#pittcember

dividers by @ strangergraphics

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Your shift is barely an hour in when the clerk knocks on the break room door.

“Hey, uh… someone’s here for you.”

Your stomach drops. Parents don’t get called out of shifts unless something’s wrong.

You push through the ED doors and see your babysitter standing at triage, coat still on, hair dusted with snow, looking frazzled and apologetic.

She’s holding Dottie (your two year old daughter)  who is bundled like a burrito in two blankets, cheeks red, eyes tired.

Your babysitter sighs as soon as she sees you.

“I’m so, so sorry to bring her here, but… your apartment is freezing. I can see my breath in the living room. I’m not getting paid enough to keep her warm in a walk-in freezer. Respectfully.”

You blink, stunned. “I— I had the thermostat up when I left. It shouldn’t be—”

“It’s not working,” she says firmly. “I called maintenance twice. Nothing. She started shivering, and I’m not sitting with a toddler in a twenty-degree apartment.”

Dottie lifts her head from the blanket. Her lower lip trembles.

“Mommy…”

You take her immediately, tucking her against your chest.

Her hands are ice-cold even through the sleeves. Her little fingers are so cold they feel wet, like she’s been holding ice cubes.

Your heart cracks.

“Oh, baby. You’re so cold.”

She presses her face into your scrub top, making a tiny noise that sounds half-whimper, half-relief.

Your babysitter adjusts her bag, still apologizing.

“I really am sorry. If it was just me, I’d tough it out, but she’s little. And she kept asking for you.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, you did the right thing. Thank you for bringing her here.”

“She ate dinner,” the sitter adds. “But she refused to go to bed. She kept saying she didn’t like the cold.”

Your throat tightens.

“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time. “Get home safe.”

She leaves with a sympathetic grimace. You carry Dottie toward an empty family room near the waiting area and settle into a chair with her in your lap. The warm ED air is already helping, but she’s still trembling under the blankets.

You smooth her hair back from her forehead.

“It’s okay, honey. I’m here now. We’re warm. You’re okay.”

Dottie shakes her head, eyes glossy.

“Cold,” she sniffles. “No like cold, Mommy.”

You pull the blanket up around her ears. “I know, sweetheart. Mommy’s got you.”

But inside, panic churns. Heat outages happen, but never like this.Never when you’re not home. Not when she’s this little.

You try calling maintenance. Straight to voicemail.

You try the emergency line. The emergency line picks up, finally. A bored voice says, “Yeah, we know about the building. Boiler’s shot. No update yet. Have a good weekend.”

Dottie shifts in your lap and whispers, voice tiny and hoarse:

“Want Mikey…”

Your chest squeezes painfully.

“I know, baby. He’s working too. We’ll see him soon.”

She burrows closer into you, her breath warm on your collarbone.

Then, in that sleepy, unfiltered toddler way, she mumbles:

“Papa… wanna Papa…”

You freeze.

Your heart jumps into your throat.

She doesn’t know what she said. She’s half-asleep, overwhelmed, cold, seeking comfort.

But the word lands with the weight of a hundred unspoken truths.

You kiss the top of her head, breathing through the ache.

“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper. “You’re safe.”

She curls tighter against your chest.

And that’s when a familiar voice calls your name from the hallway sounding  urgent, breathless, scared.

Michael.

You hold Dottie a little closer as his footsteps get louder.

​​Michael’s cutting through the ED hallway, warm blanket in hand, when he glances into the family room and stops dead.

You’re there. Sitting stiffly on one of those awful plastic chairs, shoulders curled protectively around a bundle in your lap.

His heart stutters.

That’s Dottie.

Blankets wrapped around her. Face blotchy and tired. Little hands red from cold.

He pushes the door open without thinking.

“Hey,” he breathes. “Are you—?”

You look up and he sees it instantly: You’re not okay.

Before he can say another word, Dottie stirs at the sound of his voice.

Her eyes blink open, unfocused, heavy with exhaustion… and then she recognizes him.

Her whole face crumples.

“Paaapaaa…”

It’s not loud. Not excited. It’s a broken, tiny, relieved cry, a toddler’s instinctive reaching for the safest person in the room.

Michael’s lungs seize.

She reaches her trembling arms out toward him.

He drops the blanket he was holding.

“Oh— sweetheart,” he murmurs, falling to his knees beside you, hands already moving. “C’mere, baby. C’mere.”

You shift her toward him and she immediately latches onto his scrubs, burying her face in his neck like she’s been waiting for this.

Dottie is plastered to his chest, tiny face buried under his jaw like she’s trying to hide from the entire world. Her sniffles are quiet, exhausted, trembling little things that hit Michael harder than any trauma alarm ever has.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, rocking her gently. “You’re safe now.”

But she’s still shaking.

Still cold.

And still clinging to him with both fists twisted in his scrub top, refusing to loosen her grip even for a second.

He turns to you.

“What happened?”

You wipe at your eyes, shoulders tight with guilt and fear.

“I had Natalie pick her up from daycare,” you say weakly. “She was supposed to watch her while I worked tonight. I didn’t—God, Michael, I didn’t know the heat was out. When I left, it was a little chilly but— I didn’t know.”

Michael’s stomach twists.

Of course you didn’t. You work twelve-hour shifts. You weren’t home. You had no reason to suspect your apartment was turning into a refrigerator.

But Dottie whimpers again, a soft, broken, “Mmm… cold…”and that’s when something old and dangerous wakes up inside him.

He steps toward the warmer.

“We’re heating her up,” he says, tone snapping into medical mode before he can stop it.

You follow closely, wringing your hands.

He sets out a pediatric blanket from the warmer, checks the temperature against his cheek, and nods. “Okay. Warm enough.”

He tries to peel back the cold blanket she’s wrapped in—

And she LOSES it.

“No!” Dottie cries, clutching the blanket with both hands. “No, Papa! No take it! Mine!”

Michael freezes.

Her voice is panicked. Not bratty. Not stubborn. Scared.

“Hey, hey…” he soothes, heart twisting. “I’m not taking it away forever. I’m giving you a warmer one, sweetheart.”

But she shakes her head violently and tries to crawl even further into him, actually tries to burrow into his coat, tiny fingers clawing at the fabric like she’s searching for a place to hide.

Michael’s chest cracks open.

He gathers her in tighter, one hand splaying protectively over the back of her head.

“Oh baby… I know. I know you’re scared.” His voice trembles. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

You choke back a sob.

“She’s never acted like this,” you whisper. “She never clings like this. Not even when she’s sick.”

“She’s cold-stressed,” Michael says softly, rubbing her back in slow circles. “She’s confused. She thinks the blanket is what kept her safe, so she doesn’t want to lose it.”

You nod, crying quietly now.

“I should’ve known,” you whisper. “I should’ve texted Natalie, or checked the thermostat at lunch, or—”

“Stop.” Michael’s voice is gentle but firm. He steps closer to you, Dottie still curled into him like a trembling little koala.

“You didn’t know,” he says. “You weren’t there. And you trusted the heat in your own home—like anyone would. You did nothing wrong.”

“But she was freezing—”

“And she’s WARMING now.” He angles Dottie slightly so he can slide the warm blanket between her and the cold one, layering them instead of removing the first.

The second the heat touches her back, she gasps softly, then melts into full-body relaxation, head limp on his shoulder, fingers unclenching just enough for him to adjust the blankets.

He exhales shakily.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he whispers. “That’s better, isn’t it? Papa’s got you.”

Dottie nods against his throat, tiny voice hoarse:

“Papa warm…”

Michael’s eyes close.

He doesn’t correct her. He couldn’t if he tried.

He looks at you, your blotchy cheeks, your shaking hands, your guilt, your love for your daughter twisting inside you like a knife….

Dottie lifts one little hand from his collar… and reaches blindly toward you.

Not to go to you. But to pull you in.

She wants both of you. Together.

Your breath stutters as you step closer, pressing your forehead to Dottie’s back, your hand braced against Michael’s arm.

He wraps that arm around you too.

Because in this moment, there’s no distance. No maybe. No hesitation.

Just a freezing toddler who trusts him with her whole heart and her mother who didn’t deserve to feel alone for one second.

Michael swallows hard.

“All three of us,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna get through this. Together.”

Dottie is finally warm.

Finally calm.

Finally breathing soft, steady little breaths against his neck.

But she hasn’t loosened her grip for even a second. Not one.

She’s fused to him, little arms hooked around his collar, tiny fingers curled in his scrubs, legs locked around his waist like she’s anchoring herself to the safest place she knows.

You’re watching them with a complicated look of guilt, relief, exhaustion, something else tangled beneath it.

That’s when Michael says it:

“You’re not going back to the apartment tonight.”

Your stance stiffens. “Mikey—”

“Nope.” He cuts you off, tone low, controlled, but edged. He shifts Dottie higher against his chest when she whines sleepily.

“You’re not sleeping in that place until the heat is fixed.”

“It’ll get fixed,” you insist. “Maintenance always—”

He actually laughs. A short, humorless sound.

“Maintenance left a two-year-old in a twenty-degree apartment.”

You flinch.

He steps closer. Not aggressive but certain.

“You’re going to work a twelve-hour night shift,” he says quietly, “and then what? Go home to a meat locker?”

You open your mouth.

“And don’t,” he warns, “say you’ll ‘bundle up.’ Don’t insult both of us like that.”

Your breath hitches from the shock of his tone, from the truth in it, from the way it hits you square in the chest.

“Mikey, I’m not helpless,” you whisper.

“And I’m not asking you to be,” he snaps back with soft volume, sharp words. “I’m asking you not to be reckless.”

You blink hard, stung.

“I’ve been doing this alone for a long time,” you whisper. “I know how to take care of us.”

Michael’s jaw works, face flashing with anger, fear, heartbreak, all of it tightening under his skin.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You have. And it’s killing you that you still think you have to.”

Your eyes go wet.

He shifts Dottie again, one hand splayed protectively across her back, the other hovering like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure you’ll let him.

His voice softens but the sternness stays.

“I’m not telling you to depend on me,” he says. “I’m telling you to stop pretending you don’t need anyone.”

Your breath catches.

“Michael…”

“No,” he says, firmer now. “Listen to me.”

He closes the distance between you, Dottie’s warm little body pressed between your chests as he leans down enough to look you dead in the eyes.

“If you go back there,” he says, voice low and rough, “you’re putting yourself and her in danger. And I will not sit here and watch you do that because you’re afraid letting me help means you’re weak.”

A tear slips down your cheek.

He wipes it before you can.

“You’re not weak,” he murmurs. “You’re exhausted. And proud. And stubborn. And doing your best alone when you don’t have to anymore.”

You open your mouth to argue and nothing comes out except a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, because he’s right and you’re so fucking tired, and you hate that he can see it

You swallow hard.

“And I’ve been asking you,” he continues, quieter now but no less intense, “to move in with me for months. Not because I want control. Because I want you. I want her. I want a life where neither of you ever has to choose between independence and survival.”

Your breath shakes.

“Mikey…”

He takes a slow breath, then lays it out plainly:

“You are not going back there tonight.”

You open your mouth, but Dottie lifts her head just enough to whimper:

“Papa house…. wanna Papa house”

Both of you freeze.

Michael closes his eyes like the words hit him directly in the heart.

When he opens them again, his voice is softer but still unwavering.

“Come home with me tonight,” he says. “Both of you.”

You stand there, trembling with the weight of everything,  your pride, your fear, your instinct to protect her, your instinct to protect yourself.

Finally, voice small:

“Okay. Just tonight.”

He nods once, but you see the disappointment flicker.

So you add carefully:

“If maintenance fixes the heat before the weekend… we stay at our place. Just until it’s safe.”

His jaw tightens.

“And if they don’t?”

You meet his eyes with something braver, something steadier:

“Then Monday ,our next day off, me and Dot come make your house a home.”

Michael’s breath leaves him in one shaky exhale.

“…You mean that?”

You nod.

“I mean it.”

He steps forward, forehead touching yours, Dottie sandwiched warm and safe between you.

His voice is barely a whisper.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “We start tonight.”

The shift ends with Michael still carrying Dottie.

Still.

Like the entire twelve hours were just one long, continuous toddler-wearing endurance challenge.

You push through the employee exit with him, rubbing your eyes. “Okay, seriously,” you mutter, “how did she get away with being held your whole shift? Anyone else would’ve gotten yelled at by charge.”

Michael’s mouth curves slowly, smug, infuriating.

“Being an attending has its perks,” he says lightly.

You snort. “Michael.”

“What?” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “She didn’t want to be put down. I wasn’t going to traumatize a toddler on a cold-stress night because someone might complain I’m rounding with a barnacle attached to me.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth softens.

“She really wouldn’t let go?”

“She screamed if I even leaned forward.” He shifts her gently, her small body still melted against his chest. “I think my spine fused to hers at some point.”

“She loves you,” you whisper.

He looks at you for one lingering second, too long, too tender, before he unlocks the car.

By the time you reach his house, Dottie is still asleep and still clinging, one fist knotted in his scrub top like a tiny hostage-taker with no intention of negotiating.

Michael steps inside first.

You follow and stop cold.

Because there’s a room.

A whole room.

Lights dimmed, decorated softly. A toddler bed with a quilt. Stuffed animals arranged neatly. A nightlight casting warm gold across the walls. A bookshelf with board books.

And on the dresser?

A framed picture of you and Dottie at the pumpkin patch.

And another of Dottie on Michael’s shoulders at the zoo.

Your breath leaves your lungs.

“Michael,” you whisper, “this is… when did you do all this?”

He adjusts Dottie on his shoulder, refusing to meet your eyes.

“I—had time,” he mutters. “I started it the week you told me you were keeping separate places ‘for now,’” he admits, not meeting your eyes. “Figured if I finished it… maybe you’d never leave.”

But the tips of his ears flush pink. He’s embarrassed. Scared. Hopeful.

God.

You step into the doorway, unable to stop staring.

“Mikey… this is beautiful.”

He finally lays Dottie on the bed as gently as human fingers can manage.

She curls instantly into the quilt, body seeking warmth, still clutching his finger.

And when he tries to pull away, her little voice cracks in a barely-there whine:

“No go… stay…”

He sinks to one knee beside the bed again.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs.

Then soft as breath, quiet as prayer he leans down and presses a long kiss to the top of her head.

And he says it. “I love you,” he whispers. Not loud. Not meant for anyone but her. Not something performative or planned.

A truth escaping because he can’t hold it in anymore.

“Wuv you, Papa.” Dottie murmurs back half-asleep

He wasn’t supposed to hear it yet. He tears up instantly, looks at you like he’s been caught stealing something sacred. You just nod, eyes wet, and mouth: “She means it.”

His eyes widen like he’s just realized he stepped off a cliff.

“I—” he stammers, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I did, but— I shouldn’t have said that without— I don’t know if that’s crossing a line— I didn’t mean to overstep—”

“Mikey,” you say softly.

He swallows hard, terrified now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know she’s yours. I know I’m just— I didn’t want to confuse her or make you feel like I’m trying to take a place that isn’t mine.”

You step up beside him.

Not touching him yet. Just close enough for your voice to reach him without the room hearing.

“You didn’t cross a line,” you say softly.

He looks up at you, he’s uncertain, raw, hopeful in a way that hurts.

“She loves you,” you continue. “She chose you. Today of all days? You’re the person she clung to.” You gesture gently at the toddler burrito still gripping Michael’s finger. “She feels safe with you. That’s not something you forced. That’s something you earned.”

His breath catches.

“And,” you add softly, “I knew you loved me. But hearing you say it to her… Michael, that’s different.”

Now his expression shifts entirely. Not embarrassed. Not scared.

Just vulnerable.

“I do,” he whispers.

You blink. He steadies himself.

“I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “And I love her. I didn’t know if I was allowed to say it yet, but… I do.”

And then, finally, you touch him, fingertips brushing the side of his face, slow and unsure and perfect.

“Of course you’re  allowed,” you whisper.

His eyes close.

He leans into your hand.

And behind him, half-asleep, Dottie sighs contentedly, like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than either of you.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One minute Michael was covering you with a throw blanket on the couch, his voice soft as he said, “Sleep. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Hours have passed.

The house is dim. The nightlight from Dottie’s room spills a warm glow into the hallway. And the faint sound of toddler giggles pulls you awake.

You stretch, disoriented, until memory hits.

Heat outage. Cold apartment. ED. Dottie clinging like she’d drown without Michael. Michael’s room. Michael whispering I love you to your daughter.

You sit up slowly.

And that’s when you see them.

Michael’s living room has turned into a toddler Olympics arena.

Dottie is in pajama pants and one sock (one… WHERE is the other?), hair sticking up from her nap, cheeks flushed from sleep and mischief.

Michael is on all fours on the rug, letting her climb on his back like a very tired, very patient jungle gym.

He makes an exaggerated groan as she tries to stand.

“Whoa, that’s a big jump, Dot. I’m not a trampoline—”

“YES PAPA TRAMPOLINE,” she declares, bouncing.

You snort.

Michael looks over at you and his entire face softens.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you that quiet, relieved smile like seeing you awake is the final confirmation that you’re all actually here, safe, warm, together.

“Hey,” he says softly. “How’d you sleep?”

You rub your eyes. “Like someone tranquilized me.”

He laughs warmly, “Good. You needed it.”

Dottie spots you from atop Mount Michael and shrieks:

“MAMA YOU AWAKE!!!”

Then she tries to leap off Michael’s back toward you.

He catches her mid-plummet with a reflex so fast it’s practically medical instinct.

“Whoa! No flying, Dot. Mama doesn’t have trauma gear on.”

She wiggles in his arms, full-body excitement.

“Come play!”

Your heart stutters, because this, THIS right here, is the moment you always told yourself you couldn’t have.

Quiet. Domestic. A man who loves your child like she’s his entire universe. A home that feels like home.

Imperfect and alive.

You clear your throat. “Give me two seconds. I have to call maintenance.”

Michael groans. Dottie imitates him dramatically.

“Papa do it,” she says, patting his cheek.

You raise a brow. “He’s not calling to yell at my landlord.”

Michael mutters, “I absolutely am.”

You pull out your phone and dial. Three rings. Four. Five.

A tinny voicemail recording picks up:

‘You have reached Ridgeview Apartments Maintenance Office. Leave a message.’

You let out a laugh that isn’t humorous at all.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Michael stands, shifting Dottie onto his hip like it’s second nature.

“They didn’t call you back?”

“Nope.”

He stares at you for a long, steady beat. Then he says, confidently:

“They’re not fixing it tonight.”

You exhale. “Probably not.”

“Or tomorrow.”

“Probably not,” you admit again.

“Or by the weekend.”

Your shoulders drop. “Yeah.”

“So,” he says, stepping fully into your space , but not close enough to trap you, just enough for warmth to bridge the inches between you, “that gives us one option.”

You lift your chin. “You’re really gonna hold me to that deal?”

Michael glances at Dottie, who has started chewing on his collarbone for absolutely no discernible reason.

He sighs again. “Yeah. I am.”

Dottie pats his cheek. “Papa home.”

And it hits you again how effortlessly she loves him. How effortlessly he loves her. How effortlessly you could all slip into this life.

He lowers his voice.

“You two stay here. All week. No going back there until heat is fixed. And Monday…” He swallows once. “Monday we make this official.”

Your stomach flips.

Not with fear.

With relief.

With want.

With the truth you’ve been running from.

Dottie wiggles, reaching for you now. “Mama sit. Mama read book!”

You laugh tired, warm, heart aching in a good way.

Michael watches you both with something soft and terrified and hopeful in his eyes.

You settle onto the couch with Dottie in your lap, her curly head tucked under your chin. She hands you a board book upside down.

Michael flops onto the rug dramatically.

“Fine. I’ll be the floor parent. Again.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “You like being the floor parent.”

“Yeah,” he says, grabbing a stuffed elephant and making it dance for Dottie. “I really do.”

Dottie shrieks with laughter.

You look at her. Then at him.

And the truth settles in your chest like something warm finally thawing.

This isn’t perfect. This isn’t planned. This isn’t easy.

But it’s real.

It’s home.

You flip open a board book and settle in. 

“Alright, circle time,” you announce. “Who’s ready for a story?”

Dottie raises both hands like she’s at a concert.

Michael raises one.

“This feels targeted,” he mutters. “Why do I have to sit crisscross applesauce?”

“You’re the one who agreed to floor parent duty,” you remind him.

He grumbles something that sounds like, “Attending doesn’t cover this,” but Dottie pats his cheeks and he melts instantly.

You begin reading in your best cheerful storyteller voice.

Dottie is laser-focused.

Michael pretends he isn’t, but you see him mouthing the words with you by page three. At some point, Dottie crawled into Michael’s lap. 

Twenty minutes pass like this cozy, silly, and peaceful.

And then, without warning 

Dottie freezes mid-bounce.Blink.Blink.

She slumps backward into Michael’s chest like a puppet with cut strings.

He catches her automatically.

“Oh—?” Michael glances down. “Dot? You alive?”

No response.

Just a toddler who has achieved instant REM sleep.

Completely limp. Mouth open. One arm dangling dramatically. Head on his shoulder. Dead to the world.

You snort.

Michael stares at her in disbelief.

“She was JUST yelling,” he whispers. “Was this… was this a power failure?”

“It’s called being two,” you say. “Their battery goes from 100% to ‘system shutting down’ without warning.”

He shifts her carefully, her arms flopping like a ragdoll.

He softens immediately, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

“Hey, baby girl…” he murmurs. “You tired?”

She snores softly in answer.

You press your hand over your mouth, choking on how cute  and how heartbreaking  it is.

Michael gently lowers her off his lap to the rug, laying her on the blanket you spread earlier.

He adjusts her the way only someone who has watched you parent and learned every move by heart knows how to do, tucks her hair behind her ear, fixes her pajama leg, sets her elephant toy beside her.

Then he sighs deeply. He yawns so wide his jaw cracks. “I’m not tired, I’m—”

Thud.

He’s out cold mid-sentence, still in his work clothes..

Face-first.

Next to her.

Right on the rug.

He doesn’t even try to get up onto the couch. Doesn’t adjust. Doesn’t say anything witty.

He’s down.

And one second later?

He snores.

Loudly.

Like someone turned on a chainsaw inside a bear.

You cover your mouth again to keep from laughing out loud.

“Hopeless,” you whisper.

He snorts mid-snore. Like he’s arguing in his sleep.

You slide off the couch and sit on the rug between them.

Dottie is curled on her side, thumb in her mouth, one tiny foot resting on Michael’s ribs.

Michael is starfished on his back like a man who has accepted defeat. One hand still lightly touching Dottie’s arm — even unconscious, he’s making sure she’s close.

You pull the throw blanket over both of them.

The room is warm and dim and quiet.

And looking at them , your daughter safe and warm, the man you love snoring like a dying tractor, their bodies touching even in sleep….

You feel something settle deep in your chest.

Something like peace. Something like belonging. Something like home.

You whisper, barely audible:

“My family.”

And from the floor, in the middle of a snore cycle, Michael mumbles something that sounds like:

“Mmh… ours…”

Your heart flips.

You lean down, kiss the top of Dottie’s curls, then Michael’s temple.

He stirs just enough to mumble, eyes still closed, “Stay.”

You whisper back, “We’re not going anywhere.” 

dividers by @ strangergraphics

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dividers by @ strangergraphics

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It starts as a classic errand date.

Michael’s been putting off a haircut for weeks,his dark curls are starting to creep over his ears and collar in a way that even he admits is “getting unruly.” You’re both off for once, no shifts looming, no pages blowing up his phone. So you suggest a Saturday in Shadyside: barber for him, coffee, maybe Primanti’s later.

“Sounds perfect,” he says, pulling on his worn Steelers hoodie. “Let’s make a day of it.”

You’re in the bathroom finishing your makeup when you casually add, “Oh, and I booked something for myself too, same area. Quick in-and-out.”

He pokes his head in, toothbrush in mouth. “Yeah? Mani-pedi? Eyebrows?”

You smirk at the mirror. “Kinda.”

He spits, rinses, leans against the doorframe with arms crossed. “Kinda what?”

You turn, bite your lip, and mumble super fast: “FullBrazilian.”

Robby blinks. “Honey… what?”

You sigh dramatically and enunciate like you’re talking to a hard-of-hearing patient. “I’m getting a full Brazilian wax.”

The silence stretches just long enough to get awkward.

“You sure?” he finally asks, voice low and careful, like he’s confirming a patient’s DNR order in the trauma bay.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Yes, Michael. Been meaning to for ages. New year, new… everything. Plus it’s getting a bit toooo crazy down there. Time for a reset.”

He tilts his head, studying you with that unreadable ER-doc stare.

“And we didn’t think of… a trim?” he says, perfectly deadpan. “We’re just diving straight in? No consultation? No compromise?”

You snort. “A trim?”

“Yeah. A little shaping. Maintenance. Like—” he gestures vaguely at his own overdue hair, “—I’m not going full buzz cut today. I’m getting a cleanup. Respecting the natural architecture.”

“Oh my God.”

He steps closer, hands settling on your hips, beard brushing your cheek as he drops his voice. “I’m just saying, I happen to like the natural architecture. It’s got character. Personality. I’ve spent quality time with the current layout.”

You shove his chest playfully. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m pro-bush,” he says, completely serious. “It’s a stance. A lifestyle.”

You’re cackling now. “It’s just hair, Michael.”

“It’s a vibe,” he corrects. “But—” he kisses your forehead, “—your body, your rules. I’ll still drive. Moral support. And I’ll buy you ice cream after.”

In the truck, twenty minutes later

Pittsburgh traffic is mercifully light. Robby’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting high on your thigh like always.

He hasn’t let it go.

“Sweetheart… we’re really doing this?” he asks, eyes on the road. “Going full bald? Skipping the fresh line-up entirely and just… committing to the nuclear option?”

“Michael. Are you being so fucking for real right now?”

He shrugs, zero shame. “I had routes. Landmarks. Favorite trails.” A beat. “Now I’m gonna have to relearn my favorite girl all over again. Like urban renewal took out the whole neighborhood.”

You’re wheezing. “You’re comparing my bush to historic preservation?”

“I’m comparing it to Yosemite,” he says solemnly. “Majestic. Untamed. Doesn’t need a parking lot.”

You wipe tears of laughter. “You’re ridiculous.”

He squeezes your leg, mouth twitching into that rare half-smile. “I’m supportive. Extremely supportive. Just allow me my moment of silence for what we’re about to lose.”

The two appointments are mercifully in the same little Shadyside strip,a barber shop on one end, your spa on the other, with a cute independent coffee place smack in the middle. Perfect logistics.

First stop: coffee.

You’re standing in line at the counter. Robby’s behind you, one arm looped loosely around your waist, beard tickling your ear as he mutters the order to the barista like it’s a trauma consult.

“Large dark roast, black. And a honey lavender latte for her.” He glances down at you. “Extra sweet. She’s gonna need the sugar buffer for what’s coming.”

You elbow him. He doesn’t even flinch, just smirks.

While you wait for the drinks he leans against the pickup counter, arms crossed, watching you like he’s already mentally writing the obituary.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “barbers have been perfecting the art of the controlled trim since the Roman Empire. Respecting the original design. Enhancing it. Not—” he makes a dramatic scissor motion with two fingers “—clear-cutting the whole forest.”

“Michael, we’re in public.”

“I’m making conversation.”

The barista hands over the drinks. You take a sip of your latte and glare at him over the rim. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He takes a long pull of his coffee, completely deadpan. “I’m preparing myself emotionally. There’s a difference.”

Now it’s barber time.

The shop smells like cedar and old-school aftershave. It’s one of those classic Pittsburgh places with black-and-white photos of Steelers greats on the walls, hot lather machine humming in the corner.

Robby’s barber, an older guy named Tony, greets him with the standard “Look who finally showed up.”

Robby settles into the chair, cape snapped around his neck. You take the waiting bench with your latte, already grinning because you know what’s coming.

Tony greets Robby with the usual ribbing. “Thought you were going full mountain man on us, Doc.”

Robby slides into the chair, cape fluttering. “Nah. Just needed a respectful maintenance trim. Keep the essence.”

Tony starts sectioning the curls. You’re perched on the waiting bench, latte in hand, already enjoying the show.

Robby catches your eye in the mirror again. “See this? Professional. Controlled. Not—” he makes that same dramatic scissor motion “—scorched-earth policy.”

You lean forward, voice sweet but lethal. “Keep it up, Doc, and the national park’s getting closed to all visitors. Permanent off-season. No tours, no camping, no trail access. Hmph.”

Tony pauses mid-clip, eyes wide in the mirror.

Robby freezes for half a second and then lifts both hands in surrender, careful not to move his head. “Okay, okay, sweetheart. Message received. I’ll behave.”

Tony bursts out laughing. “She’s got you good, Robby.”

You grin at Tony. “He’s lucky he’s pretty. Otherwise I couldn’t put up with the diva routine.”

Tony snorts, resuming the cut. “Pretty? Kid’s been coming here fifteen years and still turns heads when he cleans up. Too bad he’s such a damn drama queen.”

“Exactly,” you say, mock-sympathetic. “Gorgeous beard, those curls, the whole brooding ER-doctor thing… wasted on a man who’s about to give a eulogy over a wax appointment”

Robby’s ears go pink, which is the only tell he’s flustered. “You two done?”

Tony winks at you in the mirror. “Almost. Gotta make sure the diva looks perfect for his lady.”

The final touches: a little taper at the neck, beard lined up crisp, curls tamed but still full and touchable. When Tony spins the chair around, you actually forget to breathe for a second.

Freshly cut Robby is lethal. The curls fall just right, framing his face, making the gray at his temples look distinguished instead of exhausted. The beard is sharp, eyes brighter somehow. He looks like he could walk straight onto a magazine cover—or straight into your bed.

You fan yourself dramatically. “Jesus, Tony. You trying to kill me?”

Tony chuckles, unsnapping the cape. “Just doing my job, hon.”

Robby stands, runs a hand through his hair, and gives you that slow, knowing half-smirk that always ruins you. He tips Tony, then saunters over, all casual confidence.

He stops right in front of you, close enough that you have to tip your head back.

“Like what you see?” he murmurs, low.

You reach up, tug one perfect curl. “You look unfairly hot. It’s rude.”

“Good,” he says. “Maybe it’ll distract me from the impending tragedy across the street.”

You stand, loop your arms around his neck, and kiss him quickly, right there in the barber shop, because you can’t not.

Tony pretends to be busy himself sweeping up curls.

You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Behave in the waiting room, Doc, and maybe the park reopens sooner than you think.”

Robby exhales a quiet laugh. “Copy that.”

He holds the door open for you, hand settling at the small of your back as you step out into the winter sunlight.

“Your turn, sweetheart. I’ll be right there—observing my court-ordered moment of silence.”

The spa is the polar opposite of Tony’s barber shop: soft lighting, lavender diffusers humming, Enya whispering from hidden speakers. Everything is beige and calm and expensive-looking.

Robby steps inside like he’s entering an alien planet, his shoulders a little tense, eyes already scanning the room the way he scans a trauma bay.

The receptionist greets you with a serene smile. “Hi! You’re here for the full Brazilian?”

You nod, signing the clipboard. Robby hovers right behind you, hands in his hoodie pockets, freshly trimmed curls making him look even more unfairly handsome (and out of place).

Mia, the esthetician, appears bright, professional, early thirties. “Ready when you are! Partner’s welcome to wait here, or there’s tea and magazines in the lounge.”

You turn to Robby, teasing. “You wanna come in? Moral support inside the room?”

He freezes for a beat, then rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh… I can’t watch my favorite girl get ripped to shreds. I’ve seen enough carnage in the Pitt.” Before quickly adding: “But if you really need me, I’m there. Full trauma-team mode.”

You smile, reaching up to fix one of his curls. “I’ll survive, Doc. Save the surprise for later.”

That’s when his doctor brain kicks in fully. He turns to Mia, voice dropping into that calm, authoritative tone he uses with nervous residents.

“Quick question — what are your sanitation procedures? Autoclave? Single-use spatulas? You licensed and up on state regs?”

You hiss, “Mikey, stop.”

Mia just laughs, not offended, actually kind of charmed. “Sir, I promise you everything is clean, legal, and hospital-grade. We autoclave tools, single-use sticks and strips, fresh gloves, the works. I’ve been licensed for eight years and we get inspected regularly. Your girl’s in good hands.”

Robby exhales, ears going the tiniest bit pink. “Right. Sorry. Occupational hazard.”

Mia winks at you. “It’s sweet, honestly. Most guys just drop their girlfriends off and disappear to their phones.”

He gives a begrudging nod, mutters a quiet “Thank you,” and finally retreats to the waiting area. You catch him sinking into a too-small chair, picking up a magazine upside down again without noticing.

Mia leads you back down the hall. Door closes.

Inside the treatment room

You’re on the table, paper sheet in place, trying not to laugh as Mia preps.

“He’s protective,” she says, smiling as she stirs the wax. “Kinda cute. Most boyfriends couldn’t care less.”

“He’s an ER attending,” you explain. “He’s seen things. Also, he’s weirdly attached to my… current landscaping.”

Mia snorts. “Oh, one of those. I get it. My husband cried when I went bare the first time — said it felt like dating a new woman. Then he got over it real quick once he, uh, tested the new terrain.”

You both laugh.

“Yours seems like the type who’ll give a dramatic eulogy, then spend the whole night proving he’s fine with the change.”

“Pretty much,” you say, wincing at the first warm spread of wax. “He’s already comparing it to clear-cutting Yosemite.”

Mia grins as she presses the strip. “Well, tell Yosemite’s biggest fan that the new look grows on them. Fast.” Rip. “Deep breath.”

You hiss. From the waiting room , faint but unmistakable, comes a sympathetic masculine wince.

Mia shakes her head, amused. “He’s definitely listening. Adorable.”

Last rip. Clean-up. Soothing gel.

Mia hands you the little mirror. Smooth. Sleek. Not a stray in sight.

“Gorgeous,” she says. “He’s gonna forget his own name tonight.”

You get dressed, legs buzzing, and head back out.

Robby’s on his feet instantly, magazine abandoned. He scans your face first, then relaxes when he sees you’re smiling.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

“Perfect,” you say, looping your arm through his. “Smooth as advertised.”

He nods, hand settling at your lower back as you walk out. “Alright. Home. Ice pack. Aloe. Whatever you need.”

You lean into him on the sidewalk. “You survived the wait?”

“Barely,” he mutters. “Every rip sounded like Velcro on a chest tube. Thought about storming in with a crash cart.”

You laugh, kissing his freshly bearded jaw. “Mia says you’re adorable, by the way.”

He grumbles, but you catch the tiny smile. “Let’s get you home before I say something else embarrassing.”

He opens the truck door, helps you in gently.

As he circles to the driver’s side, you hear him murmur, just loud enough:

“Rest in peace, old friend. You were legendary.”

The ride home is quiet at first, the Pittsburgh winter gray outside the windows, heater blasting, Robby’s hand resting high on your thigh like always. You’re sitting gingerly, the new smoothness making every shift in the seat feel… noticeable.

He glances over. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Pain’s like a four now. Stings a little, but manageable.”

He nods, doctor mode flickering on. “Ice when we get home. Loose cotton underwear. No tight jeans for twenty-four hours. Aloe if there’s any redness. And absolutely no—”

You cut him off. “Michael. I’ve got it.”

He smirks. “Just making sure. I’ve seen folliculitis from bad aftercare. Not on my watch.”

Then the sass creeps back in.

“Though,” he adds, thumb stroking your leg, “I am gonna need a full post-procedure exam. Purely medical. Quality assurance.”

You snort. “You’re so full of it.”

He pulls into the driveway, kills the engine, and turns to you with that slow, bearded grin. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside before you swell up and I have to explain to the Pitt why I called off for ‘domestic emergency.’”

Inside the house it’s warm and dim. You kick off your shoes, head straight for the couch. Robby disappears to the kitchen, comes back with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel and a bottle of pure aloe.

“Pants off,” he says, matter-of-fact but soft. “Doctor’s orders.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Thought you were in mourning.”

“I’m multitasking. Grief and bedside manner.”

You shimmy out of your jeans and panties, settle back on the couch with the ice pack strategically placed. He sits beside you, gently lifting your legs across his lap.

First he’s all business: careful fingers checking for broken skin, redness, ingrowns that aren’t there yet. Clinical. Gentle. The same hands that have sutured arteries now inspecting you like you’re the most fragile patient he’s ever had.

“No trauma,” he murmurs. “Skin’s perfect. Good perfusion. Nice work, Mia.”

Then the doctor mask slips.

He leans down, presses a feather-light kiss just above where the ice pack sits.

“Brave new world,” he whispers against your skin, voice rough. “Hello, stranger.”

You shiver but not from the cold.

He kisses again, lower this time, open-mouthed and slow, beard tickling hypersensitive skin.

“Still hurts?” he asks, cheeky as hell.

“A little.”

“Good thing I know exactly how to kiss it better.”

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and amused. “Purely therapeutic. Reduces inflammation. Proven method.”

You thread your fingers into his freshly cut curls, God, they feel perfect, and tug lightly.

“Get to it, then, Doc.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Yes, ma’am.”

Later, much later, you’re both tangled under a blanket, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip.

He breaks the comfortable silence.

“You know… I was wrong.”

You tilt your head up. “Yeah?”

He nods, mock-solemn. “The new landscape? Five stars. Highly recommend. Zero notes.”

You laugh into his shirt.

“But,” he adds, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’m still allowed to miss the classic. It had… nostalgia value.”

You poke his side. “Sap.”

“Guilty,” he says, pulling you closer. “Love you either way, sweetheart. Bush or no bush. Though I reserve the right to campaign for its occasional return. For heritage reasons.”

You grin against his skin. “We’ll negotiate seasonal growth. Like a national park rotation.”

He rumbles a laugh. “Deal.”

And just like that, the mourning period officially ends, with enthusiasm, thorough exploration, and zero regrets.