yanking it over your head, tossing it over your shoulder. 

His jaw goes slack.

Then he does the same.

“What do you want for dinner?” He asks, completely bare under the sheets beside you, a sheen of sweat covering his chest and neck. You aren't sure at what point you switched locations from the couch to the bed, everything that happened over the past ninety minutes a pleasurable haze in your mind. Your head is on his chest, pointer finger drawing stars on his sternum. 

“I was gonna’ order something,” You admit. “Vietnamese, maybe?”

He kisses your head in agreement. He lays with you for a few more minutes, then stands up, putting his clothes back on and fixing his hair as best he can given the circumstances. You sit up, putting your back against the headboard, eyes following his movements. He starts to tidy up the bedroom, picking up clothes and folding them or tossing them in the hamper. He straightens out the books on his nightstand, then grabs his phone, putting it in his pocket. 

He pulls the sheets up to the head of the bed on his side, then places his pillows neatly on top. You give him a look.

“That’s not relaxing.”

“I’d rather be doing something,” He says. 

You roll you eyes. “Emergency doctors, man. What’s wrong with you all?”

You pull on a shirt and your fuzzy shorts, tying the drawstring up before sliding into a pair of slippers. You grab your own phone, following him downstairs. He continues tidying up, moving random items that had accumulated around the living room and kitchen over the past few days. You, on the other hand, collapse onto the fuzzy rug, splaying out like a starfish. 

Robby buzzes around you, silently. You can feel the restlessness. It’s ruining the vibe. 

“Mike,” You say, sitting up. “Can you just come lay with me?”

“On the floor?” He asks. “I won’t walk for a week.”

“Just for a minute,” You plead. He nods, taking the spot beside you, slowly. Trying not to injure himself. You let him get settled, then you lay back down, too. You roll onto your side, facing him, the tips of your noses touching. 

“I’m gonna’ miss you,” You say, thumb coming up to his face, tracing his eyebrow. 

“I’m gonna’ miss you, too,” He agrees. “What am I gonna’ do without my valentine?”

You smile. “Rot, probably.”

He laughs. “Yeah.”

“Can we build a fort?”

“What?”

“A fort,” You repeat, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Of the pillow variety.”

Robby feels warmth settle over his chest, seeping into his aching bones. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

It’s harder than both of you expect, but eventually you have a mostly-functional fort crafted from couch cushions, pillows, sheets, blankets, a few chairs and a broom. You shuffle inside, pushing yourself into the corner to make room for him. Robby groans as he sinks to his knees, then sits beside you, his long legs crossed and knees slightly raised to take up as little space as possible. After a few minutes he pulls out his phone, putting his glasses on and opening his email. You don’t hesitate to yank it from his hands, turning it off and throwing it through the small opening. 

“No.”

He’s frozen, hands still raised as he turns to you. You look so innocent, eyes wide and serious. 

“Okay,” He says. “What do you need from me, sweet girl?”

“Be here,” You say. “With me. Please.”

So, he does exactly that. You’re smushed into his side, his arm around you as he reads aloud from one of the books you’re currently reading. It’s definitely not his usual cup of tea, but he has to admit that the thrill of the enemies-to-lovers plot is growing on him. You’re eating the sour candy that he got you, eyes focused on the pages, reading along with him. 

Your breathing is soft, quiet, but Robby can feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his ribcage. The way you fit against him is so perfect that he has to wonder if you were designed just for him, to sit against him like this, stunning eyes moving back and forth between the book and his face. He finishes the final paragraph of the chapter, closing the book, making you look up. He shifts a little so he can really look at you. So he can memorize this moment. 

“I love you endlessly,” He whispers, hand coming up to your cheek. 

You scrunch your face up, smiling. “I love you endlessly, Michael.”

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

“I can’t wait either.”

“Thank you. For not giving up on me.”

You shake your head. “I never wanted to.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “I didn’t deserve you.”

“You do now.”

The doorbell ringing makes both of you jump out of your skin, Robby instinctively shifting so he's slightly in front of you.

"Oh, shit," You say, untangling yourself from his grip and crawling out of the fort. "I forgot that Trinity and Dennis were coming after work to say bye."

Robby follows you, his movements much slower than yours. He brushes his pants off, straightening.

"What about Javadi?"

"I saw her yesterday," You answer, glancing over your shoulder as you walk to the front door. "Sorry, is it okay if they come in for a bit? It'll be fast, promise."

Robby glances down at the fort, then back at you, then back at the fort.

"Yeah, yep, of course!" He calls as you pull the door open, revealing Dennis and Trinity, both still in their scrubs. His eyes find your previously discarded underwear laying on the floor, making him grunt with minor panic. He bends down, quickly, swooping them up and shoving them into his pocket. He grabs the rest of your clothes, tossing them up the stairs just as you bring Trinity and Dennis into the main part of the house.

Trinity doesn't hesitate to make herself at home, opening the fridge and pulling a bottle of water from it, giving Robby a small nod as she twists the cap off.

"Dr. Robby," She greets. Dennis gives him a small wave.

"Dr. Santos, Dr. Whitaker," He returns, and you roll your eyes.

"So formal," You mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. "Do you want anything, Denny?"

He's so nervous, making you bite back a smile, your amusement evident on your face. You don't notice the way Trinity is staring at Robby's pocket, the waistband of your Calvin Klein thong staring right back. She looks back up, taking a drink of water to stop herself from laughing.

"He only bites in the ER," You comment, referring to Robby, making Dennis exhale. "I have-"

You rattle off drinks until Dennis agrees on one, pulling out the bottle and passing it to him. Robby's pretending to be busy, straightening pillows and brushing the half-dismantled couch off.

"Come on," You say, walking to the backdoor with your friends right behind. "I want to show you guys something I'm working on."

It's a common occurrence, the three (or four, or five, depending on what Victoria and Mateo are up to) of you discussing lyrics and hooks for your upcoming music. It usually involved some kind of alcohol, but today you just wanted to play a song for them to hear their thoughts.

You open the backdoor, not bothering to put shows on since the walkway to the carriage house is clear. Dennis follows, also shoeless. Trinity hangs back, just for a second, stopping with her hand on the door.

"Nice panties, Robby."

Then she's gone, and Robby's frozen, eyes drifting down to his pocket where your panties are clearly visible. He groans, pulling them out and going upstairs, grabbing the pile of clothes on his way up.

He stands behind you in the doorway as you bid your friends goodbye, giving both of them tight hugs and promising that you'll still text them everyday, no, probably not as often as usual, but still everyday. Dennis says 'bye, Dr. Robby' as Trinity gives him a two-finger salute.

"See you on Monday, Calvin Klein. See you in a month, popstar."

You don't have a chance to ask her why she called him that before she's down the driveway, pushing Dennis lightly as she walks by him. You close the door, turning to Robby with a questioning look on your face.

"Calvin Klein?" You ask. Robby goes beet red.

"It's better if you don't know," He mumbles, and you have to cover your mouth with your palm to keep from laughing.

Dinner comes and goes, Robby makes you tea, you run a bath. You light candles along the corners, pouring a capful of bubblebath into the running water, and toss your favourite rubber duck on top. It's a blue duck wearing a lab coat and stethoscope.

"Hey, look, it's you!" You had exclaimed, grabbing the duck off the shelf and holding it up for Robby to see. He had frowned, teasingly, shaking his head.

"No, he's way too handsome to be me."

You would've thought he just told you he thought you were disgusting, or something, by the horrified gasp you had let out.

"Don't talk about my baby like that," You said, cradling the duck in your hands, as if to shield it from the horrors that you had just witnessed. "Plus, the entirety of my comment section would beg to differ."

"They've never even seen my face."

"You have an unmistakably hot aura."

Robby gets in first, sighing as he hits the water, all tension in his muscles evaporating for a moment. He looks over as you strip, eyes scanning your body. A particular freckle over your hip bone, the outline of your breasts, your necklace shimmering where it sits by your clavicle. You step into the bath with his help, positioning yourself in between his thighs and leaning against him. He runs his fingers along your collarbone, then your arms, then rests both his hands on your stomach. You loop your hands underneath his thighs, gripping them like the world depends on it.

You remind yourself of the shape of him. The feeling of his heartbeat on your spine, the rise and fall of his chest when you're against it. The way his fingers float over your skin, how his lips feel as he leaves kisses just below your earlobe. You remind yourself that you won, you got everything you wanted. You're lucky to be able to leave, live out your dreams for a month, then come back home to him, living out a different kind of dream. He's the embodiment of everything you've ever wanted - something you knew from the first time he offered you a sip of his americano on that very first date. You wish you could bottle this feeling up and take it with you to New York.

"I love you, sweet girl," He murmurs against your skin.

"I love you, ducky."

A/N - the winner of the poll was fluff so HERE YOU GO MWAH! also i was expecting to get like 3 responses i cannot believe it got OVER TWO HUNDRED. what the heck. thank you all seriously.

also new nickname for robby unlocked LMFAO he's never living this down

bonus text content from the next day:

Part 1: the beginning

Part 2: late nights

Part 3: dinner

Part 4: sweetheart

Part 5: a gift

Part 6: unsaid feelings

Part 7: distance & doubts

Part 8: the agreement

Part 9: a rough day

Part 10: feelings of the heart

Part 11: first date

Part 12: you and me*

Part 13: birthday*

Part 14: the cabin*

Part 15: tough shift (coming soon)

updated 05/14/2025

posted on AO3 with a f!oc: AO3 Companionship

Are my keys on your desk? 

It’s the first Robby actually hears from you all day.

You responded with nothing more than a thumbs up to his message this morning, sending a clear message that you did not plan to be very reachable today.

Robby knows exactly where your keys are. They’d been the first thing he’d noticed this morning, your clunky collection of keychains somehow strewn across his keyboard. He snaps a photo of them before texting you back.

*image attached* These keys?

Your response is immediate.

Yes!!! Are we horrendously crowded today or can I come grab them from you??

Robby ignores the way his chest clenches at the thought of seeing you, even if it’s just so you can get your keys.

Never too crowded for you 

You thumbs down his message.

Kiss ass See you soon :p

Robby smiles at his phone, the kind of smile only you seem to be able to pull from him, the kind that makes his cheeks ache. He tucks your keys into his pocket for safe measure, not just to keep them safe but to guarantee you can’t slip in and grab them when he’s not there to see you.

“What’s got you so smiley?”

Dana leans over the edge of his desk, not so subtly trying to peer at the screen of his phone. Robby is quick to lock his screen, dropping his phone back into the pocket of his cargos.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

Not subtle at all.

“Lemme guess…” Dana gives him a knowing smile, tapping her finger on her chin in mock concentration. “Does it have something to do with a certain senior resident who is absent from our ED today?”

Bingo, but Robby keeps his features schooled, the epitome of professionalism. “Don’t you have work to be doing, or something?”

“Ooh, so touchy.” Dana laughs. “But since you asked, Myrna was looking for you.”

Robby groans, a little dramatic, but he could’ve gone at least another hour without hearing the words fruit cake. He clings to the knowledge that you’ll be walking through the doors of the ED within the next hour.

He’s in the middle of charting when Lupe buzzes you in, glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose as he squints at the screen.

“You’re gonna get a headache if you keep doing that, old man.” Despite the tease, there's nothing but fondness in your tone.

Robby looks up, stunned by the sight of you looking so not doctor-like, so domestic.

Freshly washed hair pulled back, rogue strands falling out to frame your gorgeous face in a way that drives him absolutely crazy. A baggy hoodie hangs from your shoulders, an embroidered patch with the name of your school that’s fraying around the edges plastered on your chest. And Jesus Christ your shorts. He’d never seen you in them for obvious reasons, cut well above the mid-line of your thigh, showcasing a pair of legs so fantastic Robby’s sure he’ll be dreaming about them for weeks.

“Y’know the glasses are there to help you see, right?” You lean against the edge of the counter, propping your chin up on your elbow as you gaze at him with a smile that can only be described as smitten. “Not just to sit there and make you look pretty while you frown over them.”

“You’re really going to poke fun at the guy who’s holding on to your keys right now?” Robby asks, leaning forward so the two of you are only inches apart. “I might just hold onto them, make you sit around and wait till my shift’s over to get them back.”

You catch onto his ploy instantly. “You like me so much you can’t even spend one shift without me? I’m flattered, Robby.”

“You should be.” Abbott cuts in, tapping into the computer next to you to check a chart. “He mopes around like a kicked puppy when you’re not here.”

“A kicked puppy, huh?” You ask, turning to look at Robby with a glint in your eye that’s entirely too smug.

Robby shakes his head. “If you guys ever wondered why you’re not scheduled on the same shifts anymore, this is why.”

Abbott lets out a chuckle. “Whatever you say, fruitcake.”

He’s gone before Robby can get another word in.

“But on a serious note,” Robby focuses his attention back onto you. “Your shift been okay so far?”

He’s still not used to this, used to having someone who cares so much to hear what he has to say, what he’s feeling. Sure, Dana and Abbott had always offered him a shoulder, but with you it felt different, felt like you genuinely wanted to know every time, not like you were asking because you thought you should. 

“It’s been good.” He answers, and the words feel honest for the first time in a long time. “As good as it can be with Myrna here, anyway.”

That pulls a laugh from you. “I ran into her in chairs, she told me my ‘ass looks tight in those shorts, cupcake’.”

From what he’s seen, Robby’s inclined to agree with her. “Let me walk you out, I’ll give you your keys outside.” He needs you to himself for a moment.

Your brows pinch for a second but you nod. 

He follows you through the maze of desks and gurneys, lingering a few steps behind for a moment to get a proper look at you in those shorts. Yeah, Myrna was right.

By some stroke of luck the ambulance bay is currently unoccupied, and Robby takes full advantage of the privacy, pulling you against his chest with one swift tug. You laugh at him with a shake of your head, but your arms still wind around his neck. His hands find their home in the dip of your waist, savouring the heat that seeps through the fabric of your sweater.

“You sure you just brought me out here to give me my keys?” There’s a teasing tone in your voice, but Robby can see the way your eyes keep catching on his lips.

“Do you want me to just give you your keys?” He asks, leaning forward just enough for your noses to brush.

“... No.” 

Robby feels you lift up onto your toes to press a kiss against his lips. It’s not chaste or quick, the type of kiss he should be having at work. No, there's an urgency in the way your lips move against his, the way your hips press against his.

He takes advantage of your eagerness and lets one of his hands fall from your waist, his fingers finding purchase in the skin of your thigh right where your shorts end. You let out a noise of surprise that only spurs him further, his tongue slipping into your mouth for a brief second before you’re forced to pull back.

“I can hear a siren…” You whisper against his lips, your chest slightly heaving. “Which means I should probably get out of here.”

Robby nods, pressing one more kiss against your lips before fishing your keys out of his pocket. “Wait for me at my apartment tonight?”

You grab your keys from his hand. “Definitely.” 

“Laying it on thick today?” you laughed. 

“It’s the only way I know how,” he hit you with a charming smile that lacked any real commitment. You held back your instinct to ask after his wellbeing, knowing full well that he is not doing well after the day you imagined he had. 

You and Princess gossiped about the latest episode of the reality show you were both shamelessly addicted to, and you did your best not to dodge their compliments on the baked goods, knowing they would report back to Michael. Or rather, Dr. Robby. 

You’d met him only once before getting properly acquainted after an accident at the bakery had required you to hurry to the nearest hospital. But, he’d given you his first name when placing the order for his latte, so Michael he remained. 

You did you best not to ask about the shift knowing that it had to have been a nightmare. Instead, you contented yourself to sitting and listening to them chatter, the time passing surprisingly quickly. 

Just as you were starting to feel silly, playing with the edge of the wax paper lining the tupperware with the brownies and chastising yourself for getting your hopes up, a set of footsteps broke through the mess of worry in your brain. Michael had clearly had a hard shift, his shoulders dropping, head hung low and his eyes were dark. You’d been right to come. Jack seemed to be in somewhat better spirits beside him, but he was battle weary even to your untrained eyes. 

Michael’s eyes bet yours, his eyebrows creeping up towards his hairline, head tilting in question. “I saw…” you hesitated, unsure of how much to say. “What happened today. Figured you could use a pick me up.” You’d already added a few of the brown butter chocolate chip cookies to a plate, handing them to Michael wordlessly. He took a seat on your side unlittered with tupperware, and you did your best to control your rapidly beating heart. “Jack?” you questioned, motioning to the assorted baked goods on your left. 

“Well if you insist,” he laughed, working his pant leg up to free himself of his prosthetic. “Can’t turn you down.” You smiled, adding a bit of everything to a little plate and walking it over to him. 

You sat back down next to Michael, insisting to yourself that the heat radiating off his arm stretched across the back of the bench was in no way related to the flip in your stomach. The others chatted amongst themselves, making light of the day. You chanced a glance his way, holding in a giggle when you noticed the couple of crumbs clinging to the side of his mouth. Your fingers twitched to brush them away, but he managed to beat you to it. “Tough day?” he asked, surveying the plethora of baked goods taking up the rest of the bench. 

“Just worried.” you shrug, not meeting his eyes. “Hate feeling like I can’t do anything worthwhile to help.” The ‘not like you can’ was unspoken. 

Michael cast his glance across the clearing, where his coworkers were smiling and making a considerable dent in your sweets. He didn’t argue with you, knowing that it wouldn’t make a difference, especially on a day like today. “You had one of these yet?” he asked, holding up one of the cookies. You shook your head. “You should, they’re working miracles.” 

You blinked at him, your heart picking up speed. You searched his eyes, trying to figure out if he did that on purpose, when a few more people joined your circle. “Samira!” you jumped up, reaching for her. She gripped you tight, sinking against you for the duration of the hug. Samira stopped by the bakery frequently on her way to work, taking advantage of the early hours you kept with the morning shift at the hospital in mind. “If I’d known you were going to be here, I would have made a couple batches of those muffins you like.”

She laughed, head tilted back and eyes light in a way you wouldn’t have imagined was possible after the shift she just finished. “You didn’t have to bring anything, I’m glad you’re here.” she paused for a moment, her gaze shifting behind you for a moment. You craned your neck to find Michael watching the two of your carefully, something different in his expression. “This is Victoria, today was her first day,” Samira gestured behind her to the girl who was standing with her hands clasped in front of her, looking shy. 

“Oh! It’s so nice to meet you!” You gave her a warm smile, squeezing her arm gently before turning and placing a few things on a plate for her and another for Matteo. “Here, to soothe your soul.” She took the plate gratefully, Matteo as well. 

“Thank you that’s really-” she was cut off by loud, full laughter from behind. Your head whipped around, finding Michael with tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said through his laughter. “I just realized this was your first day.” Everyone quickly burst into various degrees of laughter. Victoria met your eyes, assessing your reaction. You did your best to shrug in a way that said ‘I’m used to this by now’ and you realized that was the truth. You had known Michael for a little over a year, and had slowly integrated into the culture of the ED. You weren’t one of them, but you belonged. These were your people. 

“That’s trial by fire, baby” Jack said, raising his can in Victoria’s direction. 

“I can almost guarantee the next one will be easier.” Michael said, and you were reminded that he was not just a kind man who stopped in on his way to work most days. He was a mentor, a teacher and someone that changed lives. 

“I really fucking hope so.” Victoria looked weary, but not defeated. You felt she would be back. 

Donnie was saying something to her, but you didn’t hear. “It’s late.” Michael said, leaning close enough for his shoulder to bump yours. You nod, leaning in as well. “You ready to go?” you nodded again, fighting back a yawn that was bubbling to the surface. He nodded, shouldering his backpack and standing up. 

“Last call!” You announced, grabbing a couple of containers and offering second helpings around. A smile took over when everyone accepted the extras. You deposited the container of pies in Princess’s lap, laughing when she promised she would get the container back to you. “You don’t have to lie to me of all people, you know.” 

“I don’t even know why I try.” she laughed, squeezing your hand. 

“It’s nice that you do,” you insisted. You packed as many empty containers as you could into your tote, and Michael grabbed the few remaining. You gave everyone a gentle wave before turning on your heel and starting towards the bakery. You could hear Michael saying his goodbyes but you continued on, confident that he would fall into step beside you. 

After a few moment, you felt him reach for the tote bag you had slung over your shoulder. “Keep dreaming, Robinavitch. I don’t let you carry my stuff on a good day.” 

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” 

“You underestimate me,” you say, assessing him now that you’re alone. He is still clearly exhausted, weighed down by the reality of his day. But he looks okay. Definitely better than when he’d trudged into the park across from the hospital. 

“Never.” and you knew he was right. You looped your arm through his, pulling him tight against your side. The two of you made your way back to the bakery in relative silence, taking comfort in the fact that the other is okay. He waited for you to unlock to door before pulling it open for you. You slipped inside, Michael following you to the kitchen. You moved in sync, putting things into the dishwasher, the few bits of leftover brownies into one of the fridges. 

Once things were put away, you leaned against the counter, giving him a once over. “You’re not subtle.” he mutters.

You laugh, folding in half with the force. “I don’t know what you mean.” But you do know what he means. You were worried, you showed up with baked goods to mask the fact you were checking on him. it wasn't the first time and it won't be the last.

“I’m okay. Today was rough, but I’m…” he paused, taking a shaky breath. “I’m better now. Jack helped, you helped.” 

You took a step towards him, hesitating, waiting for him to turn away or cross his arms or any other sign that he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want you. It doesn’t come. Another step, another pause. And then you can’t take it anymore and you are pressed against him, his hands tight around your back. 

However, administration thought it was time for you to take the reins, offering relief for Dana, the other charge nurse who had trained you. She was funny, adding sarcastic jokes to the day to make everyone smile and maybe even laugh. It made things easier and that’s how she dealt with all the trauma and death you all often saw. You had decided it was better to take separate cars than ride with your husband.

Your husband who just so happened to be the ER attending doctor during dayshift, Michael “Robby” Robinavitch. Sometimes he was late getting off or you were late leaving depending on what was happening and besides HR didn’t like it when they found out you both were a thing. Both of you had to have counseling and sign paperwork, stating it wouldn’t affect your jobs or work ethics. It was shocking they didn’t make you change departments. Gloria, of course, was the head of this discussion. That was another story. 

But you all didn’t always see eye to eye. When you first started as a nurse, you hated to see Dr. Robby, he was affectionately referred as by everyone else come in the door. It was going to be a rough day. You both had clashed with each other often. It was hard not to let your temper flare with him, but Dana had reminded you not to make enemies with the senior attending ER doctor. 

She sympathized with you that he could be grumpy but she chalked it up to the lack of sex he was having at home all while telling you to ignore it and he would come around but you imagined he would have been married with kids. It was surprising, if you were being honest, that he wasn’t. Even if he was an asshole at times, he was hot for his age. He was at least twenty years older than you, but that didn’t intimidate you. 

It was hard to say when you became enemies to lovers but here you were, married to him.  It might have been the day you lost a patient and slipped off into the supply room. Michael had seen this happen and decided to go let you know your efforts had been appreciated during the code and you had done everything in your power to help. The double ER doors opened automatically, the sound of instant chaos and noise filling your ears. 

“Hey, good morning dear.”, Dana greeted you, peering over her grey readers. “Or should I say Mrs. Robinavitch.”, she teased. 

“Hey Dana.”, you returned, rolling your eyes playfully, and walking over to the nurses station sitting your bag down. 

“Hubby’s already here—you all didn’t ride together this morning?”

“No,”, you sighed before rubbing your face lightly. “I wasn’t feeling well this morning so I was dragging ass and I told Michael to go on without me.”

Dana raised an eyebrow but quickly fixed her face, something she had learned to do over the last thirty-three years here. “Feeling not good, how?”

Dana noticed you were paler than usual, not looking as put together as you usually did. But she didn’t want to jump to conclusions. 

“I’ve felt nauseous all morning.”

Dana watched you rummage through paper charts, acting like this was nothing more than a casual conversation. Maybe it was to you, but were you not picking up the signs?

“Nauseous?”, she repeated. 

You could see out of the corner of your eyes that she had halted her work, staring at you.

“Nauseous.”, you confirmed. “I threw up this morning after Michael left. Safe to say, I had to forego breakfast.”

You and Michel had been married almost a year now. Your anniversary was coming up in just a couple weeks. Dana watched you as your silver wedding band and engagement ring glistened in the light. Michael had done good with that, if she had to say so herself. It was beautiful. 

“When was your last period?”

Your heart stopped, realizing what she was insinuating. She watched as you stopped dead in your tracks, but before you could answer the double doors opened revealing two paramedics with a stretcher. The child was unconscious as Dana gave them a room to take child to. This would be Robby’s patient along with one of his residents. 

“What happened?”, you finally choked out, your mind being taken off the question Dana posed just moments earlier as you grabbed a pair of gloves. 

“Seven year old male, Oliver Rhodes, found unconscious near the family’s swimming pool. Grandma was watching he and his younger sister.”, one paramedic reported. 

The boy was grey, which was never a good sign. His brain was doing without the oxygen it needed to perfuse his organs efficiently. It was unknown how long he had been down and immediately your husband entered the room behind you, his voice echoing through the room and instructing the team on what to do. Immediately, you grabbed the thermometer to check the core temperature.

“89.8 degrees.”, you responded. 

You and your husband worked well together, like a perfectly well-oiled machine. You knew each other’s next moves and what needed to happen. Michael not only loved you but he felt good when he knew you would be there by his side, working with him in perfect harmony. The yin to his yang. 

“Let’s get a bair hugger in here and try to bring his core temp up so we can get his heart to a shockable rhythm, please.”

Your husband was confident, collected, cool, and calm while in the ER, being one of his most endearing qualities. Not that things didn’t affect him, because they did. He was emotional when he could be but at work, he tried to turn it off. Sometimes, that was hard to do. 

“Also, continue compressions. This gives us extra time to resuscitate the patient.”, Robby echoed, eyes meeting yours.

He could tell this morning that you hadn’t felt well, but he knew you would come to work anyways even if you needed to stay home. Work was important to you and you didn’t like to miss work unless you were dying or the world was ending. All his career he had heard that nurses and doctors make the worst patients and he would have to agree, both of you were real life examples. 

Crying could be heard in the background as the boy’s grandma explained what had happened and it was obvious she had felt guilty, blaming herself for this unfortunate event. You glanced over to see his sister, terrified and confused, watch as the doctors and nurses tried their best. It was relayed to everyone that the parents were not far behind and would be arriving soon. 

Dana volunteered to return to the nurses station and offered to bring the parents back when they arrived, eliciting a thank you from Michael. Everyone was hard at work and no one noticed exactly when the parents arrived but the mother was in tears and crying over her son, begging him to pull through this and come back to them. It was heart wrenching but something that definitely happened here in the emergency room. 

Michael closed his eyes just for a moment before pinching his nose. He hated when children came into the ER. Especially when they were down and no one knew how long they had been down. He’d seen a lot in his career as a physician but seeing kids hurt, abused, dying or dead never made it any easier. When patients coded and no family was present, it was easier to compartmentalize and realize you had a job to do. But when there was a wife who cried for her husband not to leave her or parents begging their child to pull through this, he began seeing the patient more as a person, someone who had loved ones.

He didn’t want that to sound heartless but it affected him as well as the other members on the team. Loss was hard but it was part of the job. It came with the territory. Michael’s eyes opened and he continued to give direction to the team but you could read your husband like an open book, this was bothering him. It was hard for him. He had struggled more with death during the COVID pandemic and since then, he hadn’t been the same. But you didn’t push him to talk about it. You were allowing him to open up about it at his own pace. You understood him to a degree that no one else did.

Thirty minutes went by and you all rotated compressions, giving one another a break. Countless pulse checks had happened since then and labs had been drawn, awaiting the stat results. Oliver was still in asystole (flat line) on the monitor regardless that his core temperature was creeping up. The phone rang in the room and Michael watched as you stepped over to answer it. Your chest fell as you listened to the lab tell you the results of his potassium level.

Michael could read your body language and knew the outcome wasn’t good as you hung up the phone.

“Potassium came back. It’s twelve point two.”

Michael sighed before coming over to the parents. This was the hardest part of his job, the part he hated. He hated delivering bad news but he tried to remind himself that the families deserved the truth no matter how hard it may be for them to hear it. Staff started slowing down resuscitation efforts, beginning to turn off monitors.

“Why are you stopping?”, the mother exasperated through tears.

“Mrs.Rhodes, no one has ever survived a code that had a potassium level of twelve point two. That’s extremely high.”, Michael rested his hand on the mother’s shoulder.

She began sobbing harder, pulling at your heart strings and part of you felt tears swell in your eyes. Fuck, why were you so emotional here lately? This wasn’t your normal. He began explaining to her in a calm voice and she eventually nodded, sobbing against her husband’s chest as they mourned the loss of their son, realizing he was not going to pull out of this.

“Would you like us to go get his sister so she can say goodbye?”, Michael asked.

They shook their heads, stating they didn’t want his younger sister to see him like this. He nodded, accepting their decision. All of a sudden you felt light-headed and nauseated. Fuck, not right now. Dana had peeped her head back in the room to let you all know of an incoming trauma and how long before it was expected to be here. She also noticed you.

“You alright, Y/N?”

“Yeah, fine.”

This caught Michael’s attention and he turned to you, noticing you didn’t look well. You looked a little green around the gills. 

“It’s okay, Y/N.”, he remained crouched down with the parents. “We got this. Take a breather.”

You nodded, exiting the room and being led by Dana. Shit, now Michael knew you didn’t feel well and you knew he was chastise you later about coming to work in this condition. But you didn’t want to hear it right now. 

“I’m gonna puke.”, you announced, stopping at a trash can just outside the room, and haulting Dana in her steps. 

With instinct, she grabbed your hair and held it back before pulling it up in an extra clip she had. She was always prepared, she was the mother bear when it came to nurses. She had trained almost all of you there. You closed your eyes, instantly feeling sweat on your forehead while praying this would end soon. You hated throwing up. Besides, there was hardly anything for you to throw up. 

She patted your back and comforted you, telling you it was okay. You could feel eyes watching you but Dana’s glare told them to move on with their day and stop making you a spectacle. Finally, you felt like you were finished and wiped your mouth on your sleeve under your scrub top before raising up.

“Let’s go in the break room.”, Dana smiled sympathetically. 

You nodded, finally agreeing to relax a moment. But then your brain instantly remembered the announcement Dana had made about the incoming trauma, immediately questioning it but she assured you that she had people ready to take care of it. She closed the door as you sat down, holding your head in your hands.

“So, back to my question earlier,”, her hands were on her hips. “When was your last period?”

You felt like a patient. 

“Um, about five weeks ago.”, you responded meekly. 

Dana sighed just like a mother would as she opened the fridge, handing you a cold water. “Five weeks ago? Have you been late before?”

“No.”, you responded. “I’m usually pretty regular.”

You took the water from her, debating if you should try to drink it or not.

“I’m going to be invasive here, but are you using protection?”

Deciding to take a sip of your water, you almost choked on it. She was asking if you were using protection while having sex with your husband. 

“Um, no. Well, I had a follow up with Dr. Davis about my birth control pills. I ran out and well, I missed it.”, you hung your head.

Dana sighed. “Don’t you both know how babies are made?”, she scolded, almost laughing. “He’s a damn doctor for crying out loud and you’re a nurse.”

“I know.”, you sighed before tears began pooling in your eyes, threatening to fall. Dana sighed before massaging your shoulders.

“I’m not being mean, dear. I’m not but you could be pregnant and there’s a high possibility you are. Morning sickness is one of the earliest signs. Anything else?”, Dana sat down beside you.

“My breasts were really tender this morning.”

Dana nodded. “Why don’t we get you a pregnancy test?”

“Without Michael knowing?”, you rubbed your shoulder nervously. 

It wasn’t that you wouldn’t tell him, somehow you would find a way to tell him. But you didn’t want to get him all excited and in a fizz for nothing. 

“Without Dr. Robinavitch knowing.”, she confirmed, holding your shoulders as she hugged you tight. “But you are going to eat something. If you are pregnant, you need to nourish that baby.”

The moment your lunch break starts, Trinity yanks you into an on-call room, where Mel, Victoria, Samira, and Whitaker have all also been dragged during a rare moment during the day when you can all leave the floor at once. It’s dark inside and it feels suspiciously like a gathering of cult members. Ever since you found out the six of you lived in the same building (which, yes, half the staff lives in because it’s the cheapest spot close to the hospital), you’ve been a group, even now that Samira’s off living with her knight in shining scrubs.

Trinity looks between you seriously, her phone screen illuminating her face from below like a horror movie villain about to give you the rules for a torture game. She announces seriously, “Guys, I have crucial intel.”

“Alright, get on with it,” Samira sighs. “Some of us have work to do and waiting in here has already taken up half my break.”

Trinity draws a deep breath and holds up her phone, showing off the screen in an arc to let everyone get a good look. “Dennis’ and my other roommate sent us these screenshots last night. I guess Robby has his settings so nobody who has his number can see it, but she did.”

You huddle around the phone as she swipes through a series of pictures, each one of your attending (and your best friend), Robby. A Tinder profile. As her thumb swipes across the screen, all of you ask questions over each other: He owns a motorcycle? And a real suit? Oh my god, is he shirtless there? Wait, he plays basketball?

While they gawk and laugh, you’re stuck on the bio that makes you smile: I’m a doctor. Not in a hot way. In an ‘I’m in therapy and you probably should be too if you want to date me’ way. Soft spot for puppies, babies, and good beer. My best friend forced me to make this when he got a girlfriend so that I wouldn’t be a third wheel. Guess I’m looking for my fourth wheel. Someone to stabilize me.

Victoria’s been standing there slack-jawed for the longest. As the baby of the group, she’s always surprised by everything. “I just can’t believe Dr. Robby is on dating apps.”

Trying not to get pathetically jealous at the idea, you reason, “I mean, he’s single. He’s attractive.”

Samira snickers, “Don’t they have an age limit on that app to protect seniors or something?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s not that old.”

“And you’re one to talk,” Dennis points out. “Dr. Abbot isn’t exactly young.”

“He’s a decade younger than Robby,” she replies. “Robby’s so old I didn’t think he could even download an app without help. He asked me to convert something to a PDF for him the other day. I find the idea that he’d meet someone from an app…charming. The way a cat trapped in a tree is cute.”

Mel crosses her arms over her chest and physically turns away from Trinity’s phone. She huffs out, “Guys, this is so inappropriate.”

Trinity glares. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s sort of my whole thing,” she cuts back. Then she nudges you and asks for backup, “C’mon, you know this is wrong.”

But you’re way too intrigued to agree with your roommate. You shrug and say, “It’s a public profile. Someone was bound to find it eventually, right?”

Mel scoffs and shakes her head. “Et tu?”

Trinity groans and makes Mel turn back around with a pointed look. She goes on, “Guys, the intel isn’t that he has a Tinder.” She zooms in on the picture of him with Dr. Abbot on a basketball court, Robby jumping to dunk the ball. You want to lick the sweat from his hairy chest. Trinity shoves her finger at the screen. “Look at this hog he’s packing. Dr. Robby has a giant dick.”

You take a closer look at the outline visible in his slinky athletic shorts. No way. You scoff and shake your head; the idea that a human man could have a dick that big seems outright ridiculous. In years of practicing medicine and being a sexually active adult, you’ve never seen one that would compare. So you shrug your shoulders up and awkwardly rush out, “That could be a water bottle or something.”

Victoria, wide eyes locked to the screen, chimes in, “Or- or just a shadow. The lighting.”

“Yeah, sure, or a massive fucking cock.”

Dennis, the reddest of everyone (he once told you about an absolutely mortifying sex dream he had about topping Robby), hisses, “Trinity, he’s our boss!”

“So?”

You step in, too. “So what are we even supposed to do with this information?”

“Well we all know what you’re going to do with it,” she says to you with a knowing, wicked grin. “You’re going to fantasize about how it would feel to take such a-”

“Trinity!” You slap your hand over her mouth. “If you bring up my crush on him one more time, I’m going to start paging you on every single bowel disimpaction that comes into the ER for the next six months. I’m working on getting over it!”

“Here’s what I’m proposing,” Trinity says seriously. She’s such a ringleader it’s not even funny. This is her circus and the rest of you are definitely her monkeys. “I say we all put in some money and the first person to get definitive proof that Dr. Robby’s packing gets the whole pool.”

“Absolutely not,” Mel says right away. She’s so serious that she shoves out of the on-call room and back to work. She never wants to play in the circus.

The rest of you stay put, though. Dennis mutters, “How much money?”

“This is high stakes,” Samira reasons. “A hundred each.”

“You’re only saying that because you have the best chances,” Victoria cuts in. “Dr. Abbot probably sees his dick every time they go to the gym together.”

“No outside interference,” Trinity adds immediately. “I like the sound of $100 each. That’s a pool of $500. Sounds pretty fair for the task at hand.”

Dennis wrinkles his eyebrows. “What if nobody does it?”

“Then we all lose out on $500.”

To a group of poor twenty-somethings, that’s pretty damn convincing.

“I’m definitely in,” Samira starts. If Trinity is the ringleader, Mohan’s the strongman. “Even if Jack can’t help, I’m smarter than the rest of you.”

Dennis punches her on the arm; he’s the group’s contortionist, always able to bend himself into ridiculous situations somehow. “Me too. I’m the only one with access to the men’s showers.”

You argue, “Then you should put up $150. That’s an unfair home field advantage.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other girls that makes Whitaker balk.

“Okay, yeah, I may also have a penis, but I have the distinct disadvantage of being scared shitless of Robby, unlike Samira and Santos.” Then he shoves an accusatory finger in your direction. “If anything, you have an advantage because Robby already wants to fuck you.”

You shove him in the chest. “He does not!”

“Ow, first of all.” He shakes his head and says, “How about we go no-holds-barred? Samira can use Abbot, I can use my Y chromosome, you can use your powers of seduction. Whatever.”

Victoria pouts. She’s the tightrope walker, always trying to balance the line of appropriate and otherwise. “And what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Psychological warfare,” Trinity suggests. “That’s what I’m planning.”

Samira offers, “Maybe just beg?”

“Jesus, fine,” Victoria sighs. “I’m in, I guess.”

All eyes turn in your direction. “How about you, Mrs. Robinavitch?”

And your role in this circus of idiot doctors? Well, you’re just the clown who’s been nursing a big fat crush on her attending for two years. The idea of seeing Dr. Robby naked is too appealing for you to resist. So you present your hand to the center of the circle and sigh, “I’m in.”

The bet gets out of hand right away, not that this sort of thing could ever be under control. The six of you – Mel’s invited mostly because she’s your roommate and already knows, though she’s made her disapproval patently clear – meet for beers after a long shift the following Friday. Samira clears her throat and breaks the silence, “Do any of you sure-to-be losers have anything to announce to the group?”

Trinity pulls out her phone and dramatically sighs. “Well, I really thought I had it. I made a Tinder profile of a very respectable, almost-age-appropriate lady and matched with him. Paid for the goddamn Super Like and everything.”

Victoria’s jaw detaches from her maxilla. “You catfished him?”

Trinity looks honestly offended. “Only a little!”

Dennis gawks. “Whose pictures did you use?”

“My mom’s.”

“Seriously?!” Even Samira’s in disbelief over that. “Did you at least tell her?”

“It’s not like she’ll ever find out,” Trinity reasons. “Her and my dad have been together since the Dark Ages. They’d never be on Tinder. And I used a fake name. She’s just the prettiest woman over 40 I know.”

“You’re fucked up for that,” Dennis says with an admonishing shake of his head. Then he sips his beer and presses, “So how did it go between Robby and your not mom? No luck?”

“Obvioulsy not,” she explains. “He told me in, like, the third message that he’s looking for something serious and would only have sex with someone he loves. Like, apropos of nothing. Old people are weird; I don’t get him at all.”

You swallow hard. “That’s sweet, though.”

She scrunches her nose. “Is it?”

Victoria giggles, about one cocktail too deep, “Would you rather find out our boss is a total man whore?”

“Actually, yeah,” Trinity laughs. “It’s kind of sad someone his age is still looking to settle down.”

“Hey,” you stop her, “that’s actually mean, Trin. Robby’s a good man and he deserves to be happy.”

“Sorry, forgot it’s rude to insult someone’s boyfriend right in front of them.”

Samira shakes her head and tuts then, feeling merciful on your behalf, “Poor showing, Santos. I expected better from our leader.”

“Give me another week.”

“Not if I beat you to it,” she replies with a grin. Then she nudges you with her elbow and says, “C’mon, Jack wants us to go to dinner with Robby.”

It’s not an unusual invitation – the four of you get dinner a few times a month – but tonight it catches the attention of everyone else. 

Dennis protests, only half joking, “Woah, woah, you can’t bring her if it’s going to turn into an orgy thing where she gets a quick shot at the win.”

As your cheeks turn pink, you argue, “I thought it was a no-holds-barred game, Whitaker. Your idea, remember?”

Samira gives you a conspiratorial look. “What do you say, babe, wanna go ask our boys to drop their pants in the middle of the restaurant?”

Pretending not to be as embarrassed as you are, you giggle, “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“This is so unfair,” Dennis pouts.

“Start following him into the shower, then.” Samira smiles and links her arm with yours as you get ready to walk away. “Calm down; she’s always our go-to fourth wheel. No special advantage tonight.”

“Tonight, he did that thing where he touched my lower back when he opened the door for me,” you bemoan to Mel late that night, both sitting on her bed as you stare at your laptops. “Have you ever noticed how big his hands are?”

“Can’t say I have.”

You shut your laptop dramatically. “Seriously, how am I supposed to recover from that?”

Mel shrugs like she always does. “Ask him out.”

“I can’t. He’s my boss.”

“He’s probably waiting for you to do it,” she reasons. “It would be inappropriate for him to ask you, but not necessarily the other way around. Provided you aren’t asking in exchange for any benefits in the workplace.” Then she gives you a little mischievous grin that only you and Langon are ever privy to. “Benefits besides making out in on-call rooms, of course.”

The next series of attempts comes from Samira. She decides to use her one trump card, enlisting Jack’s help. He finds the whole thing hysterical because he’s a feral child just like his girlfriend, so he agrees. Trinity insists on adding a caveat to the rules: The picture has to be on the better’s phone, taken by the better, explicitly ruling out Jack’s involvement beyond being a co-conspirator. Samira agrees and insists it’ll be no problem.

So, for two weeks, every time Robby and Jack hang out, Samira comes up with excuses to tag along and shoot her shots. She goes to the gym with them and ‘accidentally’ walks into the men’s locker room on two separate occasions, both times catching Robby after the shower but with his towel already on.

On a Thursday night all have off, you’re unfortunate enough to witness one of the efforts firsthand. Samira invited you over to watch the Penguins game with her and Robby (since the two of you hate sports and she’ll be bored out of her mind otherwise).

After three beers, Robby excuses himself to the bathroom. Only fifteen seconds later, Samira stands up, gives a salute to you both, and whispers, “Wish me luck.”

Jack grins like the dumbass he is. “Good luck, honey.”

As she walks away, you shake your head and turn to him. “It doesn’t bother you that your girlfriend is obsessed with taking a picture of your best friend’s dick?”

“Nope,” he replies confidently. There’s a cool, clear ‘she knows what she has at home’ energy to the reply. Then he puts on a meddling smirk and akss, “Does it bother you that she’s going to see Robby’s dick before you get to when she wins?”

“Jack!” You toss a pillow at him hard, causing him to spill his beer slightly as he laughs. “Y’know, it’s hard enough dealing with the teasing from the other residents. I don’t need it from you.”

“Hey, I have to listen to Robby going on and on about you all the time; it’s not easy for me, either.”

Your eyes widen into planets, but before you can ask the million clarifying questions you need to, Samira’s back, wearing a disappointed grimace. Looking solemn, she glances between you and Jack and shakes her head. “No dice.”

She tucks under Jack’s arm and he kisses her forehead. “You’ll get him next time, slugger.”

Robby emerges from the bathroom two minutes later with his face tomato red, unable to look Samira in the eyes as he takes his spot next to you once more. He mutters, “I miss anything important?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you reply honestly. Pitying his blush, you touch his thigh and ask, “Can I get you another beer?”

“Please.”

Trinity shakes her head in disappointment once Samira recounts her latest attempt in a line of failures. The three of you and Javadi are at the nurse’s station during shift change, making sure charts are in order as the night shift begins to filter in. Trinity sighs, “Maybe I should just pants him. Say it’s a prank or something.”

You snicker, “That would definitely get you sent straight to HR.”

Victoria puts her head in her hands; she hasn’t even come up with a plan yet and it’s getting to her. “This whole thing is going to get us all sent to HR.”

“Not if you never try anything,” Trinity replies.

Victoria glares. “You’re just trying to get me to back down so you get the money.”

Trinity raises her hands and laughs. “Guilty.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Robby’s tugging off his trauma gown with a frown on his lips. He’s splatterned in blood, enough that it’s gone between his mask and gloves and gown. He’ll need a shower. From across the ED, the four of you watch as Dennis rushes through a patient handover and hustles down the hall. Shooting a knowing look over his shoulder at the four of you, Dennis follows Robby into the showers.

You whisper, “Oh, god.”

“I’m gonna miss the little guy,” Trinity says seriously, shaking her head, “especially his share of the rent.”

Victoria sighs, “He made the best coffee.”

When you’re all finished and ready to leave, you and the other girls wait for Dennis by the Pitt’s doors, trying to be inconspicuous as you await his status report.

Dennis emerges, walking fast, expecting you all to meet his brisk pace. You have to practically jog to keep up until you’re a block from the hospital, well out of ear shot of anyone else. Finally, he stops abruptly and swings around to scan his periphery. His eyes are trained on his shoes. He hisses, “Rumor confirmed. Huge.”

Your cheeks burn; blush is becoming a constant state for you thanks to this stupid bet. Trinity’s mouth falls open and she shoves his shoulder hard. “Show us!”

“I didn’t get a picture.”

The whole group groans in disappointment (besides Mel, who sounds relieved). Victoria puts her hand on her hips. “Then you didn’t confirm anything. You could be lying.”

“No way I went through that mortification for nothing. I saw it.”

“Doesn’t count, Dennis,” Trinity replies with an unsympathetic shrug. “We’re talking about $500 here. Hard proof you can share with the class or nothing.”

He frowns and offers, “I can tell you that it’s the size of my goddamn forearm and he has a birthmark the size of a quarter on his hip; that doesn’t count for anything?”

Samira claps him on the back and suppresses her laugh. “You’ll have to try again, Whitaker.”

You aren’t really planning on participating. No matter how much you get annoyed at the amount of crap you get for it, you really do like Robby. In fact, it’s a lot past ‘like.’ It’s love. He’s the person you go to for advice, for jokes, for reassurance. For silence. He’s the first person you text in the morning and the last at night. You don’t know exactly how or when it happened, but you gradually went from ‘Robby’s favorite resident’ to ‘Robby’s favorite person’ over the last few years. And that relationship, whatever it is, matters a hell of a lot to you. You don’t want to damage it, even over that much money.

And then your bank account goes into the negative.

You’d run the numbers wrong on your budget for the month, a handful of bills come through at once, and suddenly you’re staring back at a deficit of more than a hundred dollars. All of a sudden, the $500 your stupid-ass friends have been dangling like a carrot in front of your nose has some real appeal.

You know that, for you, there’s really only one option. You could never, in a million years, get away with any of the sneakiness the rest of them are trying. And, yeah, sure, maybe you could go for seduction the way that everyone is prodding for you to. But you’re way too ashamed to do that for a whole host of reasons.

All you can possibly do is beg.

So you spend the whole day screwing up your courage to nut up and ask. You can’t even look at Robby while you work, terrified of the possible outcomes that could roll out in front of you. Of course, there’s the obvious: A visit to HR, fired, tarred and feathered, stripped of your medical future. Most likely, he’ll be mortified and your friendship will be ruined. Possibly, he’ll be flustered and embarrassed and never speak to you again.

Then, worst of all, there’s the idea that this might start something between the two of you. Something you’ve been dancing around for a very, very long time. Something hot and true and real.

What the hell would you do then?

Robby notices. Because of course he notices. He leaves you alone at first, hoping you’ll just corner him and ask whatever it is you’re stewing on. Then he starts avoiding you, too, because he’s wracking his brain for what he must’ve done wrong for you to be like this. He’d made a joke about pandas that hadn’t landed yesterday, but that couldn’t be it. Could it? Maybe it was how he corrected you when you set that broken nose first thing this morning. He hadn’t had his coffee yet. No. You never made a thing about work stuff.

Finally, when he sees you slip into the locker room at the end of your shift, he can’t take it anymore. After a deep breath, he closes the space between you, touches your lower back, and leans in close. “Can we talk for a second?”

You jolt back from him and stare up into his eyes. Shit, you always forget how tall he is when he isn’t doing that thing where he shrinks down to make others more comfortable. “Um, yeah. Is- What’s, ah, what’s up, Robinavitch?”

Robby scowls. “‘Robinavitch’? I don’t think you’ve ever called me that before.”

“First time for everything.” You grimace, shifting from foot to foot, and snatch your backpack from your locker. “Can we, ah, go somewhere else?”

There are a ton of emotions flashing through his eyes. Concern, curiosity, nerves. But all he says is, “Yeah, of course.”

Robby leads you across the Pitt to his office, which is totally barren except for a stack of paperwork on the desk that he clearly has no intention of doing. He flips on the light, draws the blinds, and turns to you seriously. “Alright, sweetheart, what the hell is going on? You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

You stick close to the door and stare up at the ceiling tiles, wringing your hands. “Look. Okay. This is gonna be so horrifying, alright? So just…just don’t make fun of me too much. You can make fun of me a little, but not that much, because if you make too much of a thing of it I’m never gonna be able to look you in the eye again and-”

“Woah, hey, it’s alright.” Robby reaches out and touches your elbow, stepping closer to you until you look up at him. He cups your face with one of his agonizingly large hands and you’re so embarrassed it’s unbelievable. “Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

“God, please don’t be sincere,” you whine. “You can’t be sweet, sincere, cow-eyed, gorgeous Robby right now, okay? Because I’ll have to go jump off the roof if you look like you care about me when I’m about to say something as stupid as what I’m about to say.”

Carefully, he replies, “But I do care about you.”

“Okay. Fuck. Here goes.” You duck your head, lower your voice, and absolutely ramble out, “Trinity found your Tinder profile a few weeks ago and in one of the pictures it sort of looks like we can see the outline of your dick and she said it looked really big so then we all made a bet to see who could get a picture of it to prove that you’re, um, well-endowed, and we all put in a hundred dollars as a pool for the winner and I know- I know it’s so stupid and so, so wrong, but I could really use that kind of money but more importantly I definitely can’t afford to lose a hundred dollars right now because my bank account is overdrafted which is also mortifying in and of itself to tell you because you really shouldn’t be concerned with my financial wellbeing but the fact of the matter is that I-”

“Wait, wait,” he cuts you off, “you’re telling me that’s what’s been going on the past few weeks? My subordinates have been conspiring to see my dick?”

Reaching a new shade of effervescent pink as yet undiscovered by man, you squeak out, “Yes.”

And then he starts laughing. As you blush so hard that your entire body is burning, he absolutely cracks up – to the point that he’s hiccuping, tears falling, grabbing his stomach. Doubled over, Robby wheezes, “Christ, I was starting to worry I’d have to give Whitaker a talk about how nobody will judge him if he’s gay because he keeps ending up in the shower the same time as me and then running away when he realizes I’m naked. And I’ve been terrified that Jack and Mohan might be planning to invite me for a threesome the way she’s been loitering around me. Thank god.”

Shaky relief floods your body and you mutter. “That…wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I actually don’t know.”

After wiping an amused tear from his cheek, Robby reaches out his hand and commands, “Alright, slugger, give me your phone.”

Shocked out of your mind, you reach into your pocket and present it wordlessly. When you see that he’s going for his waistband, you turn around and cover your eyes like his dick might bite you.

Robby laughs again, this time at your obvious nerves. Not discomfort, though. Nerves. He chuckles, “You don’t get extra money for seeing it in person?”

Gnawing off your lower lip, you whimper, forgetting about the rules in the heat of the moment, “Nope.”

“I’m decent now.” When you turn back, he hands off the phone, screen still open. “Go get your money. Buy me a drink or something as my share of the spoils.”

Then you look at your phone. The syllable falls out before you can stop it. Shocked, breathless. Undeniably turned on. “Oh.”

You stare down at the picture with wide eyes. Your pupils dilate, your throat goes dry, and you can’t deny that heat and wetness collecting between your legs. Yeah, that’s a big fucking cock. Even soft, it has to be eight inches – but, like, real inches, not fantasy porn inches. And thick. Dennis may not have been far off base with his forearm comparison, given that he’s beanbole skinny. That whole ‘thick as a beer can’ thing you’ve read in tons of smut suddenly seems possible if Robby can get even thicker than that when he’s hard.

Jesus Christ.

Yeah, your dildo definitely doesn’t compare to the real thing, no matter how much you’ve fantasized about it while using your toys.

Robby’s amused voice is a little rougher when he asks, “What was that, sweetheart?”

Your head snaps upward hard enough that you hope your neck will break and kill you. “Please don’t tell me I just said that out loud.”

Robby cages you against the door between his forearms. “You definitely did.”

Your eyes fall to his lips. “Robby, I-”

He presses your bodies together. Your chest on his chest. Your thigh slotted between his. The smirk he’s wearing is so hot you start to melt underneath it. You might have a picture of his dick, but he’s holding all the cards. Shit, you can feel his cock through his scrubs against your thigh. He’s not even hard and you can feel how big he is. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You’re done. You’re through. Stop the timer, pull the plug, call in the guard.

He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to make eye contact. With you unable to speak, Robby teases, “You what? C’mon, gorgeous, use your words.”

All you can do is whimper.

The sound you make is downright pathetic, but it only encourages Robby. His breath brushes your lips and it feels like he can see your heart beating in your neck. Then he presses his lips to the curve of your ear and murmurs, “God, I’m gonna have so much fun wrecking you.”

It takes you forty five seconds to breathe again. Finally, with Robby pulling back enough to allow you to think, you mutter, “Mel’s outside waiting for me to walk home with her.”

“Of course.” He pulls back the rest of the way, taking a deep breath. When he shakes his head, it’s almost in disbelief – and you realize he wants you. He presses a soft, knowing kiss to your forehead, strokes your cheek with his thumb, and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

And he unlocks the door behind you with his arm still around you, the sound shaking you from the stupor of his presence.

After practically sprinting to the hospital exit, you find Mel waiting in your usual spot under an overgrown oak. Gripping her arm hard, you whisper, “I’ve got the picture.”

Her eyes pop out of her head. “What?! Seriously?”

“Yes.”

You start walking, harsh and fast, toward your neighborhood, needing to do something to get this crazy energy out of your body.

She hustles to keep up with your pace. “How?!”

“I told him the truth.”

She squeals like a gossipping cheerleader. “And he took his…manhood out for you?”

“I turned around. He took the picture.”

“Wow. He must really be into you.” Then, catching your elbow to slow your walking, she lowers her voice and asks, “Are you going to send it to everyone?”

“I- I’m not sure.” You roll your eyes and groan, “He was going to kiss me. After I told him. After he took the picture. He said- he basically said that he thinks about me, y’know, like that. So now sending it to the group chat feels like sending  – god dammit – it feels like sending my boyfriend’s nudes, okay? You were right.”

She gives a self-satisfied smirk. “I usually am.”

“But I really need that money, Mel. Like ‘won’t be able to pay my share of the rent’ need it.”

“Ask Dr. Robby for it.” She needles with a cute grin, “Clearly he’ll do anything for you.” At the entrance to your building, she pauses. “Seriously, though, you shouldn’t.”

“He told me I could.”

“Still.”

“I have to think about it.”

“Okay, I guess.”

The six of you sit side-by-side like kids in the principal’s office, cramped into the small office high up in the hospital’s tower. There’s an HR rep across the desk. Robby and Jack are standing behind her, trying really hard not to laugh at your dejected expressions. You can’t blame Mel for snitching about the bet, not when you’d ended up mortified and crying and confused in her arms after the whatever the hell that was with Robby last night. The moment you’d reached your apartment, it all washed over you and turned into a full breakdown of ‘what the fuck.’

When the rep finishes going through what feels like a prosecutorial rundown of charges, she asks over her shoulder, “Dr. Robinavitch, do you feel safe continuing to work with them?”

He outright laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. To him, this whole thing is a ridiculous inconvenience. “Yes. God knows I’ve participated in my fair share of similar betting pools downstairs.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” she groans, already having nightmares about an avalanche of paperwork. She turns back to look at the rest of you. “Doctors, do you understand this was a massive violation of Dr. Robinavitch’s privacy?”

You nod solemnly, tears biting at your eyes. You’ve never been in trouble like this before and you absolutely hate the feeling of it in your gut. “I completely understand. I’m so, so sorry.”

Everyone echoes something similar – except Trinity.

The HR rep picks up on it. She presses, “Dr. Santos?”

It’s not her first time getting a talking to about a bet placed with colleagues. So she scoffs. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s not like Robby hasn’t done the same kind of shit.”

“Again, pretending we didn’t say that.” The rep pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes, breathing deeply for a minute. “Obviously, there will have to be consequences. We can’t send the message that this hospital doesn’t care about sexual harassment.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a harsh laugh. “Sexual harassment?”

She turns around and glares. “How else would you describe coworkers trying to take naked pictures of someone?”

“Well, yeah, I guess, but the ED always has this kind of thing happ-”

She cuts him off with a raised hand. “I am begging you all to stop talking before I have to call in Gloria to deal with this mess.”

That shuts everyone up.

For organizing the whole thing, Trinity gets placed on administrative leave without pay for a week, which she grumbles about before realizing she can go on an impromptu vacation. Because of the whole locker room incident, Dennis gets three days without pay. After the gym situation, Samira and Jack earn the same, which doesn’t really seem like a punishment considering they’re shacked up together. Since you at least asked for his consent, you have two days without pay. Because Victoria was too scared to even try, she gets sent home early with a warning. Mel, of course, gets off home free – although she gets put on night shift since they’ll be down Dr. Abbot.

“Are you mad at me?”

After shoving another handful of chocolate into your mouth, you shush Mel and turn up the volume on Bridget Jones Diary. “For the last time, no.”

Not convinced, she reminds you, “The only reason I told HR is because I didn’t want you showing your future boyfriend’s dick off to everyone in the hospital. You’d regret it.”

“I know, Mel,” you reply. It’s been 24 hours and you’ve had sufficient time to fight with her about the whole situation. “Seriously, I’m not mad. I get you, okay? I know you were trying to protect me in your own way. But I will be mad if you talk over the tarts and vicars party. We need to finish this before you leave for your shift.”

Accepting it (you know she’ll ask again soon), Mel reaches into your shared snack bowl and relents, “Okay, okay.”

Right when Colin Firth is about to announce that he likes Renée Zellweger just as she is, there’s a knock on your apartment door. You both ignore it, assuming it’s a package delivery, but a second knock a minute later takes you by surprise. Cutting a look over to Mel, you ask, “Did you get food or something?”

Her eyebrows knit together. “I figured you did.”

“I’ll check it,” you say, unfurling from the blankets and setting the snacks on the coffee table. In your knee-high socks, skimpy pajama shorts, and bralette, you joke, “Hopefully it’s the Mormons again and seeing my exposed skin will send them into a crisis of faith.”

Mel’s laughing until you open the door. Then she mutters something like ‘please Jesus no’ and looks like she’s debating taking the fire escape.

Robby looks really good in casual clothes. The jeans make his thighs look gigantic and, fuck, have his shoulders always been that goddamn broad? The white tee and – Jesus Christ, really? – leather jacket have him looking like a greaser, like one curl should be on his forehead, like you should be dropping to your knees and-

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You try to return your eye contact to an appropriate area and can’t find it in you. You’re obsessed with his arms. The way he’s leaning in your door frame, one hand above his head, elbow against the wood, has his trap bulging into his bicep and then down toward his veiny forearm and- Fuck. And his chest. His chest. Christ alive. His pecs. It’s only when you shut your eyes that you’re able to stammer out, “What are you- I’m, ah- Hi, Robby.”

He touches your cheek to get you to open your eyes. “I’d like it if you started calling me Michael.”

You try out the taste of that on your tongue. “Michael. Alright.”

He smiles at that. You love the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Mind if I come in? Or did you want to keep ogling my tits for a while?”

You startle backwards a few steps and awkwardly gesture to the apartment. “Sorry, ah, yes, of course, come on in.”

When he sees Mel on the couch, he bristles. It’s comforting to see his ridiculous confidence waver for even a second. “You live with Dr. King.”

“I do.”

“Right. I knew that.” He puts on an almost-professional smile and waves, “Hi, Mel.”

She holds the blanket tight around her neck like she’s naked underneath. “Hello, Dr. Robinavitch.”

You give her a wide-eyed, impatient look at her to break her bewilderment and hiss, “Mel, don’t you need to get ready for your shift?”

She scrambles upward, still clinging to the blanket. “Yes, yeah, ah, right, yeah. I’ll, um, I’ll leave you two alone. Out here. And then I’ll be leaving. For the night. Yup.”

Mel disappears into her bedroom, careful to cover her body every step of the way as if Robby would be phased by seeing her in sweats and a sports bra. As if his attention isn’t fixed squarely on you.

Robby’s eyes skate over your body and you’re suddenly agonizingly aware of how little you’re wearing. He smirks again. Fuck that smirk. “I’m a big fan of your outfit.”

You cross your arms over your chest and then stretch your arms out to cover your stomach and then realize that makes your cleavage worse and cross your arms again. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Robby takes your hands in his to stop you trying to hide from him. He kisses your hand and you’re swooning. You didn’t even know what that felt like until now. “I told you I’d see you, didn’t I?”

“That was before our collective scolding.”

“Well, I’m a man of my word.” His hand goes to your neck, holding the back of your head and pressing his thumb over your pulse at once. His hands are so big. Your brain is cloudy with desire and then he makes it so much worse by saying, “I said I wanted to wreck you. I’m here to make good on that.”

Mel emerges from her bedroom in her scrubs and fleece jacket, eyes trained on the floor and cheeks red. She rushes past Robby, who takes half a step back from you. Snatching her keys from the hall table, she announces in an unnaturally high pitch, “Well, it’s time for my shift. See you both, um, later!”

Then she’s gone – forty five minutes early. And there’s a locked door between you, Robby, and the rest of the world.

You’re frozen and Robby thinks it’s too adorable not to take advantage of. He jumps right in, stepping close to put his hands on the slope of your waist, thumb on ribcage and pinkies on your hips, and asks, “So, what’d all your friends think about my dick pic? Sufficiently impressed?”

You bite your lower lip, not yet able to look at him, and admit in a hushed tone, “I didn’t send it to them.”

Robby tilts your chin up and searches your face. “Why not?”

“You know already.”

He leans in close, breath mixing with yours, foreheads touching, and replies, “I need to hear you say it.”

Your lip twitches up into a smirk. He’s as desperate for you as you are for him. That feels fucking good. Finally, you make eye contact – and he’s shocked by the intensity in your expression. He’s never seen you looking possessive. Blood rushes to his cock. You press a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat drum against your palm, and say, “I didn’t send it because you’re mine, Michael. And I don’t want anyone else seeing what’s mine.”

The grin that spreads over Robby’s features is heart-fluttering, slow and certain and reaching the corners of his eyes. “I’m yours, huh?”

A tiny bit tentative, you whisper, “If you want me.”

Robby laughs, “If I want you?”

You’d expected your first kiss with Robby to be hungry. For your mutual, long-suffering want to explode over each other and turn into shedding clothes and falling into something frantic and intense, chasing pleasure and needing like nothing else.

But it’s not.

Robby takes a deep breath first, like he needs to gather up his courage to actually press his lips to yours despite all his bravado. Then he gives his head a little shake, laughs softly, and leans in. Both of you are gentle, even as you step up onto your toes to deepen it, even as his slightly shaking hand presses up into the curve of your spine to pull you up closer, even as you let out a breathy moan. It’s a caress more than a claim, an exploration more than an ecstasy, a feather more than a fire.

“I want you the way I want oxygen,” Robby breathes into the wide quiet space after your lips part. He kisses you so softly again and, like he might cry, whispers, “I love you.”

It’s your turn to smile – slow, disbelieving, adoring. “You love me? Really?”

He scoffs and holds you close, eye contact so sweet, “I love you so much I can’t think straight when you’re not on shift with me. I love you so much it makes me outright stupid. It would embarrass me, how much I love you, but it doesn’t because every once in a while you look at me like you might love me too and those moments make my whole life worth living.”

Knees weak and heart thudding, you whimper, “Michael.”

This time, the kiss is what you’d expected. You’re biting his lip and rucking up his shirt and shoving him toward your bedroom while he’s chuckling into your mouth at your obvious and unashamed desire, keeping you balanced, matching your energy as he opens up the door and lets himself be shoved back onto your bed. You situate yourself in his lap and practically rip his jacket off so you can finally sink your teeth into his ridiculously gorgeous arms.

Robby pulls in a sharp breath when you suck a harsh mark into the sensitive hollow of his collarbone, dragging the bruise up his neck with unrelenting suction. “Planning on getting me sent to HR our first day back as a couple?”

You pull off of him and catch your breath. Carefully, you run your thumb over his hand and reply, “Yeah, actually. I wanna do this right. HR, paperwork, the whole thing.”

Robby, smiling a tiny bit, asks, “You’re not worried about what everyone’s going to think?”

“Who cares?” You shrug and tell him, “All the other residents have been telling me to ask you out since we started. Even Jack wants us to get together. We’ve been working together while eye-fucking for two years; I don’t think much’ll change.”

“Except how close the administration’s gonna be watching you,” he replies. “I don’t want you to regret-”

You cross your arms over your chest and say, “Michael David Robinavitch, if you’re seriously interrupting our first time together to talk about the boring logistical details of our relationship, I’m going to break up with you.”

“Right, priorities,” he agrees, hands travelling up to your bralette. “Let’s focus on getting you naked.”

“That’s more like it, cap.”

“First, though,” he says softly, pleading, “I want you to say it back.”

It’s as easy as a heartbeat. You kiss him again and murmur against his lips, “I love you.” You drag your bralette up and over your body, leaving you bare-chested and blushing. As Michael’s black eyes devour the sight, you repeat, “I love you.” Then you slip off his lap, lay back on the bed, and coax him to come with, caging you between his strong arms. Before he can descend and devour, you tilt your face upward, kiss him gently, and say one more time, “I love you.”

Robby shoves his hand into your pajama shorts with no hesitation or pretense, wanting to feel you so bad he doesn’t even bother taking the clothes off first. As his fingers part your lips, dragging slickness up to your clit, he groans delightedly, “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

With a soft moan, you explain, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You shimmy to push your shorts off, kicking them away. Robby roughly shoves your legs apart right away. He’s reluctant to remove his fingers, but he’s devastatingly hungry for your pussy on his tongue. He moves to the end of your bed and, just to make you shriek out a laugh, grabs you by the ankles and yanks you down, the fabric of your comforter turning into a sled toward his body. Then he smiles wide, shakes his head in disbelief, and praises, “You’re so gorgeous it’s almost offensive.”

You roll your eyes and fail to suppress a sweet, shy smile. “Thank you.”

Then he drops to his knees, muttering something about getting down to business. Reverently, he kisses and licks your inner thighs, going between sucking marks on your skin and soothing them with his tongue. Once he’s got you squirming and silently begging, he inhales your scent deeply, hovers close to your drenched sex, and groans, “I’ve been wondering how you taste for years. Can’t believe I finally get to find out.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He grins and ghosts the breath of his words across your clit, “And I bet you taste like heaven.”

The moment his tongue makes contact, you both moan. His vibrates up your spine, turning yours into more of a breathy gasp. He latches onto your clit, then, refusing to tease when he finally has exactly what he wants. Propped up on your elbows, you watch as he greedily devours you, eyes closed and face relaxed with rapture. You’ve never seen him look so stress-free. Like your pussy’s the one thing in the world that can silence his racing mind.

He might not admit it out loud, but that’s the truth. Your tartness on his tongue has his cock leaking through his boxers. He’s rutting against your mattress like a horny dog, imagining how ridiculously good it’s going to be to finally slip his cock inside of you. That dizzying goal combined with the perfection of your taste has him dialed in, focused on your pleasure more than he focuses on most procedures.

He curls one finger slowly inside of you, thrilled out of his fucking mind when you groan louder and buck your hips against his mouth for more. His hands are huge and they’ve always been an object of your secret lust. When he adds a second finger, there’s a slight sting, but it’s quickly eased by his tongue lapping at your clit, flat and confident and accompanied by rhythmic gentle sucking. The pace he sets is indulgent, the first course in a long meal he wants to savor every morsel of.

When Robby feels your orgasm starting to tighten, he slows down. Teases it out. His fingers turn from curling to massaging, firm and insistent against your G-spot like only a doctor could. He makes sure to spread them wide, scissoring them, letting your muscles clamp and stretch. When your wetness soaks into his beard, he finally pulls off, just lightly kissing your inner thighs and breathing you in.

Orgasm-hazy and needy, you manage to stammer out, “I have an IUD, by the way.”

He looks up from between your legs with a mischievously raised eyebrow. Fuck, hes so handsome with his lips all shiny from spit and wetness. “Are you trying to tell me to fuck you raw?”

After a second, you nod bashfully.

“That’s very good to know, kitten,” he praises warmly. Then he pushes his fingers back inside you and moves his mouth down toward your clit again.

Sounding whinier than you’ve ever heard yourself, you demand, “Michael, please, just fuck me. Need you.”

He kisses your clit tenderly, like he’s greeting an old friend, and tells you, sternly and with no room for debate, “I’ll fuck you when I’ve got you taking three of my fingers. You’ve gotta cum one more time.”

You thrash against his hand and groan, “Christ, I want you so bad. I can take it. I swear I can.”

Still curling his first two fingers back toward himself, he gives you a look so perfectly condescending it makes you clench around him. “Trust me, baby, I love your enthusiasm, and it’s taking a hell of a lot of effort to resist you, but I’ve had this dick long enough to know you need to be good and ready.” He kisses your inner thigh and presses his thumb to your clit, which starts to make your thoughts evaporate again. Then he assures you, “I promise I’m gonna fuck you so hard and so deep that you’re gonna forget anyone else has ever fucked you before. Got it?”

You stretch your arms up behind your head and sigh dreamily, “I guess I shouldn’t complain about having a boyfriend who insists on making me cum twice before he puts his dick in me.”

“Twice when I’m feeling selfish,” he corrects seriously. “This is me rushing to get inside of you. When I’m taking my time, I’ll get four or five out of you first – bring out some toys when my fingers get tired – so you’ll be gushing wet and making the dumbest little noises for me. Turn off that big beautiful brain of yours.”

“You say that like it’s a promise.”

“It is.”

And then he’s back to eating your pussy. You’re still so sensitive from your last orgasm that he goes agonizingly gently, just using the tip of his tongue light as a feather to tease you. He holds you tight to his face by the hips so you can’t squirm away, no matter how much the overwhelming pleasure makes you thrash against the mattress. It’s his fingers that keep you grounded to reality, sloppy wet and firm and knowing. It’s like the beginning of your residency when he guided you through everything slow and steady, paying special attention to you and your potential. He holds your pleasure in his hands with expert precision.

Your orgasm slams through you as soon as he adds the third finger, stretching you comfortably open and pushing you forward. He’s holding you up now, your legs on his shoulders as your back arches away from him and your hands try to find anywhere they can get purchase, tugging his hair and beard and scratching his shoulders as your thighs spasm and ache. Your moans are high and stupid, thoughtless as ecstasy spreads out in front of you.

But Robby doesn’t let up, fingers branding into your hips as his other hand keeps working you open through the brutal aftershocks. The brush of his beard against your sensitive flesh has you seeing stars. Tears sting at your waterline and his lips wrap around your clit harder than ever, refusing to give you any relief from the lingering orgasm that’s bordering on painful now. It’s only when your moans turn to gasps and your tears actually crest over onto your cheeks that he detaches.

Robby blows cool air on your pussy and rubs his thumbs tenderly over your outer thigh as he slowly withdraws his fingers. Your whole body shudders from the stimulation and you feel so fucking good it’s like you’re high on the drug of your newly minted boyfriend.

He gradually kisses up your hip, over your stomach, between your breasts, and then finally along your neck to your lips, where he softly sucks your lower lip and praises, “Good job, angel. You ready or can I bring you water or something?”

You kiss him back for a minute, lapping up the taste of yourself on his mouth. He still has his pants on but you can feel that his cock is agonizingly hard and straining against them. So you press your forehead to his, take a deep breath, and nod seriously. “I need you to fuck me.”

Robby grins, pupils dilating and heart slamming. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you saying that.”

“Probably about as many times as I’ve used a dildo and been disappointed it’s not your cock.” At your response, Robby laughs as he steps off the bed, rummaging through his discarded jacket. He pulls a small bottle of lube from one of the pockets and it makes you snicker. “You were that certain I’d fuck you?”

“Yeah, pretty damn sure.” Then he ditches the small talk, moving back to the edge of the bed like a lion and shoving your legs apart again. He uncaps the bottle and trains his gaze between your thighs. “There’s my greedy pussy. So pretty for me clenching around nothing. Fucking begging.” He squirts cold lube on your hot, overstimulated cunt and you hiss in a sharp breath that makes him chuckle darkly with arousal. “So sensitive, too. Fuck, you’re perfect. Need my cock, don’t you?”

You’re such a sniveling mess that you can’t even respond, just chasing your hips toward his cock to silently beg.

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, stilling your hip with his hand and spreading your legs as wide as they can possibly go. He lines up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance, taking a second to memorize the image as he murmurs,  “Gonna take care of you, sweet girl. Don’t you worry. Just breathe for me.”

No amount of preparation could prepare you for the size of his cock. It doesn’t hurt because you’re ridiculously wet and he took his damn time, but the stretch is immense. Like sinking deeper into a yoga pose that makes you groan and curl your toes. A release. Your head snaps backwards and sweat beads on your forehead as he slowly, carefully, lovingly thrusts inside.

Robby touches your cheek and makes sure, “Is this okay? Not too much?”

You gaze up at him with eyes so full of love and lust Robby’s half-sheathed cock twitches inside the heat of your body. Unable to come up with anything else, you just whisper, “Perfect.”

Robby smirks and nods. He’d tell you how you fit him like a glove, how your wetness and tightness has him on the edge already, how you’re everything, but if he opened his mouth right now the string of high-pitched moans would be absolutely pathetic. So he leans down to kiss you, pushing your legs further back and up so he can fit himself between your hips. As his lips meet yours, you moan into the kiss, toes curling as his cock finally reaches into you as deep as he can, maybe three quarters of him piercing you.

Robby gradually draws his cock back and pushes forward again. With a trembling breath and a burning kiss, he groans, “God, you feel fucking incredible.”

Breathing hard, you grip his hair and nestle into the crook of his neck and cry, “So good, Michael. Your cock’s amazing. Like you were made for me. Feels incredible.”

His whole body shudders with pleasure and delight. “You can’t say things like that, baby.”

“Why not?”

He scoffs, one hand going down to play with your pebbled nipple. “I’d like to fuck you more than thirty seconds before I cum prematurely.”

That makes you bite your lower lip and eye him carefully. You file away ‘Robby totally has a praise kink’ for another day because you can’t put any coherent thoughts together as he manages to get deeper and deeper inside of you with every thrust. You didn’t even know your body could feel like this – loose, warm, brilliantly full. If he pulled out, you’d feel incomplete somehow. He’s christening a new version of you to the point that you’re starting to understand that whole ‘ruining you for other men’ thing. His cock is everything. It’s divine and electric at once, a symphony strumming from your cunt up your abdomen, rooted by his greedy hands on your tits and his mouth worshipping along your neck and collarbones.

Then he drops his thumb down to your clit.

You’re sparking toward another orgasm before you can even process the gesture. He grins into your neck as your back arches and your cunt clamps down. With your walls stretched so taut, each pulse of your pussy is sharp as a rubber band snapping, intense and vibrant. When you cum, you lose any control over your body, becoming something primal and raw and animal. Fingers digging into his flesh. Teeth sharp and violent over his shoulders. Legs locked around his ass. There aren’t any thoughts but the drunkenness of his touch, his body pressing down on yours, his claiming grasp everywhere. 

As you shatter into aftershocks, overstimulating and delicious, you’re being so loud, moans and slapping skin and gushing cunt, that Robby probably should slow his fucking or muffle your mouth, but he’s addicted to the sounds. It’s the litany of music from your body that has his balls tightening and him grunting, “Where do you want it?”

All you can do is tighten your thighs around him and stare up with lust-ridden eyes, whining almost constantly, a silent plea for what you want.

Robby holds your face by the jaw, keeping you trained forward to look right at him despite how glassy and dazed your expression is. “If you want me to cum inside of you, you’re gonna have to ask nicely.”

You nod slowly, trying to come up with words when your thoughts are sex-fueled molasses. It takes another few seconds for you to come up with one idea that rings true enough to break through the fog: “I’m yours, Michael. Please.”

“That’s right,” he growls, hands around your ankles to keep you in the mating press as he shoves deep inside of you, cum bursting forward. You watch, rapt, as his mouth falls open into a precious little O and his eyes pinch tight and his right hand smashes back onto the wall to keep him upright. “Fuck. Fuck.” He falls forward and kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance: Desperate and owning. His voice is broken and raspy. “God, I love you. I can’t believe you’re finally mine.”

You just whimper into his neck, wrapping your arms around him and easing your legs down as much as they can with his body still between them. Not so subtly kissing and licking his sweat, you murmur sweetly, “Love you, Michael. Will you stay the night?”

“Of course,” he replies easily. “Stay here; let me get you cleaned up and comfortable. Is it alright if I rummage around to get you something to drink too?”

You nod and hum happily, “You’re an angel.”

After pressing a few more kisses to your lips and cheeks and forehead, Robby stands up, stretches out his arms, chuckles to himself, and disappears into your kitchen and then your adjacent bathroom. You drift contentedly in the blissed-out cloud of your brain, eyes gently closed and limbs heavy, until he returns. You barely notice his presence until you feel a cool washcloth wiping the beading sweat from your forehead and chest and then trailing down between your legs. Robby listens to your heavy, even, satisfied breaths as he works, switching to massaging the bruises his rough hands have left over your hips and his greedy mouth left along your thighs.

Finally, he sits next to you on the bed and softly rubs your shoulder. “Drink some of this for me.”

“Mmm.”

You barely open your eyes as you take the chilled blue Gatorade from him, chugging down half of it before offering it back so that he can drink it too. Then he gives you a tangy bright kiss and says, “C’mon, I’m pretty sure it’s bedtime.”

With a big stretch of your arms over your head, you swing your legs off the bed, kiss him hard, and stand. He slips back into the bathroom as you grab a pair of shorts and tank top to put on after you’ve showered or at least cleaned up some.

“Jesus, sweetheart, you’ve got me looking like I went ten rounds with a boxer,” he whistles low from the bathroom. “You’re awfully cute for a vampire, you know that?”

“I’m sure the marks aren’t that bad,” you reply with an eye roll, joining him through the doorway. Under the real lights, though, you realize with horror that you’ve not only given him hickeys and bruises but you’ve broken his skin in more than one place – both with your teeth and with your nails. There are mean bites all around his neck and down his shoulders, scratches over his arms and upper back, beads of blood mingling among the marks. Tears spring up into your eyes when you realize you’ve caused him pain that he’s going to be carrying around for a week or more. “Oh my god, Michael, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Sorry?” He turns toward you with an adorably furrowed brow. “What in the ever living fuck are you sorry about?”

You rummage around the bathroom drawers for your first aid kit and sniffle, “I really hurt you.”

“Baby, baby, stop.” Robby snatches you back by the hips and pulls you up. “I’m gonna wear these as a badge of honor. You have any idea how good it feels to fuck a good girl so well she turns feral?”

You pout your lip as you try to suppress your smile. “At least let me look them over. Apply some topical antibiotics and bandaids.”

“I can take care of myself, sweetheart, they gave me a whole degree in topical antibiotics and bandaids,” he chuckles. “And you’re gonna have to get used to it. Now that I know how crazy you get, I fully expect to get these marks touched up more nights than not.”

“Michael,” you protest half-heartedly as he kisses you deeply, “the human mouth is a hotbed for for infections.”

He doesn’t stop smiling, though, tugging you into his body by the waist, his cock debating coming to light against your thigh. “Yeah, baby, I noticed your mouth is fucking filthy.”

“Robby, I’m serious, we need to clean the wound sites or-”

“Ohohoh,” he teases, “if you wanted to shower together, you could’ve just said that.”

You hum as you flip pancakes, pajamas hanging loosely from your body, Robby standing behind you lavishing kisses along the tops of your shoulder. The warmth of his shirtless body has kept you feeling so safe and cozy all night. When the door handle turns nearby, you startle slightly from the intrusion to your peace but don’t move.

Robby doesn’t either. He just shifts his weight so he can look over his shoulder at your roommate coming home. No point in pretending this won’t be a regular occurrence. He offers, trying sound kind and nonthreatening so she won’t get spooked like a rabbit again? “Morning, Dr. King, how was your shift?”

Mel stares at the two of you for about thirty seconds, computing and calibrating, before she just shrugs off her jacket, hangs it on the small coat rack, and replies, “Um, hi, Dr. Robby, it- it was good; finally checked off an emergent birth.”

“Good work,” he tells her earnestly; the first time delivering a baby on the ED floor is nothing short of terrifying. “Congratulations, kid.”

“Looks like I have some congratulating to do, too.” She beams and joins you both in the kitchen. “You two are finally happening? For real?”

“For real,” he confirms with a laugh as he realizes how much you must’ve vented to Mel over the years. “Took us long enough, I’d say.”

With Robby blocking the coffee maker, Mel just presents a mug to him. He fills it with a surprised nod, pleased to see her slightly more comfortable with his presence. She sighs out like she’s getting a massage, “God, this is such a relief for me. You have no clue how annoying she is about you, like, every night. Robby breathed on my neck and I almost passed out. Robby reached for the same suture kit as me. I had that sex dream about Robby again. It’ll be nice to go to bed earlier.”

You glare at Mel over your shoulder as you plate up a stack of pancakes. “You don’t have to make me look bad in front of my brand new boyfriend.”

“Trust me, baby,” he replies, turning to catch you in a quick kiss, “I’m twice as bad. I’m pretty sure Jack was getting ready to file a cease and desist because of how often I complained about not having you. Him and Samira are going to have to come up with a new couple to meddle with; I almost feel bad for them.”

Mel nervously asks, “Dr. Robinavitch, would you grab me the French vanilla creamer?”

“You can call me Michael, if you want.” He opens up the fridge, searches a second, and hands over the half-empty bottle. “Figure I should be on a first-name basis with my future wife’s maid of honor.”

You pour your own mug of coffee and give him a smirk. “Future wife, huh?”

“Mohan shared your ring Pinterest board with me when I left Jack’s to come here last night.” He kisses your cheek, beard scratchy and lovely, and murmurs, “The title being ‘Mrs. Robinavitch’ didn’t leave much to the imagination in terms of your intentions with me.”

Mel, absolutely grinning now as her happiness for her best friend bubbles over, giggles,  “Maybe I’ll start a betting pool for how long it’ll take.”

Robby gives her a conspiratorial wink that makes your heart sing. “Cut me in for half and I’ll help you cheat.”

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The day went on easy. You had a beer, enjoyed the music, ate terrible fried food and watched Jake fall completely in love. It was sweet. They looked good together, you thought. You were glad he had a nice girl for his first love. Even if the odds of it lasting past college were slim to none.

You were at one of the food trucks fueling up on beer and fries for the rest of the evening when there were a few pops. They sounded like fireworks from where you were, until they were accompanied by screams.  A chill ran up your spine, palms sweating as you moved to investigate. More shots. Someone screamed that there was a shooter.

“Oh shit.” You felt yourself start to shake. Your first thought was get to Jake.

You ran through the crowd, trying to see where he was. You tried calling, he wasn’t answering. You stopped to help up a few people who had fallen, when you saw the blood-soaked grass. Something in your brain clicked, your training taking over. Fear mostly forgotten, something you knew was part of your brain trying to get you to survive.

You took off toward the first aid tent. You needed supplies, they wouldn’t have enough, but it was a place to start.

“I’m Dr. L/N, I need gloves and anything you can spare!” You shouted as you ran behind the table, gathering everything you could into a spare bag. You ran back out into the crowd, shots echoed overhead.

You worked to stabilize everyone you encountered, instructing other concertgoers to take them to safety as you ran from person to person.

“Hey! Here, I brought out all the food trucks first aid kits! Not much but it’s something!” You recognized one of the cooks as he came running up to you.

“Thank you so much, now get the hell out of here.” You barked.

“Oh hell yeah.” He smiled. He smiled at you. Then he wasn’t. His smile, replaced by a gaping wound. You felt warmth dripping down your face. You were confused for a moment. Something on your forehead stung. You raised your hand to the spot, pulling away to see blood. A bullet fragment grazed your forehead you thought. A fragment from the one that went through that kind man’s smile. The realization crashed down on you as you watched him crumple to the ground, lifeless. The air was knocked from your lungs, you couldn’t move. You wanted to run, vomit, scream, but none of it happened. You just stood there. Frozen.

“Help! Please!” The screams echoed, bouncing around your skull. You had to move. You had to help. You finally felt you could move your legs and ran to help the next person, wiping the blood and brain matter from your face.  Another shot echoed and you felt something burning your thigh, you fell to the ground.

A bullet was lodged in your left thigh. You felt the panic fill your throat. You tried to push it down, you had to asses and treat. The bullet hadn’t hit the femoral, it wasn’t in too deep. You’d be in pain but you’d survive. You gathered yourself to your feet and limped your way to the next patient.

This went on for hours. Scrambling to get to each patient, never having enough time to help everyone. People were screaming for you, grabbing at your body to get you to help them or someone they loved. You couldn’t move fast enough. You weren’t fast enough.

“Y/N!” You heard Jake’s voice, something in your chest broke. You felt the tears rolling down your cheeks but ignored them.

“You got shot!” You yelled looking over his leg.

“I’m fine! Leah, you gotta help Leah!” He cried. You looked at the girl, her face pale and the wound on her chest oozing blood from between Jake’s fingers where he was holding pressure.

“Okay, okay. I’ll try.” You said, your voice shaking. You took his hands away. She wasn’t going to make it. You knew she wouldn’t, but did your best to get her stable enough to make it to a truck.

“You need help getting out of here!?” A small group of men ran up to you.

“Get these two to PTMC as soon as you can, do not stop for anything!” You yelled as they gathered Leah up into their arms.

“Jake, keep pressure on her wound! Don’t stop!” You yelled as they took him away.

You ran around the fairgrounds, blood soaking through your jeans, the bullet was grinding into you thigh more and more. You sat down and dug through your bag of supplies, finding a pair of forceps. You had no medications, no lidocaine cream, just hand sanitizer to clean them. You took a deep breath and dug them into your thigh. White hot pain surged through your body, you screamed out as you dug the bullet from your thigh. Your hands were shaking as you lifted it to your eye level. It looked intact, no fragments. You put it in your pocket and did your best to wrap your leg.

You were out of gloves. Your hands were stained red. You kept going. You didn’t know how you kept going, but you did. The ground was soft and wet, each step forcing blood to puddle up from the grass. You pronounced too many people dead. You worked on teenagers and elderly, holding hands with them as they took their last breath. You tried to do cpr for every one of them. Even the ones you knew were a lost cause.

“Dr. L/N?” You heard a voice that was vaguely familiar from behind you. You were stood in the middle of the fairground, bodies surrounding you.

“Doc, they’re gone. There isn’t anyone else to save.” The voice said. You turned and saw one of the medics that frequented PTMC.

“Huh?” You mumbled.

“Doc, let’s get you checked out.”  They walked up to you slowly, as if you were a stray dog.

“I tried…” You mumbled.

“You’re okay. Let’s get you out of here.” They said, wrapping an arm around you. You didn’t remember the ride to the hospital. You didn’t remember the medics trying to clean your wounds only for you to flinch and push them away. You didn’t remember them asking if you wanted help out of the truck. You saw the ambulance bay doors and walked in like you did everyday.

The chaos was dying down; the ER was in the process of cleaning up from the mass casualties. There were still signs of what happened: gloves thrown on the floor, blood smeared across the tiles. You wandered in, your feet dragging as you looked around confused.

“Oh my god!” You heard Dana’s voice as she took in the sight of you. You looked like you’d walked through hell. Your clothes were covered in blood and dirt, your once white shoes now a dark burgundy. Even your hair was sticky with blood.

“Y/N!?” Dr. Abbot came running over to you, putting his hands on your face, examining your forehead.

“Get a gurney, now!” Robby barked. You stood still. Your whole body was shaking as the adrenaline started to leave.

“I tried to help…” Your voice was small. You looked around and saw the ER had come to a standstill at the sight of you. Everyone looking at you in horrified sympathy.

“You did, kid. You helped a hell of a lot of people.” Dr. Abbot said as he guided you onto the gurney. They wheeled you into a trauma bay, which you thought was too much.

“Where’s all the blood coming from?” You heard one of the nurses ask.

“It’s not mine. It’s not…they kept grabbing me to help.” You said, the tears starting to fall.

“Bullet graze to the forehead, looks like a bullet wound to the left anterior thigh.” Abbot rattled off.

“I took it out.” You mumbled.

“What?” Robby and Abbot looked up, shocked. You pulled the bullet from your pocket.

“I couldn’t keep going with it in, I took it out.” You said, dropping the bullet onto the tray next to you.

“Jesus Christ.” Robby gasped.

“Okay, let’s get her in line for head CT. Get her a fluid bolus to help with shock and get me a closure kit.” Abbot ordered.

“Is Jake okay?” You mumbled, grabbing onto Robby.

“Yeah, yeah. He’ll be okay.” You saw something break in him. “Said you helped him. Said you helped everyone.” He held your hand.

“Did Leah make it?” Your breath hitching in your chest, knowing the answer.

“We’re giving you some morphine for the pain, Kid. You might fall asleep, let yourself.” Abbot interrupted, shooting Robby a look.

“I should have gone with her. It would have been better, she would have made it.” The sobs took over your body.

“No, it wouldn’t have. You did everything you could for her. We did everything we could. There was no more anyone could have done.” Abbot’s voice was firm but gentle.

“I wasn’t fast enough! I couldn’t move fast enough! I should have saved them! I couldn’t Save them!” Your voice cracking, breaking everyone in the rooms heart. Robby turned away to hide the tears. Abbot clenched his fists and shook his head.

“Let’s get propofol on board. Kid, I’m going to sedate you for this. You need it.” Abbot said, clearing his throat.

“I wasn’t good enough! I failed! I failed them, I failed all of them!” You were in hysterics. Abbot held you down by the shoulders as Princess came in and administered the propofol with red, glassy eyes.

“Don’t fight it, Kid! Don’t fight it.” Abbot pleaded. Robby’s hand never left yours. You sobbed yourself into sedation. Finally, able to rest.

“What are we going to do with her?” Robby sighed.

“We take care of her. We make sure she’s safe from herself.” Abbot said as he worked to close the wound.

“She’ll need to be put on leave. There’s no way she can treat patients after this.” Robby shook his head.

“We’ll figure it out. I’m not letting this break her. She’s too good for that, she deserves better.” Abbot clenched his jaw.

Your head was pounding as you started to regain consciousness. The lights were too bright, sending shock waves through your skull as you tried to open your eyes. Your leg was throbbing in time with your heartbeat, it was irritating. All of your muscles were sore; you felt like you’d been steamrolled. Then the memories came flooding back. The blood, the mud, the screams.

“Easy, you’re okay.” You heard Robby’s voice. “You’re safe, you’re in the hospital.” He said, a hand on your shoulder.

“too bright.” You mumbled. Robby got up and turned the lights down.

“You have a concussion, but nothing serious.” He said sitting next to you.

“What time is it?” You robbed at your eyes.

“It’s a little after midnight.” Robby looked at his watch.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You said, your throat dry and spit thick in your mouth.

“We’re taking shifts. Abbot will be here in a bit, I’ll go sleep. You don’t need to worry about it.” He told her, leaning on the guard rails.

“When can I go home?”

“In a few hours. With a follow-up appointment with psych tomorrow.” He told her.

“I don’t want-”

“Not negotiable. You’re getting evaluated, it’s protocol after what you’ve been through. You’re also on medical leave for the next three weeks.” He said, knowing you were going to fight him.

“That’s a bit excessive. I can still do desk work with my leg.” You argued, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“You need to heal more than that leg. We all do. But you saw things, did things, none of us had to. It’s going to stick to you for a while. We need to make sure that you’re okay before bringing you back in.” He offered you a tissue. You pushed it away.

“Sitting at home, with my thoughts isn’t going to heal anything.” You snapped.

“Neither is putting your head down and pushing yourself beyond your limits.”

“I just want to go home.” You said, bottom lip trembling.

“I know.” Robby sighed, squeezing shut his eyes in frustration. “You’re going to stay with Abbot for a week.” He knew you’d hate the idea.

“What? No! I can go home!” You shouted, tears streaming down your face. The door opened and in walked Abbot.

“You told her then.” He said as he sat across from you.

“I don’t need a babysitter! I’m fine!” you yelled.

“You aren’t. You aren’t fine. It’s okay to be not okay. But we aren’t letting you fall through the cracks. You will let us take care of you, it’s not a choice. You saw things, Kid, that you won’t be able to forget. The human brain is not equipped for the things you had to do today. It’s going to take time to figure out how to deal with all of this. If anyone here is qualified to tell you that it’s me.” Abbot said, putting a hand on your arm.

“I don’t want to be this…pathetic thing, everyone is going to look at me different.” You tried to stop the crying but failed.

“You aren’t pathetic. No one thinks that. If anything, everyone here looks at you and sees the strength that they don’t have.” Robby said.

“Kid, you’ll get through this. It’ll be a bitch, but you will. We aren’t going anywhere. Besides, I’m not that bad to live with.” Abbot shrugged.

“It’s asking too much.” You shook your head.

“Well, we weren’t asking so no, it’s not.” Abbot smirked.

“You deserve a chance to get better. That’s all we’re doing, giving you that chance.” Robby said.