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3 Year Anniversary

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

tw: sudden medical emergency, stroke, panic, hospital/ambulance, medical procedures

part two part three part four

The restaurant isn’t fancy in the intimidating way. It’s warm. Intimate. The kind of place that feels like it’s meant for people who already know each other well — low lights, soft music, tables close enough that you can hear quiet laughter from strangers without it feeling intrusive.

Michael sits across from you, jacket slung over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. He looks relaxed in a way that still sometimes surprises you, like he’s forgotten to keep his guard up because he doesn’t think he needs it tonight.

Three years does that.

You’re midway through your second drink, ice clinking softly as you set the glass down. He watches the condensation slide down the side, then looks back up at you.

“Hard to believe we’re here,” he says, not loud, not trying to make a moment out of it. “Three years.”

You smile. Not big. Not dramatic. Just real.

“I know,” you say. “Feels like we blinked and suddenly… here we are.”

He hums, thoughtful. “And somehow we didn’t kill each other.”

“Yet,” you add, deadpan.

That gets a laugh out of him — an actual laugh, head tipping back slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. God, you love that sound. You always have.

“You know what’s wild?” he says. “I still remember thinking you hated me.”

You snort. “I did hate you.”

“No, you didn’t,” he says, smiling into his drink.

“I absolutely did.”

“You were intrigued,” he corrects. “Which is different.”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “Okay, maybe. Slightly intrigued. Annoyed. Confused about why you kept showing up.”

“And yet,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “here we are.”

Here we are.

You let the silence stretch for a second, comfortable and full. The candle between you flickers, reflected in his eyes.

“You were such an ass at first,” you say fondly.

He pretends to look wounded. “I was reserved.”

“You were emotionally unavailable.”

“I was cautious.”

“You ghosted me for three days.”

“I was busy.”

“You were scared.”

That one lands.

He doesn’t deny it. Just smiles a little, softer now.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I was.”

You reach across the table without thinking, fingers brushing his. He lets you take his hand, thumb pressing gently against your knuckles.

“I’m glad you didn’t run,” you say.

“Me too,” he says, quietly. “I don’t think I would’ve forgiven myself if I had.”

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “You would’ve survived.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I wouldn’t have you.”

That still hits, even three years in.

You talk about everything after that — your favorite memories, the moments that feel small until you say them out loud.

The night you stayed up until four in the morning talking about nothing and everything.

The first time he fell asleep on your couch.

The way he always pretends he doesn’t care which movie you pick but absolutely does.

The way you hum without realizing it when you’re focused.

“I love that you do that,” he says at one point, smiling.

“Do what?”

“That thing,” he says. “When you’re concentrating. You hum. Like you’re tuning yourself.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“You’re lying.”

He laughs. “I swear. It’s my favorite thing.”

You shake your head, embarrassed but pleased, warmth blooming in your chest. “I love that you notice dumb stuff like that.”

“It’s not dumb,” he says. “It’s you.”

The waiter comes by at some point — you barely notice — refilling water, asking if you want dessert later. Michael says yes without looking at you, already knowing the answer.

Eventually, conversation drifts the way it always does when you’ve run through the past and lingered there long enough.

Michael leans back slightly, studying you.

“So,” he says, casual again. “Hawaii.”

Your face lights up immediately. “Oh my god.”

“We keep saying we’re going to do it,” he continues. “I feel like if we don’t actually plan it, it’s just gonna stay hypothetical forever.”

You nod enthusiastically. “Okay, yes. Agreed.”

He smiles. “So when?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“Okay, so if we go in October instead of September—”

The words come easily at first. Familiar. Comfortable. You’re leaning forward now, elbows on the table, hands moving as you talk.

“—it’s still warm, but not like… unbearable. And it’s less crowded. Plus flights are cheaper.”

Michael watches you the way he always does when you get excited — fond, amused, completely present.

“Because then we’d have more—”

You pause, just barely.

“—more—”

Your mouth stutters on the word.

You don’t stop.

“Oh jeez,” you mutter under your breath, waving it off, already pushing forward. “Anyway—”

Michael’s smile flickers, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going.

“We could stay near the—uh—the place with the—”

You gesture vaguely, fingers circling as if the word might appear if you coax it hard enough.

“And then we could do, like… the whole island thing from there.”

You laugh lightly, automatically, the way you always do when a thought slips away.

Michael nods, but his eyes don’t leave your face.

“Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.”

Encouraged, you continue — because talking has never been something you’ve had to think about before.

“And if we do it when the—”

You stop.

It’s subtle. Just a hitch. But it’s there.

“If we do it when the…”

The sentence doesn’t finish.

You blink, frown slightly, then try again.

“We could, um—if the—if we go when the—”

Your brow furrows. You shake your head once, like the thought is right there and you just can’t quite grab it.

Michael leans forward a little.

“You good?” he asks, gently.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just—”

The word catches.

“—I’m just—”

You trail off, laugh softly, a little breathless. “Sorry. My brain’s just jumping ahead.”

You take a sip of your drink, buying yourself a second, then set it down and try again.

“The flying—no—the car—when we—”

The words come out wrong.

You stop mid-sentence.

This time, you don’t laugh.

You open your mouth again, determined — and what comes out doesn’t sound like what you meant at all.

Michael’s chair shifts quietly as he moves closer, concern sharpening behind his eyes.

“Hey,” he says.

You look at him, relief flickering through you, and try to answer.

Your voice betrays you.

And somewhere deep in your chest, something cold begins to spread.

Michael doesn’t panic. Not outwardly. He leans in instead, forearms resting on the table now, his voice dropping until it feels like it’s meant only for you.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Hey. Look at me for a second.”

You do. Of course you do.

“Can you squeeze my hands for me?”

You blink at him.

There’s a flicker of irritation, instinctive and sharp, cutting through the fear. This feels like too much. Like he’s being dramatic. Like he’s slipping into work when you need him to just be him.

“C’mon,” you say — or you try to. It comes out mostly right. Close enough. “Really?”

You give him a look, half exasperated, half pleading. Not now.

Michael doesn’t smile. Doesn’t argue.

“Squeeze them,” he says, quiet but firm.

Something in his tone makes you do it.

You reach across the table and curl your fingers around his hands. His skin is warm. Solid. Familiar.

You squeeze.

You don’t notice anything wrong.

Michael does.

His thumb presses gently into your knuckles, like he’s confirming something he already knows. His face doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Good.”

That alone makes your stomach twist.

He lifts his gaze back to your face.

“Smile for me?”

You just stare at him.

Flat. Unamused.

He gives you a look — not annoyed, not panicked. Just steady. Waiting.

You sigh, a sharp breath through your nose, and humor him.

You smile.

Only one side of your face moves.

You feel it immediately.

The wrongness of it. The pull that isn’t there. The way your cheek doesn’t answer the command the way it always has.

Your smile drops.

Your breath stutters.

You try again — smaller this time, tentative.

Still wrong.

Your hand tightens around his, fingers trembling now.

“Oh—” you try to say.

Nothing coherent comes out.

Your chest tightens, panic slamming into you all at once, hot and suffocating. Tears spring to your eyes as you shake your head, like you can physically undo whatever is happening if you just try hard enough.

Michael is already moving.

He reaches for your wrist, grounding, firm but gentle, thumb pressing into your pulse.

“Hey,” he says immediately. “Look at me.”

You do. Desperately.

“It’s okay,” he continues, slow and controlled. “I’ve got you. Don’t try to talk.”

You try anyway. Instinctively. Fearfully.

It only makes it worse.

Your breathing turns shallow. Fast. Your vision blurs.

Michael squeezes your hand once — a promise, not a test this time.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

He lifts his head just long enough to catch someone nearby — a waiter, a stranger, you don’t know.

“Can someone call an ambulance,” he says, calm and unmistakably serious. “Now.”

Then his attention is right back on you.

“Stay with me,” he says softly. “Just stay with me.”

Michael’s hand is still on your wrist when the room begins to rearrange itself around you.

Chairs scrape back. Someone’s voice rises, sharp with urgency, then another, quieter, trying to soothe. The candle on your table wobbles as the surface vibrates with movement, the flame guttering but refusing to go out.

You’re aware of everything and nothing at the same time.

Michael keeps his body angled toward you, like a shield, his thumb pressing steady into your skin — a rhythm. A tether.

“Look at me,” he says again, low, deliberate. “Just me.”

You try to nod. You’re not sure if it works.

Your mouth opens. Something broken spills out.

Tears blur your vision.

“It’s okay,” he says, immediately. “You don’t need to talk. You’re doing great.”

The sirens arrive before you realize someone actually called. Distant at first, then too loud, then suddenly right there — red light bleeding through the restaurant windows in uneven pulses. The noise slices through the haze in your head, sharp and wrong.

Michael squeezes your hand once.

“They’re here,” he says. “You’re okay.”

Two paramedics move in quickly, efficient, already assessing before they even speak. One crouches beside you, eyes kind but focused. The other looks to Michael.

“What’s going on?”

Michael doesn’t hesitate.

“Twenty-seven-year-old female,” he says, voice steady despite the way his jaw tightens. “Acute onset aphasia. Started with stuttering, progressed to word-finding difficulty, then nonsensical speech. Right-sided facial droop. Right hand weakness.”

You hear yourself described like a case. Like a chart.

You want to interrupt. To say you’re right here. That you can hear them. That you’re scared.

Nothing usable comes out.

“No known allergies,” Michael continues. “No prior medical history. No history of strokes. Only known family history is maternal grandfather — single ischemic event in his seventies.”

The paramedic nods, already slipping a blood pressure cuff around your arm.

“When did symptoms start?”

Michael glances at his watch. “Approximately fifteen minutes ago.”

You feel the squeeze on your arm, the tightness, the pressure. Numbers are exchanged above your head. A pulse oximeter clips onto your finger. Someone shines a light in your eyes.

You flinch.

“It’s okay,” Michael murmurs. “I’m here.”

They lift you gently, carefully, onto the stretcher. The movement makes the room tilt again, nausea rolling through you, panic spiking as the floor pulls away.

You grab at Michael’s sleeve.

He’s right there. Always.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “I’m coming with you.”

The ambulance doors close with a final, hollow thud.

Inside, everything is brighter. Louder. Cold.

The siren starts again, vibrating through your bones as the vehicle lurches forward. One of the paramedics is talking to you now — asking simple questions, voice exaggeratedly calm.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You try.

The sound that comes out is wrong.

The paramedic glances at Michael. He nods once.

“It’s okay,” the paramedic says gently. “Just relax.”

An IV goes into your arm. You barely feel it. Your body feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.

Blood sugar check. Oxygen. Repeated questions. The words float past you, impossible to catch.

Michael stays close, hand never leaving you, eyes tracking every movement, every intervention.

“Any headache?” the paramedic asks.

Michael answers. “No reported headache.”

“Vision changes?”

“None noted.”

“Seizure activity?”

“No.”

You want to scream that you’re still here. That you’re not unconscious. That you understand them.

Your tongue won’t cooperate.

The ambulance slows. Turns.

“ETA two minutes,” someone says.

Michael exhales sharply, just once.

The doors open.

The night air hits you like a slap.

You’re rushed through automatic doors, fluorescent lights flooding your vision as the world shifts again — this time into a place Michael knows too well.

Voices layer over each other. Footsteps echo. Someone calls out vitals.

As they wheel you in, Michael’s gaze lifts — and lands on a familiar face.

Dana.

She’s mid-step, clipboard tucked under her arm, expression neutral until she sees you.

Until she sees him.

Michael doesn’t think. Doesn’t plan.

“Dana,” he says, and his voice finally cracks. “Dana… help.”

Her eyes sharpen instantly. Clipboard forgotten. She’s moving before the stretcher even stops.

“What happened?”

“Stroke,” Michael says. “I think she’s having a stroke.”

Dana’s hand is already on the rail, walking alongside you, eyes scanning your face, your chart, the paramedic relaying information rapid-fire.

“Twenty-seven-year-old female, acute aphasia, right-sided weakness—”