You feel the rise of your pulse, the thump of your heart against your ribcage, and you can even feel your stomach twisting in anxiety. Fuck. Fuck. You like this man so much that it is making your belly quiver, and butterflies flutter in your lungs.

  You look away from his disheveled hair and big puffy jacket, sighing shakily as you glance down at the tablet in your hand. You have to stop thinking about him like that, he is just a man. Not any man, though; he is sad cow eye Robby, the attending, whose smile in praise makes you grin in delight.

  Stooooop, you mentally curse yourself, shaking your head slightly as you try not to think about him anymore. You have patients to focus on, not how his mere presence lights up your day. Nope, you shouldn’t go there, not now anyway.

  But how can you not? He is tall, broad, with a giant heart of gold that has helped you so many times when you’ve felt the horrible pressure of the job on your shoulders. He is sweet, caring, and tough when he needs to be. 

  He is everything, and you are just… you. Younger, unseasoned — or at least not as much as him — still a resident, less charismatic, and so not his type. You’ve seen his ex-partners, all gorgeous and way out of his league; of course, he wouldn’t look twice your way.

  “Hey, kid,” Dana waves a hand in front of your face to get your attention, startling you a little, “You good?”

  “Yup, just had a rough night. Didn’t get much sleep,” you smile at her, convincing enough that the Dana Evans believes you. You have gotten way too good at lying to everyone’s face, courtesy of having a fat crush on your boss. If anyone, nature fucking forbid, ever finds out, you’ll be doing the Walk of Shame very soon.

  “I doubt anyone has, look at ‘em,” she scoffs, pointing at the staff who are yawning and resting their heads on their stations, “Dancin’ and drinkin’ like they didn’t have work to do next mornin’.”

  “You all went out?” Big mistake, Dana’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise at your tone, and you cover the stumble with a smile, “Tequila does that. Maybe we should give fluids to everyone?”

  “Honey, we thought–”

  “It’s okay, I’m not that much of a party person anyway,” you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to busy yourself with the list of charts in front of you, “Besides, I had to study, like always.”

  You don’t let her say anything else, walking away after you hand her the tablet, marching toward one of the rooms to check up on your patients. 

  It is not an unusual thing for them to have plans outside of work and not invite you. Yes, you have been here for four years, yes, you are the Chief Resident, but there is still an invisible wall between you and everybody else. You are the ‘smartass’, the perfect resident, the always studying until passing out girl, and also… someone who doesn’t think she fits into this tightly woven group of doctors and nurses.

  You get along with all of them pretty well, joke around and share lunchtime together, but that doesn’t mean they are your friends. You don’t belong among these amazing people, and that’s okay. Having no strings attached to this place is for the best, because when you leave for an attending spot in another state, you can finally move on from Robby.

  It’s not for the lack of trying on your end, you tried to understand them, tried to put yourself in their shoes, and see yourself from their point of view. You’ve joined them for beers a few times in the park, but they have had some inner jokes that you felt uncomfortable laughing at, thinking they might find you too intrusive.

  And also… Robby. Anytime you are around him, you have to act to make sure he doesn’t see through you. This version of you that talks to him, that breathes the same air as he does, is not the real you, or maybe it is to some extent, but you can’t duel too hard on it. You are sure of one thing, though: he wouldn’t like the real melancholic in love you.

  “Morning,” Perlah smiles at you, putting on the patches on the patient’s chest for an EKG, “How are you feeling today?”

  “Eh, not too bad, it’s too early to start complaining,” you reply, going to the computer to see the patient’s chart, humming as you scroll through the notes the night shift has left, “We’re gonna have a hard day… It's the anniversary of Pittfest.”

  “Ugh, don’t remind me,” she shakes her head slowly, “It’s gonna be brutal, isn’t it? Robby’s…”

  “Yeah, he’s gonna be a lot to handle,” you nod in agreement, giving her a small smile before looking down at your shoes, “But we can get through this, as a team. Like we always do.”

  “Yeah, we had a discussion about this last night, actually– oh, fuck me… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

  “Perlah, you’re fine, don’t worry,” you put on your gloves to assess the patient, sitting on the rolling stool to get closer to the bed, “I’m still studying for my Boards, so don’t sweat it.”

  “You’ve been studying for nearly a year now! You’re gonna do great,” she squeezes your shoulder before stepping away to round the bed and check the patient’s vitals, “You need to relax a little…”

  “Relaxing isn’t a word in my vocabulary.” You grab your stethoscope to listen to the patient’s heart and lungs, “Breath sounds are good, we just need to–”

  “Hey.”

  Fuck me and my life sideways.

  “Good morning, Robby!” Perlah grins, following your words for the patient’s medication, giving you a little time to get your breathing back to normal.

  “Fuck, sorry–” you didn’t look where Robby was standing before you stood up, and now you are standing chest to chest with your attending’s hands steadying you by gripping your arms.

  He is so close, so fucking close that you can smell his woodsy cologne and aftershave. He looks way better from this angle; his nicely trimmed beard, his big brown eyes that seem more gentle than any time you’ve seen them.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he gives you one of his easy smiles that makes you weak in the knees, “Just be careful next time. It could be Whitaker you knock out if you stand up like this.”

  “He isn’t as fragile as you think,” you snort, acting as normal as possible at the warmth of his fingers wrapped around your biceps, trying not to faint from the close proximity, “But I keep that in mind, thank you.”

  “Anytime,” he nods and lets go of you, taking a step back to give you a bit of space, and you have to ignore the ringing in your ears as you feel your nipples brush his chest when you move past him. “You’re already with a patient, I see.”

  “I need the distraction before I have the next few days off,” you shrug, not daring to look at him because if you do, you might give out the tiniest clue about your feelings, so you stare at the keyboard under your fingers, “And hoping to leave on time.”

  “You really don’t like this place, huh?” He chuckles as he walks behind you to look over your shoulder at the screen. He has done this before, several times in fact, but it never gets easier, and Robby doesn’t make it easier either. “I thought you’d be settling nicely after all these years.”

  “This is not the time– to discuss my fucking personal life when my patient is coding, FUCK–” you run to the bed, flattening it down before starting compressions after seeing the flatline on the monitor, “Perlah—”

  “Joy, Whitaker, in here!” Robby yells for the students to join you before he steps back, giving you room to work on your patient, “You got this?”

  “Yeah!” You reply, not taking your eyes off your work, you’ll deal with him later. Now you have to save this poor guy; Robby can wait. He has to.

  ****

  “Tell you what,” Donnie slides next to you with a shit-eating grin, and you roll your eyes at him so hard with a smirk on your face before resting your elbow on the countertop of the staff lounge, “A birdie told me you have the next few days off–”

  “A birdie who happens to be my attending?” You ask with a soft scoff, oh boy, he was paying attention. Blinking at Donnie and waiting for him to continue, while you try to ignore the warmth growing in your belly at the thought of him listening to you.

  “Mayyyybe,” he throws his hands up in defeat, “Guilty as charged, but!” 

  “Donnie, I can’t–”

  “You don’t even know what I wanted to say!”

  “I have my boards coming up in a few months–”

  “You can spare us a few hours, right?”

  Fucking kill me. Or him. Or both. He has to stop coming in unannounced with that beautiful smile and his dimples and...

  “You need to stop snitching on me.” Turning your back to them, you reach for the coffee pot to pour yourself a cup in one of the plastic ones, “I might have a few days off, but I also need to sleep and study.”

  “I promise you’ll do much better if you take a break for a few hours.” Robby leans on the doorframe, watching you closely, “They even convinced me to go out with them.”

  “Wow, walking in unclaimed territory? How brave of you, Dr. Robby,” you say, looking between him and Donnie, who are waiting for an answer, “You guys are teaming against me. I’m defenseless.”

  “Does this mean you’ll come tonight?” Donnie asks, raising his voice as you push past Robby slowly, ignoring how his large frame covers most of the space. 

  “I’ll think about it, now, please stop bothering me, I need to get back to work,” you shoo Donnie away, making your way to your work station, sitting down with a long exhale, rubbing your forehead as the image of Robby crosses your mind again. 

  Fuck him.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

  You log into your account, letting go of the badge on your chest to do some charting before you hear the familiar footsteps of him walking past you to his station that is unfortunately across from yours.

  You’re not gonna look at him. You won’t. You shouldn’t. Today is already sucking the energy out of you with the heavy traumas rolling in; you can’t let your stupid crush do it as well.

  But how can you look away? He looks so peaceful as he types, his eyebrows relaxed for a few seconds before he frowns at the screen, reaching for his phone in the pocket of his cargo pants. 

  His hair is tousled a little, soft short strands in the front going in so many directions that you know is the result of him running his fingers through them over and over throughout the day.

  “Hey, smartass,” Dana calls you, and you glare at her before standing up, abandoning your coffee, “Code STEMI four minutes away. Teach those kids somethin’, they’ve been wandering around like ducks.”

  “Half of them were with Samira, and some with Dr. Robby. Why are they not busy?” You ask, reaching for the hand sanitizer, rubbing the liquid between your fingers and palms as you point at Joy and Javadi to join you, “Ready for some action?”

  “Not really,” Joy groans, “I don’t know how you decide to wake up and do this every day.”

  “Trust me, I don’t know either.” You walk with them to the gurney the EMTs are rolling into the floor, “They pay enough to keep me alive.”

  “Weren’t you attacked by a patient last week?” Javadi asks, falling into a rhythm beside you, nodding when Joy gawks at her, “Yeah, she was on nights,a nd a drunk patient pushed her face-first into the ground–”

  “Okay, maybe they pay enough to almost keep me alive,” you roll your eyes and nudge them forward, “Let’s move, everyone!”

  ****

  You sigh, dropping your forehead on the locker in front of you, letting your body breathe for a second. Rough doesn’t begin to cover this shift; not many deaths, luckily, just a patient that coded, but the heavy traumas that came in were brutal.

  You aced every case that was thrown into your hands, A+ work, and an amazing patient satisfaction score—a great example of how a chief resident should be, just not in your own eyes. Of course, you know you did great, but there is still this hollowness inside your heart that screams imperfect in such a high-pitched tone that sometimes you have to silence it by burying your nose into your medical textbooks.

  Now, you can’t, because Donnie managed to pull a frustrated ‘yes’ out of your mouth to their tonight’s get-together. Maybe he did it out of obligation because Dana and Perlah told him how you found out about last night, or maybe he genuinely wanted you there. Either way, you are going to this bar and have a few drinks before you go home and sleep your days away.

  “Are you going too?” Mel comes out of nowhere, making you jump out of fear, letting out a little scream, clutching your shirt over your heart. She grimaces a little, giving you an apologetic smile, “Sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you!”

  “I know, it’s okay. I should be more aware of my surroundings,” you reach to rub her arm gently, and you relax immediately when she doesn’t pull back or flinch.  The first time you tried to do that back a year ago, she wasn’t as welcoming as she is today, rightfully so, and you gave her time as she adjusted to The Pitt, and by extension, she got more comfortable with you. Not as friends, but enough to find some solace in your company, “And… yeah, I’m going. What about you? Any plans?”

  “I have to pick up my sister,” she says and moves to her locker to take her backpack, “And I have to get takeout too. I might have a busy night ahead.”

  “Yeah? Good for you, honestly. I could do with some sleep, but eh, promised Donnie I’d go. I don’t wanna hurt him when this is like… the first time I’m invited to a night out.”

  “First time? I thought you’d join them in the park every night.”

  “Not really,” you shrug, slinging your bag on your shoulder, grabbing your phone from the locker, and closing the metal door shut, “I mean, I do go out to the park with them when they mention it. Other times I just… I don’t like to intrude.”

  “That’s understandable,” she nods, grinning at you before she starts walking out of the hallway, “See you in a few days!”

  “See ya, have fun!” You wave at her, walking through the floor and toward the exit, ignoring the patients that are piling up because they are not your responsibility right now.

  None of the crew is around, so you suspect they have already left for the bar, which is just what you want now: a little peace and quiet before you have to slide into your amazing acting role again. 

  The fresh air is exactly what you need; a little chilly, which raises goosebumps on your skin, but also warm enough that it doesn’t require you to layer up with a thick scarf and two shirts under your jacket. September air is always the best.

  You breathe. A deep inhale that goes through your nose and cools down your face and lungs, before you exhale the warm air slowly. It is good to know you can still keep going even if you are feeling wrecked.

  “Hey! Wait!”

  Your ability to drop dead right now is very high. His voice… fuck. You can find him even in a concert so loud, if he just starts talking with his gravelly raspy voice that rumbles through his chest and moves past his chords. The same voice that says your name, orders the med students and keeps the ED from falling apart. The same voice you wished you could hear in a slightly different way.

  “Hey,” you mutter quickly, giving him a curious nod as he jogs toward you, his backpack swinging with each step, “I thought you’d already left.”

  “I wanted to, but Jack kept me behind for a patient,” he pants as he stands next to you, flushing from cheeks to neck so beautifully you have to look down at your shoes to regulate your heartbeat just as he does for an entirely different reason, “I hope… You don’t mind me joining you on your walk there?”

  “What? No, no, of course not,” you say with ease, the mask coming up again, “It’s a short walk anyway. We’ll be with them soon.”

  “That eager to get rid of me?” He smirks, raising his eyebrows at you, and you have to bite your tongue not to say something or worse, fucking moan at the sight, “I promise I’m good company.”

  “I did not– why are you teasing me?” You shake your head and walk away from him, and Robby slides next to you, “I know you are good company, I didn’t mean that you’re not!”

  “It’s okay, I took offense only a little,” he chuckles when you groan and hide your face in your hands, his arm brushing against yours as he walks side by side with you, “What do you plan on drinking?”

  “Good question, I want at least ten margaritas and hopefully three gin and tonics on Donnie’s wallet because he dragged me here. You?”

  “You plan on getting shit faced, I respect that,” he chuckles and his voice sends shivers down your spine, “Hmm… I don’t know. I think I could go with classic Bourbon neat, or I could have a couple of beers. Definitely no plans on getting wasted as you do.”

  “Live a little,” you say, tightening your grip on your backpack. You have to stop, but you can’t, not when he is looking at you the way he always does, careful and gentle. “You could start with a good Espresso Martini.”

  “Noooot a fan of my caffeine and alcohol blended together,” he shrugs, giving you one of his bear-shaped smiles and shrugs, one of those that make your pulse skyrockets, “But I never say no to a good Gin.”

  “You’ve got good taste,” you nod, thanking everything between the earth and the sky when the bar comes into view, walking a little faster to get away from him, even for a second, enough to take a deep breath but he is fast and catches up with you, not leaving your side, “Ah, there they are.”

  He hums and waits for you to fully go past the door before following you inside. Ever the gentleman, he even held the door for you. You have to stop, or you would one hundred percent embarrass yourself.

  “Heyyyy, look! Our rockstar chief residentis  finally gracing us with her presence!”

  “Fuck all the way off to Mars, Donnie,” you slap his shoulder playfully, hugging him and squealing when he decides to twirl you around a little before putting you on the ground, “That was not necessary!”

  “It definitely was,” he scoffs playfully, leading you to the booth everyone’s sitting in, “Enjoy the night before your four days of sleeping and laziness.”

  “Hell yeah,” you groan, looking over your shoulder to look at Robby, finding him smiling and shaking his head, averting your gaze before he manages to catch you red-handed and nudge Donnie in the elbow, “You are definitely buying me my first margarita though.”

  “Absolutely!”

  ****

  “I’m g’nna get another drink!” You stumble to the bar counter after Donnie gave you a thumbs-up. With slow and unsteady steps, you manage to get yourself through the crowd and sit on one of the stools with a loud sigh, “Can I order somethin’?”

  “Don’t you think you had enough?” A pretty lady comes to you, and you grin when you see her bartender badge. “I can get you your drink and a glass of water.”

  “Both, please and thank you!” You rest your chin on the palm of your hand, leaning on your elbows on the countertop, “For my driiiink… hmm, I think I want a Whiskey Sour! And cold water? Please?”

  “Coming right up!”

  You sit silently, feeling the buzz of the alcohol in your ears. You try, you really, really do, but even laughing when Cassie and Dana laugh, or when Donnie tries to do shots on the table, it still isn’t enough to get them to fill you in on their inside jokes, or maybe they do, but you feel like an outcast. Whatever it is, you want to be a part of their group, a friend to them, more than just a smartass or chief resident to them.

  But the fitting in is not because of your shy and introverted personality or them not wanting you in, maybe it is on a small scale, but it is not the main reason. It is because of him. Robby. Michael fucking Robinavitch. The man who stole your heart.

  He is beautiful when he blushes, and now his cheeks are probably hurting from grinning for so long. His face is red, flushed to the chest probablyو with his lips wrapping around the rim of his glass. He is handsome, deliciously so. His beard is nicely trimmed, and his hair is cut in a way that makes his neck stand out way more.

  “Here you go,” she hands you your drinks and moves to another customer, letting you drink your whiskey sour with a deep sigh.

  “Enjoying the night?” Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t catch a break from him.

  “Yup,” you hiccup, drowning the rest of your drink without looking at him, licking the liquid off your lips, “Love how I don’t belong anywhere. It’s so cool, it makes one wonder what they did wrong.”

  “Oh…”

  “Yeah, oh is right,” you scoff, glancing at him for a second, finding him exhaling before taking the empty stool next to yours.

   “What’s wrong? Why do you not… feel like you belong?”

  “Not the best convo to have when I’m drunk, but if you insist,” you shrug, and look at him finally, finding him listening so intently, waiting for you to fill him in. He looks exceptionally good tonight, with his cargo pants still on and a clean green long-sleeve shirt that clings to his biceps in the best way, and frames his belly just right.

  “I do.”

  “Ugh, it’s stupid!”

  “I’m sure it’s not.”

  “It is! Because if it were anyone else, they’d have already made friends!” You cry out, your feelings pouring into your hands, “I’ve done everything! I thought- I thought I was enough to fit in, but fuckو it’s hard! And then there’s…” you take a deep breath and stop talking before you tell your biggest secret to your biggest secret.

  “What?” He presses slightly, pushing your water towards you slowly, “Drink this for me, sweetheart.”

  “Nothing,” you shake your head hysterically, reaching for the glass without further consideration, and he hums in approval as you take a large sip, letting the cool water go down your esophagus, “Nothing…”

  “C’mon, you can trust me, ya know,” he leans forward a little, decreasing the distance between your bodies, “I won’t tell a soul.”

  “It’s nothing, it’s stupid.”

  “It’s not, I’m sure. You can tell me.”

  “I can’t tell you about you–” you gasp, watching his eyes widen in shock. The reality settles in, and you feel your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach, “Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck–”

  “What do you mean?” He chuckles in disbelief, a playful undertone in his voice as he looks at you a little more closely, “Come on, you’ve talked more than you wanted to already.”

  “Nothing,” you hiss, drowning the rest of your water before trying to stand up, but the world gets dizzy around you for a good, lasting second. Robby is quick to grab you by the waist, holding you steady and safe between his spread legs. 

  Both of his large hands are gripping your hips tightly now, pulling you forward a little so you can use his shoulders to keep yourself up. He looks fucking enchanting like this, gazing up at you with concern and a boyish enthusiasm you have only seen in him when he would talk to Nurse Hastings.

  He is so warm and broad under your arms, his shoulders are hard under your fingertips as you use him to stand straight, looking into his eyes with a pout. You can never have him, but if this is the closest thing you get to experience with him, then so be it. 

  “I could help, you know? My therapist says communication is the backbone of–”

  “Shut uuup, oh my god!” You whine, pouting even harder when you see how he is trying to talk to you — or get you to talk to him — and it makes your heart clench in adoration. How you love this big, sad, pathetic, gorgeous man with chocolate pudding eyes.

  “Am I the reason you haven’t found any friends yet? Because I can talk to them–”

  “If I make friends, they’ll know I like you!” 

  You need to die. Like. Right now. Right fucking now. The ground needs to open up and swallow you whole before you melt into a puddle from embarrassment. 

  Fuck the Margaritas and fuck the Gin Tonic, and also fuck that Whiskey Sour you had. They had you telling your biggest secret to the last person who should have known. 

  Your stomach growls in disapproval, and you can feel the ball rising slowly. Pushing Robby away, you dart outside of the bar to empty your stomach, tearing up a little as the acid burns the back of your throat, but at least you feel better now.

  “It’s okay, let it all out,” Robby pushes your hair out of your face, rubbing your back before handing you a wet wipe you are sure he pulled out of your bag, “You’re okay. Drink a little water for me?”

  You nod silently, wiping your mouth and chin before throwing the wipe in the trash, snatching the bottle from his hands. You do not want to be rough with him, but now he knows. He knows you like him; he doesn’t know it happened in your intern year, but he knows how you feel, why you haven’t managed to find friends — not the full story, but still enough.

  “I didn’t know you had feelings for me–”

  “We’re not gonna talk about this.” You grab your phone and bag from his hand, marching away from the bar, but to your very unfortunate luck, he follows you, “Go inside, Robby!”

  “No, come on! You can’t just tell me you like me and leave!” He yells, falling into a step behind you, “Just– wait a second!”

  “Why?” You turn around suddenly, pinning him to his spot with a harsh glare, “I’ve been trying my damn hardest to keep this to myself. It’s just a crush, I can get over it, alright? You’re not that special. I’ll move on when I get my board and attending position.”

  “But you haven’t made friends because of–”

  “It’s my burden to bear, not yours. And as I said, it’s just a fucking crush.” You don’t explain more, groaning in frustration as you basically jog into the sidewalk and walk back home.

  Unfortunately, he doesn’t know that he is that special to you; he is everything you’ve ever wanted in a man, and he is out of your league, worse, he is your fucking boss. And of course, he now knows you like him.

  At least he isn’t aware that you don’t like him, but you love him.

  ****

  “Good morning, rockstar,” Robby slides next to you against the central, a shit-eating grin on his face as he puts a coffee cup between your hands, “Did you have a good break?”

  “It’s too early to deal with you, Dr. Robby.” You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment, remembering every word you said to him in your drunken state, and now? He is fucking smiling at you like that didn’t happen, or worse, he’s decided to torture you with that information.

  You were dueling about running away on your days off. You could have easily picked up your car, a luggage full of clothes, and gotten on the road away from Pittsburgh after you quit medicine for good. Or you could show up and act like you’d blacked out. 

  “I got you coffee.” He pushes the cup between your fingers gently, nudging your foot with his, “I know you like it black and bitter.”

  “You never get me coffee,” you squint your eyes at the cup, running a hand down your neck, “What are you doing, Doctor Robinavitch?”

  “I got you coffee.”

  “I see that,” you hiss at him, heart pounding against your ribs as you turn your head to look at him, “You never pay attention to how I have my coffee. You never get me coffee.”

  “There’s always a first time for everything,” he leans on his palm on the central, moving a little closer and tilting his head to look you in the eye, “I thought after our last conversation–”

  “Absolutely fucking not–” you grab the coffee and try to dodge his arm, but he is quicker, falling into a step next to you with ease. You can see the smugness in his face, and it only makes the butterflies in your stomach flap their wings harder and faster, “Stop following me!”

  “I’m not following you, I’m walking with my chief resident to her next patient,” he pushes his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants, “You wanna tell me when everything started?”

  “You wanna tell me why you are being a jerk?”

  “I’m not a jerk, I’m curious–”

  “Wrong thing to be curious about,” you take a sip of your coffee, melting a little inside at the thought of him buying you coffee from your favorite spot, too. “If you excuse me–”

  “We gotta talk about it, rockstar–”

  “We don’t. We never should. I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking correctly, I said something, and I regret ever agreeing to come to one of these shitty get-togethers after work. I need to work now, so please, let me do my job. And you don’t ever have to worry about my stupid feelings towards you.”

  You march away from him, going into the closest examination room and pulling the curtains, relaxing when you find it empty. 

  You know you overreacted, you know you should have slowed down, but how could you really? You’ve been carrying this secret for four years, and suddenly the only person who wasn’t supposed to find out is fully aware of it. 

  Although you are mad at yourself and him, you catch yourself smiling at the bitter taste of coffee. Whoever has told him about this must know you very well, but you doubt anyone is close to you enough to know how you take your takeaway coffee.

  If this were the first interaction after that night, you are already dreading the rest.

  ****

  One approach turns into two, then three, and then you lose count. He is everywhere. And by everywhere, you mean it. Every turn, every room, every stop. He is just there.

  It annoys you because you are sure your adrenaline levels spike when you see him way more than before. Your face burns when he catches your eyes and gives you an easy smile, or a wink — fuck, you had to make a beeline to the bathroom the first time he did that to splash water on yourself before you passed out — and worse, he stands way too close to you.

  Coffee becomes a regular thing; some days it is accompanied by a croissant or an egg and bacon sandwich. He even ordered you lunch a few times, for himself too, and tried his hardest to bribe you into eating the food with him in the staff lounge, which you declined and thanked Dana for pushing you into an incoming trauma.

  Never was anything physical or complimentary outside your work in the past few months, at least not until now.

  “You look beautiful today.”

  Simple, right? No. NO. Your eyes are probably as big as his head when you turn to look at him, but you notice something different in his smile, something shy, almost, but his eyesare twinkling in mischief as they did before.

  “What?” You whisper, clutching the tablet in your hand as you stand in a secluded hallway with so little space between your bodies; he isn’t crowding you, but he isn’t standing at an appropriate distance either.

  “I said you look beautiful today. I noticed your new scrubs and earrings. They bring out your features–”

  “What the fuck are you doing, Robby?” Robby. Not Dr. Robby. Not Dr. Robinavitch. Just Robby. You are mad, your heart is leaping into your throat, and there is a pinkish tint on his cheeks that makes you want to reach out and kiss him right on the cheekbone. Or slap him. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what, sweetheart?” He looks genuinely confused, and it only makes you whine and stomp your foot on the ground, “Am I… upsetting you?”

  “No, and that’s the fucking problem!” You say with a soft whimper in your tone, “I tell you I like you, and then suddenly you are bringing me coffee, lunch, snacks, and then you start calling me beautiful.”

  “I’m trying to be nice–”

  “You are being cruel!” You don’t realize when tears begin to fall on your face, “You are purposefully pulling on my pigtails and do-do things that make me feel happy, and you know that I fucking like you and it’s making me go crazy! I hate that you know that, and you are using it against me! You are teasing me, and ugh! I hate it!”

  You storm off, without even glancing at him, moving straight for the locker room, crying harder when he follows you with urgency.

  “I didn’t mean–”

  “If you keep doing this, I will quit and leave!” You grab your stuff and put on your jacket before slamming your locker room shut, pushing Robby out of your way forcefully by slamming the tablet to his chest, “Stop playing with my feelings. I’ve been doing just fine for four years! Don’t fucking make my life hell!”

  “You… you’ve liked me for four years?”

  “At this point, I don’t like you, I love you, but you’re making it really fucking hard to move on!” You furiously wipe your tears, staring into his eyes for a hot minute, “I will, though, I will move on when I get out of Pittsburgh.”

  “What–”

  “I’m done for the day,” you leave without even glancing at him anymore. He stands there, alone, with a heavy heart, before he starts to follow you, but Dana is quick to grab him by the arm when he is close. His head snaps in her direction, his eyes burning with tears. 

  “What?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I… I told her she looked beautiful?”

  “You— then why the fuck did she leave?” She gawks and looks at the path you took in shock, “You told her you liked her, right?”

  “I… no? I didn’t even tell you–”

  “Cap, you literally circle around her like a male bird wanting to mate. I don’t know if she likes you…”

  “She’s loved me… for four years,” he tears up, hot drops rolling down his cheeks, “And I tried to show her that I liked her too but–”

  “Four years? And no one knew?” She drags him to his work station, pushing him down on the chair with a soft frown, “How did I not notice?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know…” he pushes the palms of his hands against his eyes after handing the tablet to Dana, groaning in frustration, anger filling his body, “I’m so fucking disgusted by myself.”

  “You have to fix it, we are already down a senior resident…” Dana slips behind a computer, sighing in relief when she finds what she needs to, “After the shift… you’ll fix it after your shift.”

  ****

  You are studying. Again. The boards can’t come any faster, it seems, and you are heartbroken and frustrated by yourself and Robby. You thought you could handle him knowing your feelings amidst the situation of him being overly doting and teasing you.

  But you couldn’t, not when he was looking at you with his perfect cow eyes that could melt your heart. He was so… so frustratingly beautiful and sweet when he would hand your coffee and follow you around.

  If only he felt the same.

  Your nose is practically buried in your books when you hear the knock. It is slow, steady, and echoes in your apartment. With hesitation, you stand up and walk out of your reading room, your sock feet dragging across the cold floor as you approach the door.

  You gasp when you open the door, eyes roaming Robby’s body as he stands with his hands in the pockets of his huge riding jacket, eyes red and wide like yours. Your heart skips a beat at the idea of him crying; the reason doesn’t matter, but this time it should, because it has led him to your door.

  “Can I come in?” He sounds so small as he looks down at his shoes, waiting for you to respond before he looks up and starts rambling, “Or I can just say what I wanna say, and then you can slam the door in my face, but I have to–”

  “Come in,” you step aside gently, pulling the door open for him, looking at his back as he eases into the space of your apartment, slowly taking off his riding jacket and draping it over his arm before he turns around, “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”

  “I came here to apologize.” He runs a hand through his hair, not knowing what to do with his body as he stands tall in your hallway leading to the living room, but he knows what he wants to do with his words: “I didn’t mean to hurt you at all. That-that possibility was not even on my mind; it didn’t even come as a thought to me. I thought that your little crush was cute, and I wanted to make you happy, and in the process of that–”

  “You were teasing me, Doctor Robinavitch, that’s different from trying to make someone happy,” you say in a clipped tone, hugging yourself closely as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, “You enjoyed how I… How I got distracted at my job, especially after you found out that medicine is what keeps me tied to this place, yet you used that–”

  “I don’t want medicine to be the only string that ties you to The Pitt,” he takes a step forward, and you take one back, inhaling shakily when your back hits the wall, “During the past few months, I started to see you, not as my resident, definitely not like I used to. I saw you, truly, what you like to eat between traumas, what flavor of Monster you hide in your locker room in a water bottle filled with ice – which is a very strange way of keeping a beverage cool when we have a fridge – anyway, uh…”

  He scratches his beard, his eyes meeting yours in an unhurried gaze, and he finds the unshed tears that you have been holding back all night in order to study, begin to wet your eyelashes.

  “I began to know you, the person you have been shielding from me and everyone for years,” he takes another step closer, his free hand moving to ghost over your cheek, not knowing if he is allowed to touch you, “You are fucking brilliant, do you know it? You move like you own the department; you are unstoppable. And so, so pretty when you are teaching. Did I ever tell you how good you are at explaining procedures to interns? It feels like you have years of experience, but it’s just you. The talented, magnificent you.”

  “I… I didn’t know you thought about me like that.” Your lips begin to tremble, breaths coming out in quick puffs of air, tears finally rolling down your cheeks as you stare at him with desperate anticipation, “I didn’t think you’d notice me beside my work.”

  He smiles, one of his radiant smiles that warms up your body and pulls his cheek up into the most gentle expression you have ever seen. He finally lets his fingers graze your cheek, his dry knuckles move across your soft skin, and he can’t bring himself to look away from you, not even for one second.

  “I always notice you because you are one of the best residents I’ve ever had,” he finally cups your cheek, leaning down a little, “But I started to… notice personal things; like every time you chew on the end of your pen when you are concentrating, or,” he chuckles a little, “Or when you’d grumble under your breath when someone had taken your snacks, or… when you try to laugh when you don’t even understand a joke.”

  “I don’t–”

  “I didn’t know a woman could be as adorable and beautiful as you are before.” Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you gaze into his eyes. He wipes off the small tears that stream down your cheeks with slow and delicate movements, “But you… You are captivating. And I am very sorry for being a dick to you when I really wanted to start getting to know you more and potentially asking you out if you wanted to know me too.”

  “I’ve been in love with you for four years; of course I want to get to know you too.”

  You lean in and capture his lips softly, hands moving up his chest slowly before wrapping your arms around his neck. He kisses you back, a little more feverish than you do, letting go of his jacket to hold on to your waist, pressing you into his body to feel every curve of your form, making you sigh into his mouth.

  “I don’t want to…” You gasp when he nips at your bottom lip, his heavy lids widening as he hears your words, but you chuckle breathlessly and shake your head, “Not tonight. I don’t wanna have sex with you tonight, Robby–”

  “Michael, call me Michael,” he whispers, pecking your lips a few more times before moving down to your cheek, peppering your face with kisses until your tears are dried and you are giggling, “We can do whatever you want. I can even leave–”

  “No!” You whine, locking your fingers around his neck to keep him right where he is, “I don’t want you to leave, I just… not tonight. I’m sorry if this isn’t what you were hoping for–”

  “I came here to grovel for making you tear up and leave the shift early today, and also how I was the reason you thought you couldn’t fit in amongst the people who love you so much,” he kisses your forehead gently, letting his lips linger on the spot, “Sex was the last thing on my mind. Whatever you’d like to do, we’ll do exactly that.”

  “Do you want to stay the night?” You whisper, playing with the neckline of his scrubs, not daring to look into his eyes at the moment, fearing he’d say no and leave despite him telling you he’d do anything you say. “You could say no–”

  “Sweetheart, look at me,” he cradles your face in his palms, forcing you to meet his intense eyes, “I want to stay, I want to sleep here, I want to stay with you. If I ever say no, you are allowed to slap me.”

  “I won’t hurt you,” you relax immediately at his words, wrapping your arms around his middle, resting your chin on his chest, “But I will exile you to the couch.”

  “Good to know,” he laughs, kissing your forehead again before he lets go of you to bend down and pick up his jacket, kicking off his shoes to the side nicely before he grabs your hand and squeezes it, “Bedroom?”

  “Mhmm,” you nod and guide him through your apartment, biting your cheek to stop the grin forming on your face. Robby. In your living space. Wanting to sleep here. Wanting to know you better. Wanting to love you the right way. 

  “Your place is beautiful.”

  “Oh, please, I can barely find time to decorate this place.” You push your door open, extending your hand to grab his jacket, leading him to sit on the edge of the bed, “You can give me your scrubs to throw in the washing machine.”

  “I don’t have spare clothes with me–”

  “Well, you could sleep naked–”

  “And you said you didn’t want to have sex,” he pulls you into his lap with ease, holding you by his hands on your waist, “Trying to get me naked before bed.”

  “I can still throw you out of my apartment, trade carefully,” you rub your nose against his, enjoying how he closes his eyes to feel the sensation even more, “But… I have spare clothes for you, I think. My father left a few things here last time he visited me.”

  “Lovely,” he kisses your shoulder over your shirt, “You look tired, sweetheart.”

  “Yeah, I need to get some sleep,” you lean down to rest your head on his shoulder, “I’ve been studying for hours again. My eyes are burning.”

  “You are going to pass the boards, and I’m telling you as someone who’s trained residents for years,” he hugs you close, and you melt in his embrace, enjoying the way his long arms engulf you and make you feel safe, “You gonna do amazing.”

  “Thank you,” you kiss his neck one last time before slowly wiggling your way onto the bed, looking at him playfully, “Go and wash up, I’m gonna find clothes for you.”

  “Okay,” he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles before he stands up and points at the bathroom, “There?”

  “Yup, you can see the laundry basket in the corner,” you wait for him to walk into the bathroom before flopping down on the bed, panting and staring at his jacket on your bed, bringing the fabric to your nose, smelling his cologne, and grinning to yourself. 

  It is unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. Robby is in your bathroom, cleaning himself and changing clothes. He is going to sleep in your bed. In your house. He is going to hold you.

  Fuck, he even kissed you. 

  This is something out of your wildest dreams. Kissing Michael Robinavitch was one of the few things you were sure you’d never experience. But he is here, telling you he likes you, telling you he wants to try, and it’s making you giddy. 

  You hear the water stop, and you roll out of the bed to grab the clothes you promised, finding only a gray t-shirt that could fit him after you lower his jacket on the chair in the corner of the room.

  “Hey,” you turn around, finding him standing in the doorframe of your bathroom with only his boxers on, his chest turning a bright shade of red when he notices you eyeing him up and down. He chuckles a little, running a shy hand through his hair as he approaches you, “Could you find something?”

  “J-just a t-shirt?” You hand it to him, turning around and making a beeline for your side of the bed, taking off your socks with your back to him, “Sorry, no pants.”

  “It’s fine if you’re okay with me sleeping—”

  “Yeah, yeah! It’s okay!” You try not to sound so flustered, but the reality of your crush sleeping behind you with just a shirt and his boxers on makes you dizzy. “Do you want anything?”

  “No,” you can hear the smugness in his voice before you feel the bed dip under his weight as soon as you lie down. Your breath hitches when he scoots closer to the middle of the bed, wrapping an arm around your waist to tug you closer to his body, and you have to bite your tongue to stop the soft whimper from falling from your lips.

  It’s not sexual. It’s warm, it is more of a purr than anything, like you are finally where you are meant to be after rejecting it for so long. Robby pulls the covers over your bodies before he cages you between his arms, burying his face into your neck.

  You feel safe, and that’s more than enough to knock you out to a blissful sleep in Robby’s embrace.

  ****

  You’re being dramatic. He wants to be here; if he didn’t, he would leave immediately after he apologized. Hell, he wouldn’t even apologize. But there is a tiny voice in the back of your head that is shouting in the distance that you need to go, you need to pull away.

  You should study. Right. You can leave the room and be back before he is up. He likes you… But does he really? 

  You feel his arm tightening around your waist in his sleep, keeping you against him with a firm grip. How can you think he doesn’t want you? It isn’t how you can, it is the very insecurity that has been bottled over the years telling you that is the truth.

  He was pressured into this. If you kept your mouth shut that night, he wouldn’t need to go out of his way to make you feel comfortable. He wouldn’t be obligated to do anything about it.

  You sigh, enjoying the warmth radiating from his hand on your skin for a lasting minute before you slowly slip out of his hold. You want nothing more than to cuddle him tightly and kiss him and hold him, but the hesitation that you feel is messing with your head. What if he really came here out of force to keep you from quitting? What if–

  “Hey…” Robby grumbles in his sleep, reaching for you after he blinks rapidly and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed with your back to him.

  Your head snaps in his direction, lips parting in surprise as he gently grabs your wrist, a small frown making its way to his face. He looks so peaceful like this, all the grinding hard work of the ED faded away with sleep, at least for a few hours.

  “Go back to sleep…” You don’t touch him back; instead, stare at his face with a deep fondness. You don’t deserve him. He isn’t the most perfect man, quite far from that actually, but he is… endearing, whole-consuming, enough to set your skin ablaze.

  “Why are you up? What time is it?” He groans and sits up on his elbow, squinting to look at the watch on the wall of your bedroom before giving you an unamused look, “Five in the morning? Please, get back in bed.”

  “I have to study,” you pull your hand away and try to stand up, but he is quick to wrap his fingers around your wrist again, “Robby…”

  “I told you to call me Michael,” he gently tugs you down, and you let yourself be moved until he is sitting against the headboard with your back to his chest, both of his arms wrapped tightly around you as he looks down into your eyes. “You need to take a break, sweetheart. I’ve seen you studying for so long, even in The Pitt sometimes. Unless it’s not about actually studying… Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, no, it’s not you, it’s–” you take a shaky breath, hands coming up to hold onto his biceps, “I… I thought you… nevermind, I let my head wander off–”

  “Listen to me,” he brings his hand up to cup your face, his grip firm and steady to make sure you are listening carefully, “If I have to remind you that I like you and want you every hour of the day, I will. Because I want you, and I’m not fucking around this time.”

  “I thought you were doing all of this because you felt forced to,” you rush out the words, pressing your ear to his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart, “It’s so fucking stupid, I know!”

  “It’s not, I promise you, it is not stupid at all,” he kisses your forehead, “I’m not forced to do anything, sweetheart. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. But I do, I want you so fucking much–”

  You crash your lips into his, clinging to his arms with desperation, kissing him with all the strength you have got inside you, and he reciprocates with a small chuckle, moving his lips with yours in sync. His thumb strokes the apple of your cheek as he devours you.

  You wiggle in his hold until you are straddling his hips, lips still locked and tongues tied together. You slide your palms under his t-shirt, breath shuddering when you roll your hips and find him already half-hard in his boxers.

  “Hmm, you are feisty,” he groans when you scoot a little closer and start grinding over his bulge, both hands moving up to his to feel the heat of his skin, “Are you sure you wanna go this fast?”

  “I need to feel you right now,” you gasp against his lips, pushing up the fabric of his t-shirt until he grabs the back of the fabric and pulls it off quickly, giving you time to breathe and take off your clothes in haste before you crawl back into his lap, underwear abandoned on the bed.

  “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he trails his hands up and down your hips, squeezing the flesh and biting his lips as he lets his fingers wander over your exposed skin, reaching around your body to undo your bra, latching his mouth to your collarbone, “Fuckin’ love you like this…”

  “Michael,” you sigh his name, enjoying the way your hands explore the broadness of his shoulders while he gets rid of your bra and starts kissing your breasts and sinking his teeth into the flesh, “Fuck, baby…”

  “I got you, beautiful,” he whispers into your skin, grunting when you drag your bare pussy against his thin boxers, making his cock jump in excitement, “Jesus, you are so fucking warm.”

  “Please, I need you,” you push him back a little to make room for your hands to travel down the expanse of his chest, pulling on the hem of his boxers before he starts pushing the fabric down his ass and thighs until his cock is free, bobbing with desire.

  He is big. You didn’t expect anything else, but to see it finally, and not imagining it still knocks the breath out of your lungs.

  “You should let me prepare you–”

  “I’m not joking when I say I’ll start spiraling if you’re not inside me by the next minute,” you drop your forehead on his, locking your eyes with his as you line up his tip with your wet hole, “I’m so pent up I could probably come from just sitting on you.”

  “You don’t wanna know how I’m doing, sweetheart,” He groans, gripping your hips tightly when you slide down on his throbbing cock with ease, both of your lips falling open at the sensation, “I can come just by looking at you.”

  “Y–you feel so good, Mike,” your eyes roll to the back of your head, nails digging into his shoulders as you begin to roll your hips, his cock reaching deep into your core and stretching you out in the most delicious way, “I’ve always imagined doing this with you.”

  “Yeah? How did you imagine it, sweetheart?” He grunts, bending his knees and leaning back against the headboard to have more space to help you bounce on his lap, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as he follows your movement, “How many times did you imagine it?”

  “So many times I lost count," you throw your head back, closing your eyes when he starts thrusting his hips up, driving his cock deeper into you while he clings to your body, “I thought our first time would be sweet, a-and not… not rushed, fuck…”

  “What is this? Another of your fantasies?” He leans forward, attacking the column of your throat with kisses and bites, groaning and squeezing your body the faster you move, “Did you think about us fucking too?”

  “All the time!” You hiccup when he reaches between your bodies to play with your clit; and play he does with how he rubs quick circles then pulls back when you shudder, only resuming his attacks when you grab his wrist tightly and roll your hips in an angle that his tip nudges your sweet spots, “Fuck- fuck, baby, ‘m gonna come–”

  “Come for me then,” he gasps when you clench around him, your warmth engulfing and choking his dick until he is throbbing inside you, “I’m so close too. Can you come with me, huh? I know you can, C’mon, sweetheart.”

  Your orgasm washes over you intensely, making you jolt forward and hug Robby tightly while your hips stutter and thighs begin to shake. He isn’t in any better position; you are just too tight and too warm, and he is losing himself in the feeling of you.

  He follows you soon, his cock twitching and filling you up with his thick load, wrapping his arms around your back and shoulders as he thrusts a few times inside you, biting your collarbone to muffle the groan that falls from the depths of his chest.

  “You okay?” He asks, still breathless and sensitive as he holds you close, relaxing when he feels you nod and mutter a tired ‘yes’ under your breath, “Let’s get cleaned up and then we go back to bed.”

  “You don’t have a shift tomorrow?” You ask, slowly lifting yourself from his lap to lie down on the bed, humming when he hovers over you to kiss you sweetly on the lips before he gets off the bed to find a towel in your bathroom.

  “Nope,” he shakes his head as he walks back, crawling on the bed next to you to wipe off the mess he made between your legs, swiping the towel gently, careful not to touch anywhere that could be too sensitive, “I’d not be this relaxed if I had to go back there.”

  “You’ll stay then?” You caress his arm when he settles back beside you, pulling you into his chest, smiling and holding you right above his heartbeat.

  “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

  ****

  This has to be one of the worst shifts he’s ever had. In his top ten, definitely. Not because it is crowded or they have some horrible traumas rolling in. No. It is bad because he doesn’t have his chief resident here with him.

  He should be used to this, not having you around. If it were seven months ago, he wouldn’t care really, but now he does, because he wasn’t in a relationship with you before, so the distance didn’t hurt as badly as it does today.

  You are having the day to yourself, spending the hours on the bed or, as he very much insisted, using his card to buy anything you wanted because you deserve it after the hellish few weeks you had to study before your Boards.

  He is walking out of a trauma when he hears your voice, mid-conversation with Santos as they make their way to the central.

  “Michael!”

  He has at most ten seconds to brace himself before you abandon all the HR rules and throw yourself into his arms.

  “I did it! I passed the Boards!” 

  “You did?!” He asks, laughing in excitement before he pulls back a little to cradle your face in his hands, pulling you in for a quick yet feverish kiss in front of the entire department, “Why am I even asking? Of course you did! My brilliant girl, I knew you could do it.”

  “Wouldn’t have done it without your support,” you kiss him back, grinning and rocking on your feet in happiness, “I also had an interesting interview upstairs… someone had put in a recommendation letter for me.”

  “Hmm, very nice of him, you should ask him out.”

  “Good thing I’m already dating him.” You wink at him, tightening your arms around his neck as he does around your waist, “Would be a shame if it was Abbot who wrote it though–”

  “Don’t even think about it,” he shakes his head before he notices Dana and Donnie approaching, “What’s going on?”

  “I’m gonna say something, and you can’t say no, rockstar,” Donnie starts, pointing at you, “The only answer we’ll be accepting is ‘yes, thank you, we’ll be there’, got it?”

  “I don’t even know what you're gonna say!”

  “We're going to throw a party for you because you passed, and we will not–” he brings his hand up to stop you from interrupting, “We will not accept no for an answer.”

  “You don’t have to–”

  “We want to, honey,” Dana rests a hand on your shoulder, “We love you, and we want to show it.”

  “I…” you look back at Robby, and he has to stop himself from pouting at the small lingering hesitation and insecurity in your eyes. Instead, he kisses your head and squeezes your waist.

  “We want to celebrate you. We can cancel it if you’d like. But we really, really want to do this for you; it’s the least we can do after all these years.”

  “It won’t be a bother?” You ask in a hushed tone, blinking at him with a shy smile,” Because I’d hate if you–”

  “Nothing is a bother when it comes to you, sweetheart.”

  “Okay…” you turn around and look at the nurses, “I’d really appreciate it. Thank you–”

  “I’m so fucking proud of you,” Dana pulls you out of Robby’s arms, hugging you tightly without even glancing at the man, “You gonna rock this job, kid.”

  “You accepted the spot?” Robby smirks, crossing his arm and looking at you with playful eyes.

  “Guess you have to find out tomorrow.”

  You finally feel like you belong in this place.

Last night. There was a shift. 

You latch onto that first because it’s easy. 

Familiar.

The bar, loud, packed, sticky floors, bad music, worse perfume, tourists who thought volume counted as personality.

You’d been tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that makes everything feel like it’s happening half a second too late.

And then, there was a guy.

Dark hair.

Tall.

Quiet in a room full of people performing. He hadn’t been trying to get your attention. That’s why you noticed him.

Your stomach flips faintly.

And then memory slips in, warm, bright, loud—

You remember leaning against the bar across from him, one hand braced on the sticky wood, watching him over the rim of someone else’s drink.

“You look miserable.”

His eyes had lifted to yours. Slow. Steady.

“That your opening line?”

“It felt honest.”

He tipped his glass slightly. “You always this rude to strangers?”

“Only the hot ones.”

That had caught him off guard just enough to matter.

Not a full smile. Not yet. Just that small shift at the corner of his mouth that told you he was trying not to laugh and maybe losing.

“Good to know your screening process is thorough,” he’d said.

You’d leaned on the bar. “You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

He’d looked at you for one beat too long.

“No,” he’d said. “I was gonna tell you I’ve had worse openings.”

You exhale slowly.

Yeah. That part. You talked to him. 

Not just talked. 

Flirted. 

A lot.

“Where are you from?”

He’d looked up at that, one forearm resting against the bar. “Pittsburgh.”

You huffed a quiet laugh and shook your head, setting the bottle in your hand down. “And you’re still this unimpressed?”

He glanced up at you. “You just met me.”

You stepped closer without really meaning to, your hip brushing the edge of the bar as you tipped your head at him. “Maybe. But I can already tell you’re bad at this.”

His mouth twitched. “At what?”

“Having fun.”

He swirled what was left in his glass once, eyes still on yours. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning in just a little more. “You’re doing Vegas wrong.”

That had gotten a real smile out of him.

Small. Crooked. Better than the first.

“So why are you here?”

He’d hesitated just long enough to make it feel like a choice.

“Traveling.”

“Traveling,” you’d repeated. “Like fun traveling or divorced-man-with-a-duffel-bag traveling?”

That had gotten him.

A laugh. Low. Warm. Quick.

“Neither.”

“Okay, mysterious. So what kind?”

He’d taken a sip, then, like he wasn’t sure why he was telling you at all.

“Just taking a break at life. Figured I’d disappear for a while.”

You blinked at him once, then snorted.

“Wow. That’s either mysterious or deeply concerning.”

His mouth tipped slightly. “That what that sounds like?”

“You’re in Vegas alone talking about disappearing,” you said. “Yeah. I have questions.”

“Do you?”

“Several.”

Then you leaned in just a little, grin creeping back in.

“Should I be worried or intrigued?”

Another small pause, just enough to feel intentional.

“Which one are you going with?” he asked.

You held his gaze.

“Definitely intrigued.”

You smile despite yourself and instantly regret it because your head protests. Still, you remember leaning farther over the bar. Remember the way he looked at you when you stopped feeling like part of the crowd and started feeling like the only interesting thing in the room.

“So what, you’re soul-searching your way across America?”

“Something like that.”

“In Vegas?”

He’d tipped his head. “Didn’t say I was good at it.”

And you, God, of course you—

“Oh, honey. If you actually want a soul-searching experience in Vegas, you need a local.”

His eyes had come back to you sharper then. Interested.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“And where exactly would I find one?”

You’d leaned in just enough to make it obvious.

“You’re looking at one.”

His gaze had dropped, quick but not quick enough. Straight to your mouth, then back up.

“That so?”

“Mhm.”

“And you’d be willing to help me with my ‘soul searching’ sabbatical?”

You’d smiled. Slow. Shameless.

“I’d be honored to be part of your journey.”

That had gotten him. A real grin that time. Not hidden. Not accidental. Warm.

“Very generous of you.”

“I’m community-minded.”

“Are you?”

“Only when I think it’s worth it.”

That had landed. You could see it in the way his expression shifted, subtle, but there. Less detached. More aware.

“And you think this is worth it?”

You’d held his gaze.

“I think you’re bored,” you’d said. “And I think I could fix that.”

He’d let out a quiet laugh, but his eyes hadn’t left yours.

“That sounds like false advertising.”

“Probably,” you’d said. “But I’m fun.”

“I’m getting that.”

“And you’re curious.”

“About what?”

“About whether I’m as fun as I think I am.”

That had hung there. A beat too long. Not awkward. Just charged.

His fingers had tapped once lightly against his glass before he set it down.

“And if I am?”

You’d shrugged, casual, like you hadn’t just tilted the whole conversation.

“Then I’ll show you around.”

“And if you’re not?”

You’d smiled, just a little sharper.

“Then you can go back to your very serious sabbatical and pretend this never happened.”

He’d huffed a laugh, shaking his head once.

“You always this confident?”

“Only when I’m right.”

“And you’re right now?”

You’d leaned in just enough to drop your voice.

“Yeah.”

Another beat. Closer this time. The noise of the bar fading just slightly around the edges.

He’d looked at you like he was deciding something.

“Alright,” he’d said.

Your eyes open. The ceiling is too bright. The room too still. And then the sheets shift against your bare skin.

You freeze.

Slowly, you look down.

Yeah.

Okay.

That explains part of it.

You’re naked.

Completely.

“…great.”

You let your head fall back.

“Fantastic.”

Your brain keeps going anyway. Because of course it does.

You’d smiled at him. Slow. Satisfied.

“Alright?”

“Show me around.”

“Careful,” you’d said. “That’s how bad decisions start.”

He’d picked up his glass and finished it in one go.

“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

You sit up slowly. The room tilts. Hard. Then settles in a way that doesn’t feel reassuring at all.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Think.”

Walking. You remember walking. Warm air. Neon. Crowds. Music spilling into the street. His shoulder brushing yours once, then again and neither of you moving away after.

That part.

It feels important now.

“Do you trust me?”

“I trust you enough to be interested.”

“That’s kind of sexy of you.”

He’d laughed under his breath. “You say that to everyone?”

“Only the handsome, emotionally unavailable ones.”

“And you got all that from one drink?”

“One look.”

His brows had lifted. “Confident.”

“You like that.”

Then, easy, amused, and just drunk enough to be honest:

“Yeah,” he’d said. “Enough to get myself into trouble.”

Your stomach turns over. Not from the hangover. Or not just from that.

Casino.

There was definitely a casino.

Of course there was.

You’d dragged him through one. Probably more than one.

“This one,” you’d announced, slapping a slot machine like it owed you rent.

“This one looks cursed.”

“That’s why it’s lucky.”

“That logic feels unstable.”

“You’re in Vegas with me at…” You’d checked an invisible watch. “…whatever time it is. Stability is over.”

He’d leaned against the machine beside you, close enough that when you turned your head you caught the clean, sharp scent of him under the casino air.

He’d been smiling like he hated that you were funny.

You’d shoved money into the machine.

Lost immediately.

You’d looked up at him in outrage.

“You did that.”

“I did not.”

“You were doubting me with your whole body.”

He’d laughed. “That’s not how gambling works.”

“You don’t know. Maybe I’m spiritually responsive.”

“I believe that.”

You’d narrowed your eyes.

“Was that flirting?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

He’d looked at you for one moment.

“Is it working?”

You’d smiled before you could stop yourself. “Maybe.”

His mouth had tipped at one corner.

“Dangerous answer.”

“For who?”

This time his smile had come quicker.

“Still figuring that out.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and freeze. Something white is on the floor.

Crumpled.

Your eyes narrow. You lean down slowly.

Fabric.

Thin. Cheap. Short.

A dress.

Not yours. Definitely not yours.

And next to it—

a veil.

Small.

Ridiculous.

Plastic-edged.

Your brain goes very, very quiet.

“…no.”

Your gaze drops to your hand. And there it is.

A ring.

Silver band.

Cheap diamond.

Your breath catches.

“No—”

Memory slams back harder this time.

Blackjack table.

You absolutely should not have been at a blackjack table.

The dealer looked exhausted.

You leaned toward him, dropping your voice like this was life or death. “What do I do?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“You have kind eyes and a trustworthy face.”

“That feels manipulative.”

“It is.”

He leaned in anyway, shoulder brushing yours as he glanced at your cards. Close enough that you felt it, warm, steady, not pulling away.

“Hit.”

You didn’t hesitate.

The card slid across the table.

You leaned in. He did too. Your arms bumped, neither of you moved.

“…wait,” you said.

The dealer flipped.

Busted.

You won.

For half a second, you just stared at the table, then your head snapped toward him, grabbing his arm without thinking.

“You did that.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did.”

“That was luck.”

“That was us,” you shot back, still holding onto him.

That got him.

A real laugh. Head tipping back slightly, hand coming up like he was trying to contain it and failing.

You pointed at him, grinning. “Don’t play humble now. You told me to hit.”

“You listened,” he said, still smiling.

“Because I trust you,” you said, a little too easily.

That shifted something. Just slightly.

He looked at you for a beat longer than before.

“Dangerous decision.”

“Worked out.”

You leaned in closer, not letting go of his arm yet, lowering your voice like it mattered.

“You wanna double down?”

His brows lifted. “Already pushing your luck?”

“I’m on a streak.”

“You won one hand.”

“Confidence is important.”

“That’s not what that is.”

You smiled. Slow.

“It is if you’re doing it right.” You tilted your head toward the table, playful, reckless. “Hit me again.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he stayed right where he was.

You played again.

Won again.

This time you didn’t even try to pretend you were calm about it.

“Oh, come on—” you laughed, grabbing his arm again, closer now. “That’s not normal.”

“That’s still luck.”

“No, this is a pattern,” you insisted.

“That’s not how patterns work.”

“That’s because you’re not thinking like a winner.”

He looked at you, amused, a little sharper now. “And you are?”

“I just proved it twice.”

Then you leaned in just enough to blur the line between joking and not.

“That was foreplay.”

That had gotten him.

A real laugh. Head tipping back slightly, hand over his mouth like he was trying to contain it and failing.

You watched him, delighted.

“Oh, you are fun drunk.”

He looked back at you, eyes warm, something a little looser there now.

“You say that like you aren’t.”

“I’m always like this.”

“Then I’m definitely in trouble.”

“You’re still standing here.”

His gaze dropped, quick, not quick enough, then came back up.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Don’t think I’m trying that hard to leave.”

And for a second, just one, the noise of the casino felt farther away.

You stand too quickly.

The room tilts. You catch yourself on the nightstand.

“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay.”

Your eyes go back to the dress. The veil. The ring.

Your heart is moving too fast now. Because your brain is finally catching up.

A gift shop.

No—

a bridal gift shop.

Or some tiny Vegas store built entirely to profit off impulse and intoxication.

You’d been half laughing, half stumbling through one of those tiny Vegas stores where every shelf looked like it had been stocked by somebody going through a public breakdown.

Plastic tiaras. Rhinestone veils. Shot glasses with phrases nobody should say out loud.

You’d turned toward him with a rhinestone tiara on your head.

“Be honest.”

“No.”

“That’s not honesty.”

“That’s self-preservation.”

You’d put it on anyway.

“Now?”

He’d looked at you.

Actually looked.

And this time he hadn’t answered right away.

“What?” you’d asked.

He’d leaned one shoulder against the shelf, looking at you in the tiny veil like he was trying not to say exactly what he was thinking.

“You always this committed once you start a bad idea?”

“Only if I look good doing it.”

That small smile again.

“You do.”

You had frozen for half a second.

“Wow. Was that a compliment?”

He tipped his head slightly, watching you. “You always push like this?”

You stepped a little closer, closing the space between you like it was nothing, adjusting the edge of the veil where it sat in your hair, just enough to give yourself a reason to be near him.

“Only when it’s working.”

Your hand dropped, brushing lightly against his where it rested at his side, not quite lingering.

You glanced up at him through the mirror, a small smile pulling at your mouth.

“Is it working?”

His eyes dropped, quick, not quick enough, then came back to yours in the reflection.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

You close your eyes.

Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad.

Because this would all be easier if he’d been boring.

Meaner, too.

God forbid the man you accidentally married in Vegas had been easy to dismiss.

Then, the chapel.

Your stomach drops straight through you.

You were standing outside the doors with him, both of you staring at the sign like two people who absolutely should not be here.

White trim. Fake roses. Gold script.

You glanced at it, then at him, already smiling.

“Well?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

You stepped closer, your hand catching his arm like it belonged there.

“You coming or what?”

His mouth tipped. “You always this convincing?”

You pulled him with you. “Only when I want something.”

That got a look out of him.

A real one this time.

“And you usually get it?”

You stepped in closer instead of answering, your hand sliding down his arm before letting go.

“You tell me.”

His eyes dropped, then came back to yours.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think you do.”

You smiled, then turned and pushed the door open.

That one lands even now. Because that’s the thing: you both could have left.

You didn’t.

You scan the room fast.

Bed. Bathroom. Closet. Chair. Floor.

Nothing.

No him.

No clothes that aren’t yours.

No note.

Then your gaze catches on the small table by the window.

A photo.

Face down.

And next to it, paper.

Your stomach drops so fast it feels like you missed a stair. You don’t move right away. Like if you don’t go near it, it won’t become real.

Then you do.

Slowly.

You pick up the photo first. Turn it over. And there you are.

You.

And him.

Standing in front of a chapel backdrop with fake flowers and soft bad lighting.

You’re laughing.

He’s looking at you instead of the camera.

There’s a small, unwilling smile on his mouth like it escaped without permission.

Dark hair a little wrecked.

Tie crooked.

The both of you looking like exactly the kind of trouble that should come with a legal warning.

Your thumb presses against the edge of the photo.

“…oh my god.”

You set it down and pick up the paper. It’s heavier than it should be.

Official-looking. Real.

Marriage Certificate.

Your name.

Clear.

Undeniable.

And underneath—

Michael Robinavitch.

You stare at it.

Blink once. Then again.

Michael Robinavitch.

The stranger from the bar has a name.

A real one. A whole one. A deeply legal-sounding one.

Michael.

Your husband.

Your grip tightens.

“No,” you whisper.

But there’s no weight behind it. Because it’s right there. And the memories won’t stop.

The officiant asked something about vows. You both said no at the same time. You looked at each other.

Laughed.

The officiant sighed.

Then his name—

Full. Formal. Too serious for the room. You turned toward him, already smiling, already gone.

“That sounds fake.”

You grabbed his arm, laughing, bending into him like you couldn’t hold yourself up.

“Oh my god—”

The room went quiet.

He turned his head toward you slowly, eyes on yours, something sharp tucked behind the amusement.

“You’re being very disrespectful to your future husband.”

That made it worse.

You laughed harder, clutching at him, forehead nearly hitting his shoulder.

“Oh my god—future husband?”

“You’re the one in a veil.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means enough.”

He was laughing now too, closer, leaning into you like he’d stopped pretending to keep any distance at all.

You pointed at him, still breathless.

“There you are.”

His attention locked on you. Didn’t move. Didn’t drift.

“You’re trouble.”

“You like me.”

You stepped in closer as you said it, no space left now, your hand still curled in his sleeve.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Came back up.

“Yeah.”

Simple.

Not a joke anymore.

Your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt.

“Too late.”

“For what?”

You leaned in just enough that your voices didn’t have to carry.

“Anything else.”

His hand found your waist, firm, like he wasn’t guessing anymore.

Then the kiss.

Quick at first, crooked, both of you still laughing into it, breath uneven, mouths not quite lining up because neither of you slowed down enough to make it neat.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, still close, still holding onto him.

“How was it, husband?”

His hand stayed where it was.

Thumb shifting once.

“Rushed.”

You laughed, softer now.

“Oh, you want another?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at you.

“Yeah.”

That was all it took.

You kissed him again, this time slower, still smiling when you leaned in, until you weren’t.

The room is suddenly too quiet.

You look up again.

Nothing.

No note.

No shoes.

No jacket.

No Michael.

Just the evidence.

And somehow that’s worse.

You walk back to the bed slowly, certificate still in your hand. Each step feels heavier than it should. Like something shifted while you weren’t paying attention. Like you crossed a line somewhere between last call and sunrise and woke up legally tied to a man whose laugh is still stuck in the back of your head.

You sit down.

The sheets are still warm in places.

Your stomach twists.

You don’t think about that. Not even a little. Because that leads to other thoughts. And you are not emotionally equipped for that right now. More memory anyway. Because your brain is not on your side.

There had been room service fries.

Something salty between you on the bed while you sat cross-legged in that tiny white dress, still wearing the veil because taking it off had somehow become part of the bit.

You leaned forward, reaching across without asking, fingers sliding into his space to steal a fry from his side.

His hand shifted just slightly under yours.

“You have your own.”

You didn’t move back.

“These are husband fries.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, slower this time. “That supposed to mean something?”

You smiled, small. “It already does.”

You ate it, still watching him.

Then you reached again, slower now. Your fingers brushing him this time. Not accidental. Not quick.

His hand didn’t move away.

“Careful,” he said, voice lower than it had been a second ago.

“Why?”

Your thumb grazed the edge of his knuckle as you took another fry.

“Because you’re starting to sound like you mean it.”

You leaned in just a little, close enough that your knees brushed his under the table.

“Maybe I do.”

That changed something.

Subtle.

But there.

His gaze dropped, your mouth, your hand, the way you were still in his space, then came back up slower than before.

“You married me,” you added, softer now.

His jaw shifted once.

“That’s what happened.”

You tilted your head, studying him like you were figuring something out in real time.

“Then I get to take what I want.”

His hand turned slightly under yours. Not pulling away. Not quite holding on.

“You’ve been doing that all night.”

“Yeah,” you said, just as quiet.

Your fingers lingered this time when you reached across again.

Didn’t pretend it was about the fries anymore.

“Still here.”

His thumb moved, barely, against your hand.

“Yeah.”

That one landed different.

Closer.

Heavier.

And for a second neither of you smiled.

That’s the part that gets you.

Not the chapel.

Not the kiss.

Not even the certificate.

That.

That tiny little pause in the middle of all the chaos where, for one second, it had almost stopped being a joke.

You exhale slowly.

This would be so much easier if the whole thing had been stupid in a simple way. Instead, it had been stupid and fun and weirdly good.

Which, frankly, feels rude.

You look down at the certificate again.

Michael Robinavitch.

You don’t know him. Not really. But you know how he laughs. You know the way he looks at you when you say something ridiculous. You know he flirted back like it was somehow your fault he was enjoying himself. You know he stayed.

All night.

And now—

he’s gone.

“…well.”

You fall back onto the bed, arm over your eyes.

“Well fuck.”

The room, unhelpfully, remains silent. You lie there for another second.

Then another.

Then, because apparently the universe has decided humiliation is a full-service experience, your stomach gives a long, ugly roll.

You slap a hand over your mouth and sit bolt upright.

“Oh, no.”

You scramble out of bed, half blinded by light and panic, grab the sheet because modesty apparently matters again now for some reason, and lurch toward the bathroom.

Cool tile under your feet.

Too-bright mirror.

A version of yourself that looks exactly like somebody who got drunk, married a handsome stranger, and woke up alone in a hotel room with legal documentation.

You glare at your reflection. Your hair is a crime scene. Your mascara is somewhere below your eyes now. There’s glitter on one shoulder. You don’t remember wearing glitter.

That feels insulting.

You lean over the sink and breathe through the nausea until it passes just enough to leave you shaky instead of actively dying.

Then you straighten, slowly, and look at yourself again. At the ring. At the sheet you’re clutching around yourself like that’s the thing preserving your dignity.

“You’re an idiot,” you tell the mirror.

Mirror-you looks unconcerned. You rub a hand over your face. Then, because self-pity is apparently not stronger than curiosity, you go back out into the room.

The dress is still there. The veil too.

And now that you’re looking at them with slightly more functioning eyesight, the whole thing is somehow worse.

The dress is cheap in a very specific Vegas way. Not ugly exactly. Just aggressively committed to the bit. Short hem. Thin straps. White fabric with just enough shimmer to look bridal under bad lighting and suspicious under natural light.

You crouch carefully, very carefully, and pick it up between two fingers like it might accuse you. There’s a price tag still attached. You stare at it. Then bark out one shocked laugh.

“You bought the clearance dress?”

You don’t know who you’re asking. Michael is not here to defend himself. The room remains unsupportive. The veil is even worse. Tiny comb. Rhinestone trim. One sad little layer of tulle.

You hold it up.

It looks like something a bachelorette party would dare the least stable friend to wear on Fremont Street.

You did wear it. You wore it while getting legally married.

“Unbelievable.”

You let it drop back to the floor and straighten with the dress still in hand. There’s a chair by the window with your regular clothes draped over the back of it. At least one of you had the sense, or Michael had the sense, to put them somewhere that wasn’t the hallway.

Your shoes are under the chair. One upright. One on its side. Your purse is on the desk. You immediately cross to it and check.

Phone.

Wallet.

Keys.

Cards.

Everything seems to be there. No mysterious missing money. No evidence that you were robbed by your husband, which feels like the kind of standard you shouldn’t be relieved about and yet.

You unlock your phone. Battery at twelve percent. The screen is a graveyard of unread texts.

One from your coworker asking if you got home okay.

One from another asking if you can take her Saturday shift, which at this point feels emotionally offensive.

A blurry selfie of you and two girls from the bar at the start of the night, all eyeliner and bad intentions.

No messages from an unknown number.

No “had fun last night.”

No “sorry I vanished.”

No “by the way we’re legally married.”

Nothing.

You check your recent photos.

There are too many.

Of course there are.

The first few are normal.

Bottles lined up behind the bar.

A shot of somebody’s ridiculous birthday sash.

Then it devolves.

Fast.

A picture of a slot machine.

A close-up of your own face, smiling too wide.

A blurry shot of Michael from across what looks like a blackjack table, his head slightly turned, expression unimpressed, one eyebrow halfway up like he’d caught you taking it.

You stare at that one longer than you mean to.

Even blurred, he looks like himself. Quiet. Sharp. Mildly exasperated by everything around him.

There’s another one.

The Elvis.

You and Michael on either side of him, both looking deeply unconvinced in very different ways. You’re beaming. Michael looks like he’s accepted that resistance has failed him spiritually.

You laugh despite yourself.

Then there’s the gift shop.

A picture of Michael holding the BRIDE tiara with exactly two fingers, looking assumed.

Then—

the chapel sign.

Then—

oh no.

A selfie of you in the veil and him in the background, slightly out of focus, jacket off, tie crooked, caught mid-look in your direction.

Your stomach flips. Because even there, even in a half-blurred phone photo, it’s obvious.

He’d been in it. 

Not just physically there.

In it.

With you.

And that makes everything worse.

And then the final one. The photo of the certificate after it had been signed.

Apparently you documented that too.

“Jesus Christ.”

You drop the phone onto the bed and sit down beside it.

The mattress dips.

The ring catches the light again.

You twist it once around your finger.

Cheap. A little loose. Cold.

Still there.

There is a wildly irresponsible part of your brain that wants to laugh. The larger, more functioning part wants to scream into a pillow. You settle for putting your face in your hands.

Think.

Okay.

Okay.

What do you know?

You know his name is Michael Robinavitch. You know he was real. You know you liked him. Not in a profound, life-altering way. You’re not insane.

But you liked him.

You liked talking to him. You liked dragging reactions out of him. You liked the way he flirted back like he wasn’t planning to and then suddenly very much was. You liked the way his face changed when he laughed. You liked the way he looked at you when he stopped pretending this was just entertainment.

You know he left.

That part sits the heaviest. 

Not because he owed you forever. But he sure as hell owed you something.

A note.

A number.

A five-second conversation before disappearing into the Nevada morning like some kind of emotionally constipated magician.

Something.

Because this?

This was bullshit.

You got drunk and married each other.

That feels like the kind of thing that should come with at least the bare minimum of follow-through.

Instead, he just—

left.

No explanation. No number. No scribbled note on hotel stationery. No hey, ‘last night was insane, call me when you’re less hungover.’

Nothing.

Just gone.

And no, actually, that was rude as hell.

You stare at the marriage certificate in your hand, then at the empty room again like he might somehow reappear just so you can be mad at him properly.

Because what the fuck was that?

You don’t get to marry someone in Vegas and then vanish before they wake up like this was some kind of weird tax scam.

And that shifts it. Just slightly. From hilarious disaster to something that doesn’t sit right. Something sharper around the edges. Because now it’s not just ridiculous. Now it’s embarrassing.

Now it’s you waking up naked in a hotel room with a ring on your finger and a legal document in your hand while your husband, your actual husband, God help you, is nowhere to be found.

You don’t like the way that thought lands. 

You shove it away immediately.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

You are not going to spiral about the emotional cowardice of a man you accidentally married before you’ve had water, aspirin, and maybe divine intervention.

You grab the complimentary hotel pen from the desk. Then the hotel notepad. Then stare at both of them.

“What am I doing.”

Still, you write it down anyway.

Michael Robinavitch.

The letters look strange in your handwriting. Too formal. Too real. Too much like something that exists outside this room.

You stare at the name. Try to hear it the way the officiant said it. Try to hear your own laugh right after.

It doesn’t help.

Nothing about this looks better written down.

You set the pen aside and flop back onto the bed, one arm thrown over your face.

The room is still too bright.

Your head still hurts.

You’re still naked under a hotel sheet with a clearance bridal dress on the floor, a marriage certificate on the bed, and no idea where your husband went after apparently deciding basic decency was optional.

The absurdity of it finally crests.

A laugh slips out.

Small at first.

Then another.

It hurts, God, it hurts, but it’s there anyway, because what else are you supposed to do?

You got blackout-adjacent and married a man with the name of a tax attorney and the face of a very tired sin.

In Vegas.

After a shift.

Because apparently your survival instincts took the night off and left your dignity unsupervised.

You laugh again, then groan and press your palms into your eyes.

“This is so bad.”

It is.

It really, really is.

And yet, underneath the pounding headache and the anger and the rising logistical nightmare, there’s still that faint leftover spark of the night itself.

The joy of it.

The stupidity of it.

The reckless, bright, completely unhinged freedom of deciding, for a few hours, that consequences were for other people.

You don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

Probably worse.

Definitely worse.

You roll your head toward the window without moving your arm.

Too much light.

Too much day.

Eventually, you’re going to have to get up. Eventually, you’re going to have to shower, get dressed, and figure out what the hell you just did to your life. Eventually, you’re going to have to decide whether this is a funny story, a legal emergency, or the opening act of a full-blown personal crisis.

But not yet.

For one more second, you just lie there in it.

The ring on your finger.

His name on the paper beside you.

His laugh still caught somewhere in the back of your head.

And the last thing you said to him, maybe, dragging itself up through the haze with humiliating clarity:

“Don’t ditch me, husband.”

You go still.

Then very slowly lower your arm from your face and stare at the ceiling.

“…oh, you asshole.”

And then, because really there is nothing else left to say:

⋆ ꩜ ⋆

You were weird.

That wasn't new; you always had been. 

The sense of perpetual oddness that people tended to tiptoe around. Not everyone; some people were drawn into your orbit based on that alone. The way you'd laugh at someone's joke when you noticed no one else was, but would somehow slip yourself back into the shadows. Or, how your voice was just a decibel below everyone else's, easily talked over and interrupted. 

In some cases, you were sure that it had something to do with it. That they were drawn to your oddness because they had a desire to fix it, fix you. If not to fix it, then at least use it to their advantage. Someone kind and malleable that'd smile and nod as they shoved their problems onto.  In defense of your hospital colleagues, most of them were kind to you. Some you'd even call friends. They'd look to you during traumas for an opinion they valued and then ask you to join them on whatever outing they had planned after work. They'd ask even if they didn't expect you to say yes, which you often didn't.

Every once in a while, like clockwork, you'd force yourself to join. For the sake of team building, you'd tell yourself. Really, you wanted to belong somewhere. To be understood, quietly and gently.

You knew you couldn't blame people for not feeling things at the same intensity you did. That was one of life's many curses for someone like you. Someone who lived with an open heart that trickled metaphorical blood, staining everyone you met with love. But, an open heart that never gets filled empties quickly.  The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Yet, every time you went, you had some kind of hope that you'd magically feel different. That you'd blink and suddenly people would see you.

Because every time you looked in the mirror, you were convinced what you saw was different. You saw your own reflection, the pores on your skin, and the rise and fall of your chest. You were real, alive. But when others looked at you, all you could imagine they saw was a shadow. Amorphous, dark, confusing. Something tangled in the wires of your thoughts you were sure they could read if they squinted enough.

At the very least, the feelings subsided during work. A small mercy through the blood and chaos you deal with every day. When you were in trauma, your voice had to carry; it had to boom. You couldn't afford to be pushed aside. When you were gloved up, people listened. Every night as you fought sleep, you pondered if that was better or worse.

If there was ever a quiet moment between the workload, and the feelings started clawing their way out of your chest, an incoming trauma would force them back down, letting them settle there and no doubt finding a way to eat at your liver.

ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

So, your gaze disassociated further, eyes locked onto the computer screen in front of you. Your head blared that you should be comprehending the words on screen, not letting them get lost in the swirl of thought. You were relieved to hear Dana's voice echo around the nurses' station before you accidentally suffocated.  "MVA rolling in, ETA 2 minutes out."  "How many we gettin'? You hopped out of your chair, grabbing sterile gloves from the rack as you passed.  "Three minor, two major. But, who knows if it'll stay that way." Dana gives an exasperated sigh from behind the desk.

"What do we got?" Robby asks, winding up beside you on his seemingly never-ending circling of the hospital floor.  "Car crash." You say simply. Never leave much room for filler words when you speak. Especially not once you find yourself in trauma mode. Already heading towards the ambulance bay, Robby falls into step with you.  You liked having Robby as a boss, actually. Being his resident was the one steady thing you had. At the beginning of every day, you could expect him to already be there. Chart in one hand and that thermos of coffee he always had in the other. Whatever chaos happened in between was the hard part. Whatever horrors you both saw that day and whatever ways your brain decided to attack you during the quiet moments. But then the end of the day came around, and you could expect a pat on the shoulder from Robby's hand, strong and steady like he didn't just live through the same disastrous day you did.

Robby didn't always say much. Especially not standing in the ambulance bay like this, mentally trying to come up with any sort of a game plan without seeing what damage has been done.  But, he always had this way of his eyes saying more than his words could. You weren't sure if he was aware of it. Like a language he didn't even know he could speak.

Everything about him was contradicted in his eyes. Not only his anatomy, but how dark they were, deep-set with age, but unexplainably soft in expression.

Whenever he'd look at you with those eyes and a tiny tilt of his head, you knew what he was asking in that language only he was fluent in, but you'd somehow manage to pick up.

Are you okay?

With a nod of your head and a hollow smile, he didn't press further, but you saw the unbelieving squint in his eyes once again.

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These people were going to die.  There was no way around it. They were in your care, and they were going to die.

An accident. One that could've happened to anyone. A speeding car, a car that ran a red light, and a minivan passing through an intersection at the wrong time that got T-boned. The fact was left completely up to fate that they were in the left lane, so the right side of the car took the brunt of the impact. Father, who chose to drive, and his daughter, who chose that side of the car today.

That's the part that never made sense to you. How did accidents get decided? Was it fate? Was it religion? Was it punishment of some kind, or was it predetermination? Were you always going to end up here no matter what kind of life you lived? If that was true, how was that fair?

A father and daughter were completely helpless to anything modern medicine could do. His wife and second child were in the adjoining room beside you, their comparable injuries so mundane it really was unfair. They were even alert enough when brought by ambulance for you to hear the wailing and screaming. The wife got a chance to say whatever words she could to her husband and daughter while they wheeled them in together. The other two lost their chance to say anything else once that car hit them. Unfair With Langdon gone, leaving Robby down a resident, he had to up your workload. Putting you as lead on two of the major traumas tonight. He didn't like it, putting more on you. But you were capable and reliable. If those were the two words someone thought up when it came to you, you'd take it. It was the typical thought everyone seemed to have about you. Only what you're capable of, how you perform at work, and nothing else. Nothing about you. But, at the very least, you took up occupancy in someone's brain enough to be thought of. You didn't have a clue at the reverence the other doctors held for you, Robby included. Maybe most of all.  Santos did what she could with the father as you ran between both rooms at the sound of someone yelling for you or the beeping of a monitor that sometimes jolted you awake in nightmares.  You yell for Santos to page surgery, even though you know it would be an anomaly for these two people to make it long enough to become emergency surgery candidates. You can't even get a sentence out to Garcia's voice on the other end before you hear the beeping from the other room.

"If he crashes, shock and come get me! And get surgery down here!" You yell over your shoulder at the nurses and doctors in the father's room with you.

Shouldering your way into the daughter's trauma room, it's a worse sight than before. Javadi and Whitaker were exhausting themselves with the daughter. Beads of sweat are already forming on Whitaker's forehead from the extensive CPR.  Over his shoulder, McKay shakes her head at you just once. Enough to tell you there's nothing to do.

"Alright," You shake your head out once, feeling it clear the mental debris there. "Intubate. Then we're gonna ventilate that way." A nurse scurries off to grab the items required the moment you ask. "Whitaker, tap out."

You physically tug his arm off and straddle the bed before beginning compressions yourself. Whitaker's hands go to his knees immediately as a small bead of sweat falls onto the floor already dirtied with blood.  "She's had three rounds of Epi already." Someone calls out, voice mixing in with all the other stats being shouted.

Hair slips loose from your clamp as you continue with the compressions, the motion rattling the girl's body and your own in different ways. You blow it from your eyes as best as you can to see the screen. Agonal rhythm is still, and no positive change in blood pressure. Not to mention the blood loss. Focusing completely on compressions, you can't let yourself get lost in the image you see. So much life-saving work has already been done that it's left her looking half-machine.  "She's crashing!"

You think the voice belongs to Whitaker, but don't look up.  Your hands stop compressions for the short second after you say "clear", immediately back to work, the stats showing no changes. After the third shock, the sweat is stinging your eyes as it travels down your face in streaks.

"Again!" You yell. You put your arms up and yell clear, but you're not even sure how you managed it since your arms are completely unfeeling besides the vibrations coursing through them.  You recognize the change in sound that follows the fourth shock. It's the same one that plays in your ears when you're finally alone and able to crumble. The same one you somehow manage to hear in the hospital bathroom when you lock the door with tunnel vision setting in. The specific flatline that people don't come back from.  "Asystole." The room was still for the first time since the young girl was brought in. That's the worst kind of sound you can hear in a hospital room. Maelstrom means there's still hope, but stillness means there's nothing left. Another person gone and another piece of yourself you're sure you won't get back.  "Call it, and I'll notify the family." You say somberly, not sticking around to hear anyone offer to take that burden off you. This should be your cross to bear.

Maybe you should've been a better doctor.

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"He's not an ECMO candidate." You hear Robby saying in the vague direction of the nurses and doctors from where he stands near the front of the room. The monitor is screaming, and the rhythm is showing asystole. A father's and daughter's hearts both giving out within minutes of each other, nothing but a wall apart.

"Time of death 20:14."

Your legs get that same burning feeling your arms have, but they haven't been strained at all. It seems like the sole act of holding yourself upright is starting to become too much for them. The stillness and quietness are setting in again, and your body is taking notice.

Robby gestured with a nod of his chin to the room next door. All you can do is shake your head in response. You see the pain flash through his eyes, mirroring your own. You look away quickly, choosing the floor as your target, afraid that his eyes will somehow betray you for the first time and turn cruel.

"Let's all take a moment of silence." Robby's commanding voice comes out in the somber tone it takes on during times like these. "Remember this man for who he was, a husband, father, a son to someone." A few people clasp their hands as everyone's heads bow.

Robby's head tilts again just a bit as he looks at you, stuck in place, eyes still on the floor. His heart clenched in his chest in a way it often didn't do anymore. The way you have this tendency to cower in on yourself. It's like he can physically see some kind of force pushing you down, making your shoulders hunch.

Believing you're to blame somehow sits easier in your chest. Sometimes that hatred soothed the stabbing in your chest. Yeah, it was sick and unhealthy, you knew all that. But you were in no place these days to sit down and fix it. 

You had all the words, the trite sayings that'd been said to you by multiple people over the years. You even had a little stack of papers from professionals with a written list of what to do and say when you felt like the world was resting entirely on your shoulders. You are not in control of other people's feelings and bullshit like that.

But, as it was Atlas's punishment to hold up the heavens alone, so it seems it should be yours.

You can't take standing in the room a minute more; not only are you facing the failure of this body on the table, but behind you, just a door away, is the daughter with the same fate. And both of them should've survived. Whether it was because you should've been a better doctor or just that fate's a cruel bastard doesn't matter. Either way, it's unfair.

"I'm going to go notify the family." A hand clamps down on you before you're even halfway down the hallway. The shuffle of his boots on the vinyl gave him away before you even had to turn around. His taller frame should feel daunting in this little hallway, especially with the way his fingers are curled around your forearm but it doesn't.

You're pretty sure you can feel your own heartbeat under the spots where every one of his fingers is. But, as a doctor, you know that's just not possible.

"I sent McKay to speak to the family." His words feel like they reverberate in your skull even though he's speaking softly to you.  Instead of answering right away, your eyes just focus on the hand he still has on your arm. This is the oddness that usually made people turn away from you. The long silences during what should've been conversations, the way you'd hone in on one specific thing and stare sometimes. That could be unnerving to people who didn't know you enough. But Robby? He knew you.  So, instead of speaking again and scaring you out of whatever small hole inside you've just crawled into, he just squeezes your arm. Carefully, barely a flex of any muscles. But, similar to what you'd done for him in the times you'd found him in a similar state. Silent but there.  "No." You say, finally shaking out your head and finding his eyes. The glasses made his eyes look bigger, amplifying every emotion he had in them. "I should. I was the one…" Your voice trails off, unsure even which word was going to come next. Doctor or Reaper? "I sent McKay." He says with finality this time. "Why don't you head out early. There's less than an hour anyway."

Once again, your silence drags on, taking up the entire hallway.  "I have some charts I need to finish up." Gesturing vaguely with your thumb back towards the hospital floor.  "Charts can wait until tomorrow." "I know. But, I'd just rather not have it on my mind." That was almost a laughable excuse. Charts would be lowest on the totem pole of worry. No doubt they'd be there, floating around like everything else, but not enough to matter. "I'll help Abbot with the handoff too. Thanks, though."

"Okay."

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The wires in your head were tightening. Every thought stretched into a thin line and managed to tangle itself together. The cacophony of sounds blaring through your head defied any medical logic. But, even that was more tolerable than the images of people you failed to save burned behind your eyelids.

Charts

You reminded yourself, blinking the thoughts away and forcing your eyes to focus. The chatter of everyone around you actually served as a nice buffer for a while until you felt the same hand on you once more.

Your shoulder instantly unraveled the built-up tension inside, dropping from where it felt like they were hiked up to your ears. Your night was back on track, finally. Robby's hand on your shoulder and some empty words of, "Get some good rest tonight."

"We're heading across the street to unwind, maybe have a few beers. Why don't you join us tonight?"

Great. It already sucked enough rejecting your colleagues' offers, but now you're going to have to reject your attending. 

That emptiness in your chest begged you to say yes. But this time it burned differently. Something inside you that you couldn't trace to a specific place was begging for more time with Robby. 

Your heart dropped. Usually, you could figure out what was hurting you, where it was metastasizing. But this? This was entirely different.

"Not tonight. I have some more stuff I wanna get done here."  "You sure?" Donnie popped up behind Robby, six-pack already tucked under his arm. The invitation was real and open. He wanted you there, like you weren't some nuance that would wreck someone's night. "We might even manage to get Javadi drunk!"

A smile actually graces your lips, small and fleeting. Man, Robby hates how his eyes lock onto it immediately. He glances away quickly, scuffing his foot across the floor quietly at the fact that he wasn't the one who got it out of you.  "I'm okay. Kinda tired anyways." You pull your shoulder up into a shrug. "Thanks, though."

"Can I talk to you before I head out?" 

Robby waves Donnie along, shouting something about being there in a second, as he lingers by your desk.

"Me?" You point to yourself. Idiot. Of course, he means you. Who else could he possibly be speaking to? "I mean, yeah. What's up?"

Your head starts working so fast that, for all you know, there may be a hole burning through you somewhere. Were you in trouble? Anything but that, please.

As he guides you down the hallway, his hand barely hovering just over the small of your back, like he was afraid to push you too hard. That, or he was so unsettled by you that he didn't want to touch you right now. Either way, the gesture felt more humiliating than if he were to drag you down the hall by the ear. 

Was he going to go through a checklist, point by point, of everything you did wrong with that poor father and daughter? Okay, that probably wasn't it, but still.

The sound of the door clicking shut felt like it reached the volume of a gunshot, every nerve in your body was screaming at you to somehow fix whatever you've done wrong.  "You're not in trouble." He says the second he turns enough to see your face. He bends his knees just a little bit to get closer to your level as he speaks. Like he was making himself a little smaller for you.

Oh. So, your emotions must be showing on your face, clear as day.

"I just wanted to check in before I left… Do you have anyone to talk to after days like this?"

You want to burst into flames where you're standing. Either bile or humiliation climbs up your throat as you stare back at him unblinking. Was your loneliness that palpable?

"Yeah." You shake your head no before course-correcting it to an up-and-down nod. The single word burns your lips as it passes through, a punishment for lying, you'd assume.

Robby doesn't crowd you or reach out to pat you on the shoulder again; he just stands there with that slight bend in his knees, his eyes not leaving your crumbling face. His eyes narrow just slightly, but stay impossibly soft.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure."

You feel so small right now. Not like you're prey caught in front of a predator. No. Robby could never be a vulture like that. Not when he's looking at you like this. Small, like somehow all the strings that make you up, make you appear human on the outside, have given way at once. Now, all that's left of you is a tangled mess of twine on the floor.

"I should really get back to work." You say, brushing past him before he could interject. Whatever pieces of yourself you couldn't manage to pick back up stay there in that room with him. More of yourself is lost tonight.

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A single chill racks through you as the wind seeps in through your unzipped jacket. But the most important matter at hand is getting your headphones untangled. Once those are in, everything will be fine.

Your phone shows 12:24 as you plug in your cable. No calls, no texts, one alert from iCloud that you don't have storage space anymore. Great.

Spotify picks something old and slow as you cross the street, zipping your jacket up to rest over your mouth, the zipper ice cold as it bumps your nose with each step.

The song crescendos in your ears as the vague silhouette of a man comes into view, barely illuminated by a streetlight that the city needs to change. He's slumped against the back of the park bench that's become a landmark for you to pass on your walk. The short hair, big hoodie, and bad posture could only belong to one person.

Part of you considers turning around, taking a different way home, but another part of you, same as before, begs you to move. Your feet make the choice before you do.

"Dr. Robby?" You say quietly as you take the headphones out. Tony Bennet, whom you've just identified, is now singing into the night through the dangling headphones.

"Hey." It's all he says for a moment. He doesn't seem shocked by your presence, like he knew you'd stumble upon him eventually. Hoped maybe. "Everyone headed out pretty early." He tries to explain why he's still sitting on this park bench two hours after a casual after-work meet-up that probably only lasted half an hour max.

You nod, no words finding their way out. Lips pulled into a thin line. But, instead of your feet forcing you to leave, they kick at the dirt idly. Why won't you leave? And more importantly, where the hell is this feeling coming from?!

He kicks at the half-empty six-pack with his foot. "Want one?"

"I'm really not a big drinker."

He bends over toward his backpack, resting against the park bench. His hands dig for a second, the sound of a Ziploc being opening sounds before he retrieves what he was searching for.

"I have an apple."

You stare at the red apple in his hand for a second, then back to him, completely earnest in his offer. Just anything to keep you here a little longer.

"Yeah, okay." You say quietly.

He rubs the apple along the sleeve of his hoodie, haphazardly cleaning it before tossing it to you. The bench barely makes a creak as he shifts over. No big fanfare, just a now-open spot beside him.

"Sit."

You keep enough distance between you two as you scoot onto the bench. A little wary, like somehow you were going to break something or scare him. You take a careful bite into the apple, your stomach twisting as you do, far more hungry than you'd realize. Yeah. Hunger. That had to be all this feeling was! That's why your stomach is in knots.

"Thanks." You say through a bite of an apple. "What are you still doing out here?"

He sipped his open beer before he answered. Staring ahead at the treeline, trying to plan out his next words before he spoke. He had no interest in scaring you off now that he got you to stay. Like a stray that finally butted it's head against his hand after months of letting them adjust.

He didn't want to admit that he stayed out here for two hours in the hopes that you'd turn up eventually. That he's been worried about you. That he worries about you more than the rest of his residents, and worst of all, that whenever you let him get close enough, you have a way of making him feel an assortment of things that he thought he lost the ability for.

"Didn't feel like facing my couch." Is the final casual sentence he lands on.

"Yeah." You nod back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

The silence takes over the two of you for a bit, and neither of you rectifies it. It was comfortable. For the first time you can remember, your silence didn't feel like it was imposing on anyone. You didn't feel like the weird girl in the back of the class getting laughed at or told to "speak up".

"How were the mom and son?" You ask. The images of the way you failed them flashing through your head. You give a tiny shake of your head to rid the thoughts. Robby doesn't comment on it.  "Medically, they're gonna be fine. Emotionally, it'll take a while. But, they'll figure it out."

You make a sad sound of agreement, poking at the apple with the end of one of your nails.

"Why do you think it happened?" You ask, offering up no more information on the question.

"Guy ran a red."

"No. Not like that." You say, spinning the apple in your hand. "Why does anything like that happen? Is it God? Just the way life goes sometimes?"

Robby hesitates with an answer. He probably had less of an idea than you did. But it wasn't lost on him the way this was eating away at you. Maybe you actually did need an answer. One from him specifically. You trusted him to teach you medicine. Why couldn't he answer this for you? Surely this was easier than explaining how to put in a chest tube.

"I don't really think I'm the one to ask." He laughs, but the sound is hollow and gruff. "I think it depends on what you believe in."

"What do you believe?"

"I don't know on days like today." He shrugs with his hands in his hoodie pockets. The tension in his shoulders is even more obvious.

He turns his body towards you on the small park bench, uncrossing his legs so he doesn't crowd you.

"But what I do know is that you did really well today." 

Your eyes shoot up quickly. He must be mistaken. You? Who lost the only two patients you were supposed to handle? You search his eyes quickly for any signs of deception, but there are none there. No, what looks back at you is earnest.

You have to peel your eyes away immediately. The lump in your throat forms so quickly you're afraid the look he's giving you might actually kill you. How is he not looking through you? He's looking like you're not some figment of imagination that accidentally stumbled onto this plane of reality.

"I don't see it that way." You clear your throat after your voice cracks on the second word.

His eyebrows knit together, getting lost behind the rim of his glasses as his eyes soften, barely adjusting them with two fingers. That little sideways frown on your stone face showed him how much guilt you held for yourself.

"You know that's not true."

You pull your legs up on the park bench with you, tucking your knees against your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Not to hide or cry into, but just to have another barrier to the world. Like an animal protecting their soft points.

"Isn't it? You trusted me with half that MVA, and my half died."

The words have harshness behind them. Like you were talking about the wrongdoings of someone you hated. 

There was the same feeling creeping up Robby's neck. The one he gets when the anger you have for yourself seeps into your words, the pain he feels for you, like he was divinely sent to care for you, and you won't let him. Or, he won't let himself.

"They didn't have a chance. You did better than anyone else could've."

What was he trying to do to you, seriously? Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but there was nothing you wanted to do less than cry in front of your attending. Especially not one that's the only person you've ever come across that's made you feel something that, for the first time, was even lost to you.

"I've been training residents for a long time, and you're one of the best I've ever had."

He saw the way your eyes were glassy and half lidded with exhaustion. The kind you always carried but worsened after days like today. The adrenaline had left your veins a long time ago and left nothing but guilt in its wake.

"Thanks- uh, thank you." Is all you can get out without your voice betraying you even further. Blinking in rapid succession for a few seconds, angling your head away so he couldn't see the sheen of tears covering them.

There you were, cheek pressed against your knee as you rested your head, your body slowly and against your will relaxing in his presence. The worst part was that you didn't even look sad, necessarily. You just look faded, like pieces of you were being carved away every day. Robby recognized this pain.

He collapsed in on himself the same way every night. At home, if he was lucky, in some tucked-away corner of the ED, if Adamson's presence loomed too heavily. But right now, he saw you armorless.

"I should probably go." You said once your voice felt solid enough coming out.

Now, it was his turn to let silence stretch on. The kind of quiet that forms around two people feeling adjacent things that they don't have names for yet. Maybe Robby knew long ago, but this feeling was new to you and confusing, not to mention terrifying.

His eyes found yours over the rim of his glasses, and for a second, he didn't look burdened. Like he'd let all of his reservations go. Maybe that was the natural order of things. One person could be so petrified of their own feelings that they give the other a new sense of self.

"Not if you don't want to."

"Do you want me to?" Your voice comes out uneven.

You had no idea how he saw you. The fact that you'd even have to ask. Like he hadn't been half begging for you to just be near him all night. He had more respect for you than you could ever fathom. How you acted as a doctor, how you poured life into everybody else. You were extraordinary to him, and yet you acted like you were nothing.

"No, I don't." He had to force the words out, not because they weren't true, but because they were hard for him to say, to admit.

Robby’s emotions had been stuffed down for so long that he wasn't even sure they were there anymore. But, for you, he'd work at them, chip away at whatever he had to.

Looking at you right now, he felt a pull like he never had before. Like everything awful that had happened, happened so that you could be sitting right here.

You couldn't fathom what was happening in your body. But maybe it wasn't bad? 

Yes, you couldn't identify what part of the body these feelings were sitting in. One of the stupid things you tried to train yourself to do when "complicated feelings" arose, as your old therapist called them.  

But, maybe the reason you couldn't trace them was because it was everywhere. Like your skin was prickling. But this didn't feel the same, not the feeling you had when you'd lay in bed hollow and alone, and certainly not the feeling you'd get when you lock yourself in the bathroom, with a hand over your mouth sobbing. 

Was this actually good?

His hand lifted slowly, just enough to land on the spot between your collar and jaw. His thumb barely brushed across your jawbone. His touch was so careful, not grabbing at you or rushing you, just there. Feeling you under his hands, rough from work. You were almost shocked when his hand didn't go through you. You were here, real, and he was touching you.

"You okay with this?" He asked quietly, bringing his hand up just enough to wipe a stray hair away from your temple. He was giving you the chance to retreat if you wanted to. 

But if not, he had no issues taking this weight off your shoulders and guiding you tonight.

"Yeah." You say, nodding, turning your head into his touch just barely. Maybe unconsciously even, just needing it to stay.

Robby felt your stillness when he kissed you. You panicked. You saw him going in for the kiss and even leaned in yourself. But now? All those thoughts swirled in your head again. Not to mention the newest one blaring about how he must be hating you right now for messing up this kiss. Your hand on his shoulder, perched awkwardly, trembled against him just a little.

"Hey," Robby said, pulling back enough to speak, your foreheads almost touching. "I got you."

Those words undid you completely.

When you finally met his lips again, your kiss wasn't aggressive or with years of pent-up tension behind it. It was careful and tentative. It felt like you were testing to make sure this was real. His lips softened against yours, following whatever pace you set. He has a firm, guiding hand on your back, anchoring you here. He traces his fingers up and down your spine slowly over your scrubs. All of his motions give you some kind of security in this moment. That he's here, he's got you, that for once it's okay to rest.

His thumb strokes small circles on your cheekbone. A quiet kind of tenderness that Robby can't remember the last time he showed anyone. 

With little confidence in your movement, you brought a careful hand up to his face, letting one of your fingers barely trace over his beard. He exhaled through his nose, a quiet breathy sound. 

His own hand leaves your back and covers the one on his face, intertwining your fingers together, keeping you there. A silent, that's good.

Your touch was so soft. The tips of your fingers tracing over his beard, the grays peppering throughout it giving it a new kind of coarseness. The way you drew him in closer, like the feeling of the beard, of the age it showed, the stability was something of deep reverence to you.

You were wrecking him.

His lips slowed against yours again. He didn't want to deepen the kiss or devolve into hunger right now. He wanted you to know he was there. That he had you. You were here, you were safe, and he wanted you. Two people who could understand the weight the other one carried without words.

Pulling back from the kiss felt torturous, but you had to. You couldn't bring yourself to pull your hand away yet, loving the way every part of his face felt under your fingertips. He couldn't help lean into it, taking a ragged breath like a man starved for tenderness.

"Still with me?" He asks.

And the smile on your face was one of the best things he'd ever seen. Not the polite one you'd give to patients, or the fake one you gave while fighting your way out of tough conversations. No, this was real. Your eyes crinkled around the edges, even. Because someone had chosen you.

"Yeah."

Your heart is hammering in your chest so rhythmically it sounds like knocking. Like it was physically pounding against your skin to be let out. Because, for the first time in a long, long time, it had the strength too. 

Day 1: Silver and Blue Hand painted Dreidel

            Everyone knows that you like Michael Robinavitch. It’s not a secret and, in fact, it’s fairly obvious, the way you smile, the way you go out of your way to talk to him when you never do it for anyone else. The way you sometimes in bring in a drink for him, something for him to try. 

            You remember when Trinity noticed. She asked you who the extra drink was for, her tone leading, hinting for herself. You’d explained that it was for Robby. 

            “Robby? Like Dr. Robby?” she’d asked and you’d nodded, lips pressing into a smile, the thin-lipped one that happens when you try to suppress a real one. “Jesus. Are you in love with him or something?” It was when she’d seen your face, the pinched, shocked expression like a grimacing deer in headlights that she’d gone wide-eyed and laughed. “Oh, Sunshine!” she’d laughed. “He doesn’t deserve you, but okay.”

            Dennis had been the next and he’d been kinder. He’d just asked you one day, the two of you in the break room, a breather, ten minutes to come back to yourselves after the case you’d worked on, the five year old child who died, drowning in their own fluid build-up. 

            “Do you like Dr. Robby?” he’d asked and you’d turned from where you stood at the coffee maker, a mug in your hands smelling of that burnt, tar coffee that couldn’t really be coffee but had enough caffeine to get you through the day. 

            “Why do you ask?” you’d replied, fingers curling around the mug and its handle, attention fixed on him, unwavering. 

            “Because of the way you look at him. I just wondered.” It was the kind of question that was really just a formality. He was just telling you that he knew. 

            “Yeah, I do.”

            The rest of the shift had picked up on it, silently but surely, tiptoeing around it and ignoring it for the most part, doing their best to act like they didn’t know even if they did. The night shift figured it out one day and Parker and John were never ones to let teasing you go, but they made sure they never did so around Robby. Even they had their limits, teasing as friends, yes, outing your crush to the crushee, no. 

            The only problem is that everyone but Robby knows. And sometimes that seems a blessing, sometimes that seems a curse.

            It seems a curse because you like him, a lot yet you have had to watch him date women after women after women who are nothing like you. You have had to suffer through heartbreak over and over and over without ever saying anything to anyone, only brushing off the questions, putting on a smile and acting like nothing hurts, like everything is fine, everything is normal. What do you mean my heart is breaking? I’m the same me as always. 

            The only person who you have to talk to is Jack Abbot, your best friend. Jack is the one who is there to catch you as your heart breaks, swearing about Robby and how fucking blind he is and telling you to move on or just fucking tell him. It was Jack’s idea to do something to show Robby, but you don’t think he meant this. 

            “Fucking Hanukkah gifts,” he says, looking down at the papers with your notes, ideas and the plan. You researched quite a bit into Hanukkah, the tradition, the dos and don’ts of gift giving for it and the evidence is on the paper, in your own hand. 

            “Yep,” you reply, looking up from your tablet where the last gift to be ordered waits, sitting in the digital cart. “See I’ll leave them as anonymous gifts until the eighth day when surprise I’ll reveal it’s me.”

            “I hope…” he pauses, lips pressing together as he looks from you to the papers, the concerned big brother look in full force, “I hope this goes the way you want, Sunshine. I really do.”

            “It will,” you tell him, voice light, enthusiastic as you press order on the cart, now all eight gifts having been ordered or shipped, soon to be in your possession. 

            “I hope so,” is all Jack says again, sitting down on the couch and reaching for the remote, for your choice of movie for the monthly movie night. “What is it again?”

            “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” you answer and he groans, shaking his head as he clicks through the streaming services. 

            “So, what?” he says. “Are you trying to be your own rom-com now? The Eight Days of Hanukkah or something?”

            “Obviously.”

            But the truth is, it doesn’t matter about the teasing or the groaning, you know Jack has your back. Your best friend, partner-in-crime, and the one who’s stuck on this rodeo with you. 

            You can just see the edge of the silver and blue ribbons that you strung on Robby’s locker, tied from his lock, gift number one dangling from the ends. It’s a small, blue and silver dreidel that you painted yourself, taking special care to paint the nun, gimel, hay and shin right. The symbols on the blue sides are painted silver and the ones on the silver sides are painted blue. 

            You hope that what you’re doing is enough, that it won’t blow up in your face, that Robby won’t snap at the whole of the ER like he’s done a few times since coming back from sabbatical. You hope and hope and hope because really, hope is the thing that keeps people going. It always has. 

            “Hon,” Dana says, her voice soft, her hand gentle as it lands on your forearm, “you’re gonna make it obvious if you keep doin’ that.”

            “But Dana,” you whisper, one hand drifting to your stethoscope, the one you bought yourself when you got the appointment of attending at PTMC a year ago, “I need to see his reaction.”

            “There’s not gonna be a reaction if you keep lookin’ at it like that,” she says, her tone wry, voice a steady, sweet drawl. “You gotta do somethin’ else before he gets here. Migrate back once he arrives, okay, sugar?”

            “Fine,” you say, pushing up and off the nurse’s station, reaching over and pulling an iPad out of the slots. “But if I miss it, I’m blaming you.” You point two fingers at your eyes at then at hers, the universal, ever-dramatic sign for I’m watching you. 

            “Uh-huh, sugar,” she says, waving you off with one hand and turning to the computer, to whatever message has come across it, “go be a doctor now.”

            It’s at that moment that you hear a familiar whistle behind you, one whistling the tune of “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne, one you’ve heard laughing, crying, yelling and simply talking. One that sets your heart aflutter even when you wish it didn’t, even when that crush had meant that you got hurt more often than not. 

            “You’re in a good mood,” you call out, brows knitting together as you look at Robby, at the way he seems happier, a little brighter as he lifts his fingers from his backpack strap to wave at you, continuing on to his locker, never once stopping his humming. 

            “I think someone got laid last night,” you hear Trin call out and your muscles tense, go rigid of their own accord, your tongue pressing hard against the roof of your mouth, eyes hot, kind of burning as your chest constricts for a moment. 

            God, you hate crushing on people. Why does it have to happen? Why can’t you just, not like anybody? Because that would make life a whole lot simpler. 

            “Trin’s just being…well, Trin,” you hear Dennis say behind you, his hand coming to rest on your back, in the place between your shoulder blades. “She doesn’t…mean anything by it.”

            “I’m well aware, Huckleberry,” you whisper, turning your head to look at him, lips pressed thin, nostrils flared and brows quirked as he rolls his eyes, a faint blush of pink upon his cheeks. 

            “I’m rooting for you,” he says and then he steps away, turning back into the bustle of the ED while you glance forwards again, watching as Robby reaches his locker, hands removing the dreidel from the ribbon. 

            You feel as your breath catches, as you wait like the tired expression with bated breath to see his reaction. He looks at it, holding it up and twisting it in his fingers, his humming finally stopped as he slips it into his pale blue zip hoodie pocket, the very same hoodie you got him for his birthday last year, begging him to retire his green one. 

            He slipped it into his hoodie pocket, you realize then, blinking once, twice and fighting back the smile that wants to grow as you turn on your heel, your shoes for once not squeaking on the polished linoleum roll floor as you head to Patient Bay 13, the image of him twirling it between his fingers before slipping it into his pocket remaining with you. 

            Because maybe this wasn’t such a fucked up idea after all. 

            Take that, Jack Abbot. 

            As you’re climbing into your car that day, at the end of shift, body heavy, bones aching and heart just…tired, you can’t help but smile, a small kind of smile because all day, Robby looked at the dreidel when he could, taking it out and spinning it, smiling at it, maybe remembering good times, happy times. 

            When he was stressed in traumas, his hand always drifted to his right pocket, the one where he’d placed the dreidel.

            So, maybe you did something right. 

Day 2: Silver Gelt

            You step into the ED, your bag on your shoulder, hand hooked through the strap, the bag of silver gelt in the water bottle pocket of your backpack. The ED is your favourite place because of how alive it is; it’s a soul-sucking, soul-crushing, murdering machine and you love it. Because it’s never quiet, because it’s always going, because it will always exist. 

            “Look at who’s in to help us this fine, fine morning!” a voice calls out and you stop in your tracks, sighing once, the kind of sigh that is less a sigh and more just a sound of annoyance. 

            “What do you want, John?” you call out, glancing over your shoulder to see Thing 1 standing there, arms crossed and the ever-present accessory of a Dunkin’s iced coffee in his hand. 

            “I’m just so glad that a day shift doc came in super early before their shift, just to help us out,” he says and you glare at him, eyes narrowing even more as Parker walks over, their face lit up, lips pulled back in their smirk. That’s the only word for that smile. 

            “Could it be that Doc Sunshine is actually here to help us, night crawlers?” they ask and John uncrosses his arms, lifting one hand to his chin, rubbing it as if he has a beard on that smooth, baby-face. 

            “Or could it be that she’s satisfying her own selfish love interests?” he counters and Parker gasps, the sound fake and overdramatic, their dark eyes wide as they look at you. In response, you lift your hand, flipping them off. 

            “Fuck off, Things 1 and 2,” you reply, turning back to the locker room. “Don’t forget!” you call out. “You promised not to tell!”

            “Wow!” you hear John yell, his voice once again returned to its normal deadpan. “How quickly you doubt your friends.”

            “We’d never tell,” you hear Parker say, “we’re just bugging you, man! Go win your old man over!” You can’t help but roll your eyes at their words, slipping into the locker room and dropping your bag at your feet, pulling the blue and silver embroidered bag from your water bottle pocket, punching in Robby’s locker code, the light turning green and you pull the door open. 

            You and Robby exchanged codes in that just in case event. That just in case being one of you is mortally injured or dying or needs something and can’t get away to get it. And, it really helps you out right now as you set the bag with the silver gelt inside, shutting the locker door, lock clicking as it closes. 

            “All good?” Jack calls out and you turn to him, giving him a thumbs-up as you toss your bag back over your shoulder. 

            “All good.”

            “I need those labs on the kid in Central 3 back now, Whitaker,” you say as the two of you step out of the room, the iPad held to your chest. “Do whatever you can, just get them!”

            “Yes, of course,” he says, cheeks flushing the way they always do when he gets even slightly nervous. “I’ll…I’ll do that right now.”

            “Okay,” you reply, turning away from him, towards the nurse’s station, your heart stopping for just a moment at the sight there. At Robby laughing with Dana and Jack, holding the bag of the silver gelt you got him, unwrapping a piece of the chocolate and popping it into his mouth. 

            He looks…happy. Light. You hope it’s the gifts, but something inside of you worries that it’s not. That it’s someone else. 

            “Give me one,” Jack says, his voice carrying across the ED as he nods at the bag of the chocolate, but Robby shakes his head, pulling the bag to his chest. 

            “My secret…Hanukkah gift-giver got these for me,” he replies, his voice as light as he seems, the sound making you happy, a small smile blooming on your face as you bounce on the balls of your feet, walking over to the nurse’s station, a renewed spring in your step. “Get your own secret gift giver.”

            “Dana?” you call out, eyebrows raised as you exchange one iPad for another, another patient, another bay, another problem that you get to solve. “Any labs back for me?”

            “Let me check, sugar,” she says, reaching over and squeezing your forearm in the touch she has that is maternal and safe and precious all the same time. You can feel Robby’s body not far from yours, seeming to radiate heat over to you as you lean on the counter, your torso and arms digging into the edge, no doubt lines will be on your forearms after. 

            “Hey, Sunny,” you hear him say, his voice raspy in that way that sets your soul aflame and you turn to him, a small smile on your face, one that stutters, shutters for a moment like a malfunctioning camera lens when you see the smile on his face, the way he’s tipped the bag towards you. “Want one? I have a secret admirer, apparently and, you know, spoils are no fun when it’s just for yourself.”

            “What?!” Jack cries, his face twisting in mock hurt and irritation. Well, knowing Jack it’s real irritation, but it might not be; everything both does and doesn’t irritate him. He’s not an open book. “She gets one and I don’t?!” You roll your eyes at him, sticking your tongue out as you reach forwards, pulling one of the silver coins from the bag. 

            “I’m special, Jack,” you counter, your eyes flicking back to Robby, your heart skipping beats when you see that he’s still looking at you with that precious half-smile he has. The one that means he’s really happy. He looks good, really good, unfairly good, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, revealing broad forearms covered with dark coarse hair, a watch on his left wrist, fingers long, thick…you blink, swallowing hard, looking away from him and back to your best friend who stands with his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised as he shakes his head. 

            “You’re really not,” he says. “You’re just nice.”

            “No,” Robby says, turning to Jack, expression darkening. “She is special, Jack.”

Day 3: Sufganiyah

            Your kitchen is a warzone, the counters covered with flour, bits of drying dough stuck on the granite countertops, jelly here and there, glaring red and congealed like blood. It’s more of a murder scene than a warzone, actually, you realize as you stand there, wiping your hands off on the dish towel you’ve tucked into the ties of your apron. A murder of the special donuts currently being deep-fried outside, watched over by one Jack Abbot. 

            “How are they coming?” you call out, stepping out of the kitchen, feeling the flour as it sticks to the lines of the soles of your feet. “Almost done?”

            “Remind me again,” he calls out, “why we’re doing this?”

            “So, that I can work up the nerve to tell Robby that I like him,” you answer, pausing at the doorway, your back porch doors wide open, the smell of oil frying dough acrid and disgusting, but a necessary evil.

            “Don’t lie to me,” he says, looking up at you before back down to the fryer as he scoops a golden brown ball of dough out of the fryer, laying it on the paper-towel laden tray. “You love Robby. There’s a difference between like and love and you crossed it long ago.”

            “No,” you say, but inside you can feel that sinking of your stomach, the pit that tells you that he’s right, that you crossed that line into love. Maybe when you reached out to his grandparents, spoke to his grandmother about her recipe, got her excited that her grandson would be celebrating the holiday with someone again. Maybe when she offered to send you the bag that you’d placed the gelt in, the one from his childhood and the locket that had been in his family for generations. 

            Or maybe just when you spent your days off with him or anything with him. 

            Because you don’t think a crush would hurt this much when they fall for someone else. 

            “Maybe,” you pause, looking up at the still dark morning sky, “maybe I do love him. And maybe that’s what this is all about.”

            “What? Telling him you love him?”

            “No,” you whisper, meeting Jack’s worried, unsure gaze with yours. “Making sure he knows he’s worth it to me.”

            The coffee is brewing and the worst part is, is that it always smells like coffee, yet it never tastes like coffee. But caffeine is caffeine and you forgot to pack both your espresso beans and Kopiko so you have no other option but…breakroom coffee to get your caffeine fix. Energy drinks are out of the question, you can’t stand the fizz in your mouth, the texture of it as it snaps, crackles and pops in your throat as it goes down. 

            You reach up and pull down your mug, the one you keep in the breakroom, emblazoned with your name on it so if anyone uses it, they’re admitting to trying to steal your stuff. And once when you caught Donnie with it, you said that he was stealing your identity, just to be a bit dramatic. 

            “Hey, Sunny,” you hear Robby call out, your body jumping just a bit at his presence that wasn’t there but now is.

            “Hi, Robby,” you reply without turning around, focusing on the nearly full coffee pot, on the so close escape. You didn’t see his reaction to the day three gift and you worry that you’ll give something away if you speak with him, act normal. You’d rather act strange and not have to worry about it than act normal and reveal too early that you’re the admirer. 

            It’s then that the coffeepot beeps and you pull the carafe from its base, pouring the tarlike coffee into your bright blue mug, turning around and waving once at Robby. Robby who is sitting at the breakroom table with the container of three Sufganiyah you packed this morning and tied with silver and blue ribbon. 

            “You know,” he says before you can exit the room, escape your own nerves, “my admirer gave me three of these donuts and that’s one too many.”

            “Shouldn’t that be two too many since there’s only one of you?” you ask, glancing over at him, your heart aching at the way he smiles at you, waving you back and over. Back towards him.

            “I said what I said, Sunshine,” he replies. “You want to share them with me?”

            “Unfortunately,” you answer, nodding your head to the breakroom door, to the ED that lives outside, its own living, breathing entity, “I only had five minutes for my break and I spent them all brewing coffee.”

            “Uh-huh,” he says, “I’m the boss and I am hereby extending your break so you can help me finish these.”

            “Fine,” you sigh, walking back over to the table and sitting down, feeling your joints crack and pop and creak as you do so, reaching into the Tupperware container and withdrawing a single Sufganiyah, the smell of frying dough still clinging to the walls of your kitchen at home. “But only because you made me.”

            “I’ll have it be known,” he says, his voice light and bright to match the smile on his face, the one that appeared as soon as you sat down, as soon as you bit into the pastry, jelly oozing out on your hand, your squeal echoing through the breakroom. 

            His laughter joining it. 

Day 4: Motorcycle Helmet

            You feel dead on your feet and you haven’t even started your shift yet, haven’t even put your stuff in your locker, but honestly, that’s what you get for being convinced by Trinity to go out with her, Dennis and Mel to the karaoke bar, Victoria busy with Cassie. 

            “Looking great, Sunshine,” Jack says as you step into the ED, your bag feeling way too heavy on your back, your only response to flip him off as you walk towards the locker room, your feet already aching. “By the way! It’s all good!”

            That’s when you realize that he dealt with the fourth gift, the one you got both for practicality, point making and sentimentality. The one that Jack had arranged because he had an old army buddy that did graphic design. A buddy that had done the detail work on the motorcycle helmet you bought. 

            Jack had promised yesterday when you went out that he’d deal with the helmet, get it in the locker and everything for you and yay, it all went well. But really, you’re too sore to really care today. 

            “Rough night?” Robby asks and you can feel your heartrate speed up, body tensing, preparing for flight or fight over the jump scare, your one hand pressing against your chest as you turn to look at him, narrowing your eyes and shaking your head at him. 

            “You have no idea,” you reply, voice dry and rough, tired in its own right, tone low, slightly irritated as you turn to your locker, jabbing your button far too hard into the keypad, violent as it beeps and unlocks, the light turning green. You pull on the door and throw your bag in, grabbing your water bottle and box of chocolate covered espresso beans before slamming the door and turning to leave. 

            But seeing Robby holding the helmet and rolling his eyes, lips twisted in a wry smile has you stopped in your tracks, the detail work facing you, his attention focused on the front. 

            “Think my secret Hanukkah giver is making a point?” he asks. 

            “Look at the back,” you tell him, voice still tired, still dry and wry but lightening as you see Stevie Nicks’ logo, the heart with wings and the lyrics thunder only happens when it’s raining. He flips it in his hands, sucking in a deep breath at the blue and silver detailing before lifting his gaze to you, lips quirking in that boyish smile he has. 

            “Guess I have to wear a helmet now.”

Day 5: Leather Bound Collectible of Gray’s Anatomy

            You’re waiting for Robby, leaning against the bank of lockers, listening to his voice as he gives last minute, going off shift advice to the team that isn’t his team, but he just can’t let go of the ED. Even coming back from sabbatical hasn’t changed that, in fact it’s almost worse, like he feels he has to make up for his time away. Like he’s abandoned this place. This place that is alive in its own right, this place that will last long after all of you have gone. 

            “Go home, brother,” you hear Jack say, can imagine him pulling Robby aside and pushing him towards the locker room, pushing him away, to leave. To rest. But Robby’s never been good at that, resting. 

            “I’ll stay for that incoming trauma,” Robby replies and you sigh, rolling your eyes as you push yourself off the lockers, striding to the archway and peering around, taking note of Jack, arms crossed and Robby, one hand in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck. 

            “No, you won’t, Robinavitch!” you call out and you can see as his back goes rigid, muscles tensing as he turns, glancing back to see you, face melting into that happy, regretful expression. 

            “How long have you been waiting?” he asks and you step out from the archway, your arms crossing like a mimic of your best friend, the two of you the wall, preventing Robby’s entrance back to the ED. 

            “Long enough,” you answer, tone arch and dry, “especially considering I was promised disco fries.”

            “But t—”

            “No, Robby,” you interrupt, holding up a hand to stop him in his tracks, his explanation not needed, excuses not important. “Let’s go!” He sighs and holds up both hands in that gesture for I give up, I give up, walking over to you, his lips curving up in that boyish smile he has the closer he gets to you, one hand coming to land on your shoulder, steering you back into the locker room. 

            “Is it just disco fries or have you added to the order considering I’ve made you wait way past shift end?”

            “Oh-ho, I am glad you asked,” you say as he steps around you to open his locker, the square blue and silver wrapped package still sitting on the bottom of his locker, unopened. “It’s now disco fries, a giant chocolate milkshake and…let me think…yeah, coffee.”

            “Milk shake and coffee?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at you, motions paused, bag half on his shoulder, half off. 

            “Yeah,” you tell him, eyebrows arching. “Do you have a problem with that, Michael?”

            “No,” he says, lips seeming set permanently in his smile, other hand grabbing the package, slipping it under his arm, backpack on his shoulder as he slams his locker closed, the lock clicking with its high-pitched electric beep. “No problem.”

            “You haven’t opened the gift yet?” you ask as he turns, the package still wrapped, the special edition of the classic book still inside, unseen. 

            “I’ll do it at the diner,” he says. “Come on.” And he reaches forwards, taking your hand in his, his palm warm against yours and you can feel that hitch in your breath and that ache in your heart because you wish, god you wish that this was a date and he was your partner and not just your friend. You wish that gesture wasn’t a friend just tugging you along after him, but your boyfriend leading you to a date, to romance and love and everything you want and hope the gifts will give you even when you have that feeling that they won’t. 

            The sad fact is, is that even if they don’t work, you’ll still love him and still follow him wherever he leads. Whatever force guides the actions of the universe, it’s a real bitch. 

            “Open it!” you whisper, tone excited as you reach across the diner table and poke him in the arm. He rolls his eyes at you, the gesture sweet and affectionate and layered with knowing and he picks the wrapped book up off the Formica table, fingers sliding into the line of the wrapping paper, sliding along it, the tape tearing off and paper falling open to reveal the gold-leaf lettered copy of Gray’s Anatomy. 

            The book that made him want to be a doctor. 

            He read it when he was a kid, one of the older, long since revised version, one that his local library had put on the free cart, the one for books too old and not used to be taken and he did. He read it in two days at ten years old and told his grandparents the next day that he was going to be a doctor. That he would do what was in the book, that he would know everything that he needed to know. 

            And you found a special edition of the version he spoke about. 

            “Jesus,” he whispers, lifting it from the paper, twisting it in his hands and looking at every facet of the paper. “I…” You can see the tears in his eyes, one slipping down his cheek, tangling in the dark and greying beard, just a bit of shine, a little bit of glitter made of sadness. 

            “Good gift, I take it,” you say and he looks up at you, eyes narrowed just slightly, his nostrils flared as he nods, carefully unzipping his backpack that rests beside him on the red, cracking vinyl booth, sliding the book inside with a tenderness reserved for treasures of the utmost importance. 

            Good gift for sure. 

Day 6: Iron Maiden Hall of Fame Induction Shirt

            “What did you do on your sabbatical?” you ask Robby, the two of you walking into the ED together, matching cups of Starbucks in your hands, thin plastic cups sweating onto your palms. 

            “Not telling, Sunshine,” he says, glancing over at you, sunglasses hiding his eyes from you, the ones you’ve seen in a million different ways, angry and sad and happy and at their lowest. 

            “But why not?” you press as he lifts one hand, pushing the sunglasses up and onto his head, those perfect chestnut eyes warm and familiar as his lips curl up in an affectionate smile. He adjusts his backpack on his shoulder, something jangling inside it, something light and bright and tender. 

            “Because,” he says as the two of you cross the floor towards the locker room, steps in sync, in tandem. You roll your eyes at him, dramatic to make a point, one he pointedly ignores in favour of crossing into the locker room ahead of you. 

            “Did you go to Starbucks?!” you hear John cry and you pause, turning around, lips pressing thin as you see him standing there, arms crossed, Dunkins’s cup in hand. 

            “Yes,” you answer, your tone wavering in the face of his steady, steely gaze. He doesn’t play around with coffee and Dunkins is his place. The one he favours and supports and Starbucks is his enemy. Says they pollute the propriety of the coffee. 

            “Betrayer!” he cries and that’s when you break, your laugh cracking out of you, loud and bright and filling the air, a locker beep sounding behind you. 

            “Sunshine!” you hear Robby and you glance back to see him, holding up the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame shirt you special ordered from their site. “The Hanukkah gift-giver apparently knows I love heavy metal.”

            “Maybe they actually think you’re a lover of Phil Collins,” you counter and he laughs, his face seeming to open up rather than draw together. 

            “Fair enough,” he says and then he’s ducking past you, waving people off to head to the bathroom, the t-shirt balled up in his hand. 

            “I’m still waiting for an explanation you traitor,” John says and you sigh, gritting your teeth and turning back to him, lips pressing into a line. 

            “And I don’t have one except: I felt like it.” 

            “Betrayer.”

            Robby wore the Iron Maiden shirt all day. You could see it poking it out from under his scrub top during traumas, could hear him talking about it and how he’d been a fan for years. 

            It gave that feeling of happiness that is unique to making Robby happy. Even if he doesn’t know that it’s youmaking him happy. 

            But he will, if things go according to plan.

            So, why do you feel like they won’t. 

Day 7: Burned CD

            You’re waiting to see Robby, to see his reaction to the gift today because it’s the one you worked hardest on. It wasn’t easy to figure out how to adapt the new systems of technology for burning a CD like you did as a kid, but you did it, selecting songs you know he loves, ones that remind you of him and one that captures how you feel for him. 

            You even redid the lyric book, taking the album cover of Rumours by Fleetwood Mac and the lyrics of “Songbird” the one that seems to be how you feel for him. You took the sheets of all the other songs on the CD, reattaching all the papers together and tucking it into the grooves of the empty CD case. It was work, but it didn’t feel like work because you love him and you want him to know at the end of all of this, that he’s worth it. 

            He’s slightly late getting in, his eyes tired, but happy as he walks into the locker room, but he freezes at his locker, the CD taped to the outside of it, album cover facing him. He’s frozen for just a moment before he moves, tearing it off his locker with a violent force, tossing it into the garbage can like it’s nothing but a waste. 

            Like it’s disgusting. 

            You swallow hard, pushing up and away from the computer, from charting, feeling like, for all the world, you’ve been gut-punched. You feel light-headed, woozy, off-balance. This, his throwing out of your work, hurts more than seeing him fall in love a thousand times over. Because his falling in love has nothing to do with you, it’s not a rejection rather just a not noticing. 

            That…that was a rejection. 

            “Sugar?” Dana calls out as you stumble, blinking past the tears lining your eyes. Her voice is worried, concerned, but you wave her off, ducking into the bathroom, shoving into a stall and letting the tears fall down your cheeks, slip down your face, searing lines into your skin in their wake as you press your forehead against the cool metal wall of the stall. 

            Best laid plans are always the ones laid to waste. 

            You should have listened to Jack when he said just fucking tell him, Sunshine. Because it would have been a rejection, but it wouldn’t have hurt like this. It wouldn’t have been your hard work rejected like that. Thrown away like it’s nothing. 

            Nothing but an annoyance. 

            The tears slow and you draw in a deep, shaky breath, stepping back from the wall, pressing your palms against your cheeks and wiping away your tears, unlocking the door and stepping out, going to one of the sinks and splashing cold water on your face, patting it dry with paper towels from the dispenser. 

            You look at yourself in the mirror, realizing that the look in your eyes is not sadness but numbness as much as feeling numb seems better than feeling sad, you wonder if it really is. 

            Or if you’re only numb because there’s still a long way to fall.

            You’re tired as you step out into the ambulance, drawing in a deep breath of the winter air, delighting in the way it feels against your fevered skin. Robby was in a foul mood all day, yelling and losing it at everyone and you felt it was your fault. You pushed too much, wanted too much, hoped for a true romantic moment, but it faltered. 

            It failed. 

            You had told Dana you were sick and could she tell Robby you wouldn’t be in tomorrow at the end of shift and she asked if you were okay and you put on the same face you used to when Robby was dating around. The one that says yeah. The one that says fine. The one that says I love myself and definitely don’t think I’m a fuck-up.

            But you’d gone to Jack. Because he was the one who was stuck with you on this crazy, scary, stupid, heartbreaking journey.

            “You were right,” you’d whispered. “It was stupid to do this.” He’d placed his hands on your shoulder, looking at you one way and then another and looked up, seeing Robby behind you. You could tell because his jaw hardened and his nostrils flared. 

            “You don’t need him,” he’d told you. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? I’ll bring your favourite ice cream and we’ll watch whatever movie you want.”

            “Promise?” you’d asked and he’d looked back at you and nodded, lifting one hand from your shoulder to offer you his pinky. You’d wrapped yours around his and he’d whispered, “promise.”

            And Jack always keeps his promises. 

            You shake your head now, coming back to yourself and turning, body going rigid as you see Robby standing there with the director of the daycare, Noelle Patrick. 

            “It’s all set,” she says and you watch as she places her hand on Robby’s arm, the gesture comforting and familiar and all too much like a girlfriend, assuring her boyfriend and oh my god, how dumb could you be?

            Of course Michael Robinavitch has a girlfriend. He always has a girlfriend. How could you be so stupid to think that he was single and you had a chance? You’re his friend. That’s it. And, honestly, you’re done with it all. 

            You’re done with him. You’re tired of feeling this was, so you resolve that when you get home, you’re going to run a bath and play Ethel Cain and drink a glass, maybe two of your expensive red wine and cry until you have no tears left, banishing him from your mind and moving on. 

            You deserve that. 

            He has love and you deserve that too. It’s time to purge him from your mind. 

            “…this Hanukkah thing, Noelle, really?” you hear Robby say, his voice cutting through your resolve, his words causing all your just built walls to crumble because of fucking course he thought the gifts were from his girlfriend. 

            Christ, how could you be so blind?

            You run your tongue along your teeth as you draw in a deep breath, muscles tense as you hook your fingers through the straps of your bag and walk past them, head down, attention locked on your shoes, on the cracked and greying asphalt that scuffs underneath your feet. 

            “One sec,” you hear Robby say to Noelle and then, “Sunshine! Hey, Sunshine, wait up!” But you don’t. You don’t stop or pause or turn around, you just keep going and even though you hear him following, you keep going. You keep going faster until you’ve reached your car and you throw your bag in, climbing in and starting it, driving off before you could hear his voice and decide that you’d rather be his friend than lose him completely. 

            You need a break from him. 

Day 8: His Family Locket Plan Cancelled

            It’s a good day, for the most part, if you can ignore that perpetual ache in your heart. But, for the most part, it’s good—you got up late, put on comfy pajamas and didn’t worry about your hair too much, didn’t worry too much about makeup, rather just remaining comfortable and makeup free. 

            You watched a classic, one guaranteed to make you feel both better and worse, The Princess Bride, the movie you watched as a kid, wishing for a Wesley of your own, but never getting one. 

            You realized this time, watching it, that you’re Wesley, doing everything for Robby with love, determined that he’ll know love, even when all he does is hurt you again and again and again. Except that unlike Wesley who ends up with the one he loves, you’re destined to be alone. Because Robby is no Buttercup. 

            Now, you’re reading, a book you’ve waited on for a year, waited to conclude a book series that you love and you’re curled under a blanket, music spilling from your speakers, surrounding you, the soft, lilting voice of Conan Grey and “Vodka Cranberry.”

            “SUNSHINE!” you hear, accompanied by open-handed slaps on the wood of your front door. You know it’s Robby, know his pitch and timbre and volume like no one else. You know him period, like no one else. “OPEN THE DOOR!”

            You huff out a breath, one of aggravation, irritation and sadness all in one as you push your blanket off and set your book aside, tucking in the bookmark for your page. You were hoping to finish it today, but Michael Robinvatich has other plans and you’re still, sadly, his Wesley. The one who comes when he calls. 

            “Go away,” you say, voice flat as you pull your door open a crack, enough that you can look out and see Robby, his face distressed as he looks at you, tears staining his cheeks. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

            “No,” he says and his voice is quieter, a pitch you haven’t heard before. “I love you, Y/N.” And you know when he says your name, a name he rarely ever says that he loves you. That he means it. But you have watched him date people over and over and over and that was heartbreak enough. Loving him and losing him…that would destroy you. 

            “Go away, Robby,” you say again, your voice still flat. Still strong and steady even as everything inside of you is cracking. “I need a break from everything. That’s why I didn’t come in. So, please, respect me enough to leave me alone.” You move to close the door, but he shoves his foot into the crack, wedging it in place. 

            “I know it was you,” he whispers and your eyes close for a moment, the image of your meddling best friend popping up in your mind as you do so. Fucking Jack Abbot, you think because you know that he told Robby. You know he probably yelled and swore but he didn’t have the right to do that. 

            You wanted this to be done and now it never will be. 

            “Robby,” you whisper, your voice cracking on his name, cracking on that second syllable as he reaches into his back pocket, withdrawing the CD case, the album cover staring up at you, haunting and precious. 

            “I listened to it,” he whispers. “And I owe you an explanation about why I threw it away.” You sigh, the kind of sigh that reverberates through your whole body as you wrench your door open all the way and gesture him inside, conscious of the cold bite of the wind and the fact that you’re not wearing a bra underneath you pj shirt. 

            “Won’t Noelle care where you are?” you ask, closing the door behind him, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him, noticing the way his face has knitted together, confusion shining back at you. 

            “Noelle? What does she have to do with this?” he asks and you look at him, feeling that dumb-founded expression you have take over, the one of absolute shock. 

            “You mean your girlfriend won’t care that you’re here at my house to let me down easy?”

            “Noelle’s not my girlfriend,” he whispers and he reaches into his front pocket, pulling out his phone and opening it up. “She’s my babysitter.”

            “Babysit—” you cut yourself off when you see Robby’s phone screen, see the picture of the infant that was abandoned before he went on sabbatical. Baby Jane Doe. 

            “I adopted her,” he whispers. “That was my sabbatical. She’s my daughter…I named her Abigail.” The baby on his screen is smiling, happy, clapping, eyes wide and innocent. 

            “You’re a dad,” you whisper and he nods, shutting his phone off and slipping it back into his pocket, tapping the CD case with his now free hand. 

            “I threw it out because ‘Songbird’ is the only song I remember my mom playing when I was a kid. The one that was playing when she left and…and never came back. It was all I could hear when the social workers finally came and found me and placed me with my grandparents so I saw this and…I reacted badly.”

            “But you listen to ‘Dreams’ all the time,” you counter and he nods his head, lips twisting into an expression you aren’t entirely sure what it means. 

            “But that’s Stevie Nicks,” he says. “And I listen to her re-recording. ‘Songbird’ is Christine McVie.” 

            “I chose it because…” you pause, swallowing hard, your eyes feeling hot, tears stinging them and the back of your throat, your pulse thudding in the base of your throat, a metronome of your emotions. “Because it’s how I feel about you. But…but you thought Noelle did all of that for you. I heard you Robby so…I don’t think she’s just a babysitter.” He steps towards you, setting the CD on the table you have beside the door, hands resting on your arms as he looks into your eyes, his gaze steady and unwavering. True. 

            “I thought it was her because she’s been pushing me to find my mother,” he whispers. “I thought it was her way of pushing me again.”

            “I—” you pause, unsure what you want to say, caught in a situation you had never imagined. You had imagined giving him the last gift and that was all. Maybe a relationship beginning to unfurl, but mostly you hadn’t wanted to go down in flames of embarrassment at the nurse’s station. 

            “Jack told me,” he whispers now and you could kill Jack, you really could. “See when Noelle had no idea what I was talking about, it clicked that the only person who knew the story of Gray’s Anatomy was you. And I tried to catch you, but you left, so when I went back in to get my bag and follow after you…Jack found me and shoved the CD at my chest and told me to fix my fucking mess. To make it up to you because you deserve so much. Probably more than me, but I’m here, Sunshine. I’m right here now and I want to fix it.”

            “Do you know how hard it is to burn CDs now?” you whisper, your voice thick and teary, the burn of tears echoing through your body as he lifts one hand and wipes away a falling tear with his thumb. 

            “No,” he says, “but I can figure it out if you want one.” Those words are enough to draw a laugh out of you, one that bubbles through you, watery and weak yet strong and light in its own right. “I love you; I just never thought you’d love me back.”

            “Well, I do,” you whisper and his face cracks into a smile that is new, one that is still boyish, but more hopeful and light and happy, so very happy. 

            “I didn’t think I deserved you, to be honest,” he says and you close the distance between the two of you, wrapping him in a hug, one that is tight and needed and necessary to continue to feel. “What was day eight going to be?” he asks, his words ruffling your hair, his arms warm and safe and strong around you. A circle you don’t want to escape from but you startle and pull back, stumbling away from him. 

            “Come on!” you call out and you can hear him following you as you climb the steps of your split level house up to your bedroom, where the box rests on your dresser. “Here,” you tell him, grabbing it and handing it to him as he sinks down on the edge of your (thankfully) made bed. 

            You watch as he pulls open the top of the blue gift box, his breath hitching as he reaches in, fingers looping underneath the aging chain and pulling the old locket out, the Star of David on the front. 

            “Is this…” he pauses, watching the necklace as it dangles, twirling around and around in lazy circles in the air. 

            “Yeah,” you whisper and he looks up at you, his warm chestnut eyes lined with tears. “I called your grandparents when all this started and I was researching Hanukkah and your grandma mentioned this locket. And I asked if I could give it to you and she said of course and she sent it. She told me the whole story too and how much you’ve always loved it.”

            “I can’t—” he breaks off, his body heaving with sobs and you cross the room to him, kneeling before him, your one hand resting on his leg, the other wiping away a tear with the edge of your finger. 

            “Open it,” you whisper and he does, with shaky hands, his breath hitching again and you know what he sees, the old grainy, sepia coloured photo of his grandparents on their wedding day and the other side has a picture of him and you, taken the day you became an attending, his arm around you. He looks at you in the picture while you look at the camera and it occurs to you now that maybe he did love you all along but you just didn’t see it. 

            “I love you,” he whispers, his voice watery and yet steady as he slips the locket on over his neck. The rest becomes a bit of a blur as he pulls you up and presses his lips against yours in a kiss that tastes like chocolate and coffee and hope and love. 

            His lips are warm and soft as they move against yours, his beard scratching your skin in a way that feels precious and delicious and right and like it was always meant to be. The way his tongue slides along yours makes you think it was meant to happen because it feels right. Maybe…maybe this was always going to happen. 

            And that’s what you think all along as he undresses you and you undress him and he slides in and seems to fit, justfit to you. Maybe it’s not the best sex of your life, maybe it’s not proper or earth-shattering or something that makes you not capable of walking, but that’s what makes it all the better. 

            Because it’s real and the way his body feels pressing down on yours as he moves against you is something you wouldn’t trade for anything. 

            Because the sex itself doesn’t need to be earth-shattering, the very fact that it’s with Robby and that he loves you as you love him is earth-shattering. 

            And maybe, the locket he wears moves with his thrusts, hitting you in the face a couple of times, but it doesn’t matter. 

            Because it’s Robby and you love him and he loves you. 

            And that’s enough. 

            “You know,” Robby whispers after, your body drawn against his, the two of you laying underneath the sheets, looking up at the ceiling, your head on his chest, his arms around you and yours around him, “I’ve always wanted my own miracle.”

            “Oh, yeah?” you ask. “Did you get one?”

            “Yeah,” he whispers. “I did. I have you and I have Abigail and what’s more of a miracle than that?”

            “Well then, Michael,” you whisper, shifting on his body to see him, to see his face and that boyish smile and the love in his eyes. “What now?”

“Hey, nurse!” A guy (the guy who had been complaining since he’d gotten a bed) yelled unceremoniously. “I need some help here, I need the bathroom.” Yuck. You usually didn’t mind giving people help with the bathroom, it was a regular part of your job that you’d learnt to live with. But helping creepy guys who are really only in the ER because their poor wives needed some time away from them, that was vile. He was your regular middle-aged white guy; balding, handsy, far too confident in his looks and supposed charm to realise he was making a fool of himself. 

You took in a deep breath and pretended you didn’t want to pummel him. “I’ll call a male nurse to help you out, sir.” You smiled politely. You hoped he wouldn’t make it a big deal, but his smirk fell, and he crossed his arms. 

“You can’t do it?” He asked gruffly, his irritation badly hidden. 

You walked up to the side of his bed, reading over his chart and stats, then sent him a smile. That was your first mistake. “Sorry sir, we just find it easier for our patients to go to the bathroom with someone of their own gender identity.” Second mistake. 

His face scrunched up in that classic ‘you’re pissing me off, and you disgust me’ face that made you slightly sick to see since the last time caused a CT scan. “Don’t start on all that gender bullshit, there’s only two, and I want you to bring me to the bathroom.” His hand wrapped around your arm, holding tighter than comfortable. Great, he was a homophobe too, shocking. Internally, you groaned. Two dicks in one day, really? Externally, your smile dropped. 

“Sir, let go of me or I will have to get security in here,” you stated calmly and slowly. He didn’t budge. In fact, he held on tighter, nails digging into the skin, the pressure building on your skin. You’d be bruised. “Sir! Get your hands off me, or else security will be in here and will restrain you to the bed until the police arrive.” You tried to pull your hand out of his grip, but he just held on tight, that anger just bubbling up in him. 

“Look, I’m just trying to be nice here, alright? You’re a pretty girl who deserves a real man, and I’m trying to give you that, alright?” He spat, face red as he pulled you in closer to him. 

Your mouth worked quicker than your brain. “What about your wife?” You gritted out, voice low and irritated. 

His hand met your cheek before you knew what was happening. The blood rushed through your ears and you barely registered the screams coming from your own mouth as he somehow got on top of you and started hitting. Ahmad was in there as soon as he could’ve been, but it wasn’t quick enough. Blood was pouring out of your nose, and the new cut in your head, and everything hurt. You just lay there, groggy and in pain until Dana helped you up onto a gurney, and Mel started checking you out. 

Michael wasn’t expecting a call from Dana on his one day off, but he welcomed it anyway. “Hey Dana, what’s up?” He asked, his eyes still focused on the jigsaw in front of him. He had to finish the jigsaw before you got home, mostly because you hated how your cat would chuck all the pieces around your apartment and disappear, rendering the jigsaw unsolvable. He did most of it in between his errands and some well-deserved naps throughout the day, and he’d enjoyed himself. He had thoroughly enjoyed heading to the basketball court and showing some of the neighbourhood teens that some old doctor could still beat them. Since then, he’d been lounging around your house and doing some of the most domestic things he could’ve thought of, and it made his heart swell in a way he wouldn’t really care to admit. You two were still new, only 8 months in, but he always felt a bit more at home in your apartment, so much so, that he was thinking of asking to move in together. Your apartment was great, close to the hospital, it had actual decor and life in it, and of course,  you were there. It sounded perfect to him. 

“I’m giving you a heads up because I don’t want you to stress that girl out even more when she comes home,” Dana’s voice was tired and hoarse, another day of trying to run a circus that had lost its tent had taken its toll. “She got hurt today, not badly. But not great either. Worse than the black eye. She has a fracture in her nose, and a hairline fracture in her skull. A patient got handsy and got angry when she didn’t reciprocate,” Dana couldn’t hide the anger in her voice. Angry that this happened at all, angry that men thought they had some kind of ownership of women’s bodies, angry that you got hurt. It was no secret you were her favourite nurse. You always showed up to work with a smile, always stayed late when someone asked, and you apparently made Michael less annoying. “She filled out an incident report, she’s been checked by psyche and neuro, and she’s being driven home. She’s just… look, she’s upset Robby. Rightfully so. This is the second accident this week for her. I sent her home, Mel’s driving her. Take care of her, alright?” 

He wanted to rip his hair out. Fuck, of course, of course, something like this would happen when he wasn’t on the same shift as you, of course. All he could think about was some fucking bastard putting his hands on you, and you having no one to protect you. At least on Tuesday with the black eye, Robby and he came in at the right time to get the asshole away from you. Now, he was waiting at home, doing a fucking jigsaw puzzle, while you were hurt and upset in your car. “Yeah Dana, thank you,” he ran a hand over his face. “How was she before leaving?” 

“Crying. A lot.” She admitted. His heart twisted once more. 

“Alright,” he nodded. “Thanks for telling me.” 

“Take care of her, yeah?”  “Of course.” He assured, ending the call. The jigsaw was quickly put back into its box, the kettle was on, an icepack was out with its freezer-burn melting away, and he was waiting on the couch. 2, 4, 6 minutes passed before the front door opened, and the sounds of your soft sobs were filling his ears. Mel was panicked, he could tell. Her eyes were wide and she was trying to calm you down, but nothing was working. The tears kept coming. 

“Dr. Robby!” She smiled, happy he was here and hopefully able to calm you down. He stood and crossed the room, essentially taking you out of her arms and into his. You settled against his chest, head fitting seamlessly into the crook of his neck. He took your bag out of Mel’s hands and smiled, waving her off. She left with a grateful smile. His attention turned to you. Bruised eye and nose, eye bloodshot, exhaustion clear. 

God, you just wanted to sleep, wanted to turn the world off for a few minutes and not have to feel like this. The aching pain and an overwhelming sense of everything being out of control just made it worse. The fact that Robby was here, in your apartment to get rest, and you were bulldozing in sobbing crying over something as silly as a patient getting a little agitated. 

His hand cupped your face, looking you over in full doctor mode, though his eyes were softer than usual, something you’d been told he reserves only for you. “Fractured?” He asked softly. You nodded, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks as you tried to keep it together. Gently, he pulled you back into his arms, letting you lean against him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He admitted, a soothing hand running up and down your back. 

You gritted your teeth to stop yourself from crying again. Stop, this is stupid. You’re fine. It’s not like you got stabbed. You pushed his arms off of yourself as you gingerly wiped your face, shaking your head. “I-I,” you took a deep breath. “I’m fine. It’s not a big deal, I’m just being dramatic-” 

“Don’t do that,” he shook his head, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and that stupidly attractive squint he constantly does. “Don’t try to pretend this isn’t a big deal, or something not worth getting upset over. You got assaulted. You have fractures in your nose and your skull. You’re allowed to cry.” You shook your head and his heart cracked a little. Of course, you, being the hyperindependent person you were, of course you were thinking about how you were being perceived. You were thinking about how you were inconveniencing him. God, he wanted to shake you into understanding that being there is part of being in a relationship. 

He crossed the kitchen to you in a few steps, as you bit your lip to hold it together. You fiddled anxiously with your hands, trying to keep the inevitable sobs at bay. He noticed. Of course he did, he was Robby, your Robby. The kindest, most fucking caring man in the whole world. His hands wrapped around your waist as he held you against him. “I’m okay.” God, even you could hear how small and shaky your voice was. 

“You’re not, and that’s alright,” he shrugged. “I just want to be here for you. I have the kettle boiling. I have an icepack. I think you should get into some pyjamas, and we can order in, my treat,” he smiled before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I just want to take care of you. You don’t have to do this alone, not when you’re with me.” 

And for the first time in a long time, you felt comfortable enough to let go. He had you.

the pitt masterlist

Then COVID 19 hit in March of 2020 and suddenly? You were seeing less and less of your husband.

His mentor Adamson had passed not even a month ago and you knew Robby had taken it hard, he was the closest thing Robby had to a father. Hell, he even officiated your wedding. Adamson was family to you and Robby. You knew Robby taking the Chief Attending Physician position was inevitable, you just didn’t know it would come so soon and not like this. Adamson was supposed to retire in two years and enjoy the rest of his life and then Robby was going to take over the position.

“Are you going to take the position?” You asked, cutting up your steak, “I support you either way baby.”

“Who’s gonna take it if I don’t? They need somebody and I’ve already been doing since Adamson got Covid.” He said, moving his food around on his plate.

“I just don’t want you to overwhelm yourself.” You explained, taking a bite of your food, “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine. I can handle myself.” He started, “Why does everyone keep worrying about me? Walking around me like I’m made of fucking glass.”

“Because you just lost Adamson and I don’t want to lose you to the darkness.” You said, reaching over to squeeze his hand, “Talk to me baby or talk to Abbot, we just want you to know we are here for you.”

“I’m handling it on my own.” He snapped, pulling his hand away, “Just stop trying to fix me.”

“Honey..” You started, “Please.. I didn’t mean to start a fight. It’s your first day home, I wanna enjoy this with you.”

“If you wanted to enjoy our meal, you wouldn’t have poked and prodded around.” He snapped, picking up his plate, “I’m gonna eat in my office.”

“Wait baby, please.” You said, tears stinging your eyes, “We don’t get many nights like this, I just want to spend time with my husband.”

That part was true. There was a shortage of doctors, especially due to COVID which meant Robby practically lived at the hospital and this was the first time in a week you had seen your husband.

“And at home is the only time I get some damn peace and quiet.” He barked back, “Just let me by!”

The door slammed to his office and you winced. This was his way of grieving and he just needed space.

He did lose a man who was his biggest supporter and believed in him no matter what. You just wished he would let you in.

After a just a couple more bites, you set your plate down and decided to clean up. If Robby wanted more, he could come out and make his own plate.

He did want his space after all.

———————————————————————————

It was going onto 10:00 pm and neither of you had spoken since the dinner outburst. You sat cross legged on the couch, working on a crossword book Abbot’s wife had given you last Christmas. The word you were looking for was a state or spell of low spirits, how ironic.

You were too focused to hear your husband come out of his office and head into the kitchen.

“I got your favorite ice cream on my way home yesterday, I figured we could share some.” He called out, putting his dishes in the dish washer.

This was his way of a peace offering, an ‘I’m sorry I was a dick at dinner, please let me be with you’ offering.

“Sure, just bring over two spoons.” You called out, moving onto the next word in your cross word.

A word that describes healing between two people. Easy, reconciling. You penciled it in then closed the book, setting it down on the coffee table.

“You giving up on your crossword?” He asked, sitting down next to you, “What would Lyla say?”

“Lyla would get it.” You said with a weak laugh, taking the spoon from him.

“Lemme see, maybe I can help you.” He offered, taking the book, “Which one are you stuck on?”

“Oh it’s the one that is state or spell of low spirits. For some reason, I’m stuck on it. It’s eleven letters.” You explained with a sigh.

Robby put on his readers and clicked his tongue, reading over the boxes, “Lemme think for a minute.”

“Go for it.” You said, taking a bite of your ice cream. You leaned on him to look over at the cross word, “You stuck too?”

“Hey now, don’t doubt me just yet.” He said with a smirk, “I think you should try the word Dolefulness.”

You two traded and you immediately wrote in the word, “Smartass, you got it.”

“I’d like to think you didn’t doubt me.” He said, setting down the ice cream, “Alright, I gotta address the elephant in the room.”

“Oh really?” You asked, adjusting yourself to sit across from him, “And what’s that?”

“Don’t be snarky.” He warned, “But.. I’m sorry I pushed you away. Well, been pushing you away.”

You nod, letting him continue.

“I just.. no one was there for me when my grandmother died. I have learned to grieve in an unhealthy way and I put that on you.” He said with a sigh, “And you don’t deserve that. You are only trying to help.”

“Let’s put the ice cream up.” You said, “Because sounds like we got some talking to do.”

Soon enough, you were laid back on the couch while Robby was between your legs, your fingers lightly tracing his hand.

“I mean I’ve been at PTMC ER since my late 20s.” He said with a sigh, “He clearly saw something in me. It’s just.. I thought I had more time. I wanted more time to prepare.”

He moved to look up at you, tears stinging his eyes, “What if I let everyone down in that ER? What if I let Jack down? What if everything Adamson worked for goes down the drain because of me?” He whispered, “What if I fail you?”

“You will never fail me.” You whispered, leaning down to kiss his head, “You will not fail. Out of everyone in that department, you are capable of doing this position. You were already told the position was yours when Adamson announced he was retiring in two years from now. He knew you could do this.”

“He was supposed to retire to the cabin on the lake and spend the rest of his days fishing and drinking bourbon.” Robby bit out, “What if I could have saved him? What if I had done something differently? Adamson could still be alive!”

“But he isn’t Robby.” You said, cupping his face, “There was nothing you could’ve done. I’m sorry. But you cannot let yourself get beat up by that.”

“I-I…” Robby whispered and started crying into your hands, “I’m just scared I’m not capable enough.”

“You are.” You whispered, “Baby, maybe you need to see a therapist.”

You could see the flash of anger of his eyes where you knew he wanted to snap at you, to tell you that he didn’t need therapy. Because he didn’t need saving. But then he settled and nodded, “Yea, I’ll look into it. Maybe look into an outside therapist.”

You nodded and wiped his tears away, “One day at a time baby.” You whispered, “We take it one day at a time.”

“I love you.” He said softly, “I really do love you and I am so sorry I have been an absent husband.”

“I forgive you.” You said softly, “Why don’t we go to bed baby?”

He nodded and sat up, “Good idea.” He said softly, stretching a bit, “Those hospital beds are so uncomfortable.”

“I can only imagine.” You said, following him to the bedroom.

———————————————————————————

“O-Oh fuck baby, you feel so good- so fucking good.” He moaned into your ear, his beard tickling your shoulder.

You were on your stomach, your ass propped up with pillows you bought specifically for this activity. Robby’s hands were intertwined with yours, his balls smacking against your skin with each thrust.

“I love you Robby baby, I love you so much.” You moaned out, squeezing his hands as he fucked you from behind.

He gently kissed your shoulder and moved to rest his forehead on your back as he thrusted his cock into you. With each thrust, you swore you felt something wet hitting your back.

“Robby baby, are you crying?” You asked softly, “Baby, it’s okay.”

“N-No I’m fine.” He whimpered, his thrusts getting faster, “I-I just- you feel so good baby.”

“I love you baby.” You moaned out, heat pooling in your stomach, “I love you so so much.”

“I love you too.” He whimpered, choking a sob, “Mmph fuck- I’m gonna I’m gonna cum- oh baby!”

After a couple of quick thrusts, Robby came inside of you. Your orgasm quickly followed suite and you squeezed your husband’s hands, your broke moans muffled by the pillow.

Robby sloppily bucked his hips into you, riding out his orgasm and he whimpered into your shoulder, “I-I’m sorry baby, I don’t know- I don’t understand why I’m crying.” He whispered then let out a nervous laugh, “This isn’t hot, I know.”

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay. Let me get showered and then we’ll cuddle.” You promised, reaching back to rub his head.

Not even an hour later, you were lying in bed while you held Robby, gently running your hands through his hair.

“I sent the email while I was in my office to Gloria stating I would take the job.” Robby said, his voice muffled against your chest.

“You are going to do great in this position.” You whispered, “I promise you. You won’t fail any of us.”

“They wanted me to send a photo for their social media making the announcement. Could you send me the one of us from the gala together? I really like that one.” He explained, his hand gently rubbing your side.

“Yea I’ll do it now.” You whispered, grabbing your phone.

Your wallpaper lit up as being a photo of you and Robby from your wedding, the two of you were feeding each other cake.

“I love that photo us.” He whispered softly, watching as you found the gala photo.

“The cake one?” You asked, “Or the gala one?”

“You look amazing in both.” He said softly, “But my personal favorite is the cake one.”

“I just feel like that photo captured our true selves.” You said with a smile, “Plus the cake was amazing.”

He smiled up at you as you sent him the gala photo, “I’m sorry I was such a dick earlier.”

Your fingers stilled in his hair and you sighed, “I’m on your side baby.”

“I know.” He said, relaxing into you, “And I take that for granted.”

“Thank you.” You said softly, setting your phone down, “I do forgive you.”

“I love you.” He whispered, grabbing your hand to kiss it.

“I love you too.” You whispered, clicking off the lights, “Let’s get some rest baby.”

The two of you fell asleep in each other’s arms, Robby holding you just a little tighter.

———————————————————————————

Since marrying Robby, you had learned his routine rather quickly. You always made sure you were up at least 10 minutes before him, just so you could make his routine a little easier.

So there you were in the kitchen, making his coffee and breakfast and lunch. You figured he was going to stay at the hospital when he worked so you packed him all his favorite snacks plus a little smiski figure with a little laptop.

The smiski was a joke between you two. He had a medical presentation at Pitt Med and you two had explored around campus town afterwards. You two had found a cute little trinket shop and he had bought the blind box because you made a joke how he made the same facial expression as the smiski.

Thats how research smiski always ended up in his lunchbox.

You heard his alarm go off and a soft groan come from the bedroom, “Baby?” He called out, clearly half asleep.

“Packing your lunchbox!” You called out as you heard him get up.

He padded into the kitchen, stretching as he came in, “Ooh what’s on the menu for me today?” He asked, putting his head on your shoulder.

“For breakfast, I made you a breakfast sandwich, pb and chocolate granola with vanilla yogurt, some fruit, and a protein bar. For lunch, left overs plus pasta and heath bar cake.” You said with a smile as he started to kiss your neck.

“You spoil me.” He mumbled against your neck, rubbing his beard against you, “And that is why I made you a stay at home wife.”

You leaned back on him, smiling, “And I thank you every day for that.” You cooed as he wrapped his arms around your stomach.

“What time is it?” He mumbled against your neck.

“5:15 am.” You mumbled, “Why do you ask?”

Robby paused, clearly thinking for a second. He then turned you to face him, “You know? I’ve heard sex is a stress reliever.”

“Honey, you don’t have to convince me.” You cooed, yelping as Robby threw you over his shoulder, “Robby! Don’t hurt yourself!”

“I’m still young and fit!” Robby said, smacking your ass as he carried you to the bedroom, “Now lemme have sex with my beautiful wife before I don’t see her for a couple days.”

“Don’t remind me! I miss my personal heater in bed.” You whined as Robby tossed you onto the bed.

“Once everything settles.” He said, taking his boxers off, “I’m taking time off and we are going to go camping. Just me, you, and the woods.”

“I’m holding you to that Robinavitch.” You warned as Robby opened your legs.

“We’ll see if Cowan’s Gap has openings.” He mumbled, slotting himself between your legs.

You pulled him in for a kiss, letting yourself get lost in him.

———————————————————————————

After you two made love, you watched him get ready from the bed, “What color undershirt today baby?”

Robby stared at his neatly folded up undershirts, clearly lost in his own head. You got up, putting on his boxers that he had taken off before sex, “Baby?” You asked softly, putting on a sweatshirt.

He still didn’t acknowledge you and by the looks of it, you could tell he was focusing on Adamson.

You gently walk over and rub his back, “Why don’t you wear your navy under scrub shirt? I think you always look good in navy.”

Robby sniffled a bit and nodded, “Yea okay.” He said softly, “I-I’m sorry, I’m in my head.”

“It’s Adamson, isn’t it?” You asked softly and Robby tensed up.

“God I hate that you know me so well.” He bit out, more angry at himself.

“I’m supposed to, I’m your wife.” You said, grabbing his undershirt, “Don’t start this baby, not today.”

“You’re right.” He said softly, rubbing a hand over his face, “God I’m an ass.”

You gave him a look and he just laughed, “How do you put up with me?” He asked as he started getting dressed.

“Lots of coffee and lots of patience.” You said with a smirk and he let out a fake scoff, “Get dressed. You don’t wanna be late.”

You moved out of the closet to give him some space, “Do you need a go bag?”

“Yes please.” He said, “I work 5 in a row then two days off.”

You winced at the hours, knowing that when your husband came home work was still gonna be on his mind.

“But those two days.” He called out as he changed, “Are going to be dedicated to you, me, and a movie marathon, ooh maybe we can watch tiger king!”

“Really?” You laughed as he stepped out of the closet all dressed, heading towards you.

“Cmon…” he cooed, leaning down to kiss you, “It’ll be fun.”

“It would be nice spending time with my husband, Dr. Michael Robinavitch.” You cooed against his lips as you two kissed.

“Dr. Robinavitch, woah we are pulling out the fancy names Mrs. Robinavitch.” He said, stealing one more kiss.

He squeezed your hips and headed into the bathroom, starting to trim his beard, “You didn’t tell me I was getting gray hairs in my beard!” He called out as he started his razor.

“I think it looks sexy!” You called out, gathering his stuff.

He took his stuff from you and lightly pecked your lips, “I love you. I’ll see you in five days.”

“I love you too honey!” You called out softly, watching him load up his Tacoma.

He blew you a kiss goodbye and drove off to work.

———————————————————————————

He knew you should’ve probably just driven him to work this morning, maybe then he wouldn’t have gotten so stuck in his head.

His playlist chose Thousand (Acoustic) with Rosie Carney and Lisa Hannigan. It was like a cruel twist of faith, especially with how it was conn

“I like this as a wedding song.” Adamson explained, sipping his bourbon, “It’s soft and has a sweet melody.”

Robby let out a laugh, sipping his own bourbon, “Really?”

“You don’t?” Adamson asked, relaxing into the porch swing, “It doesn’t remind you of her?”

“Never said that.” Robby said, leaning back in his chair, “I just.. it needs to be perfect. She’s perfect.”

He had invited Adamson over for dinner since you had gone out with your girls for a little girls night. You had put him in charge of picking the first dance song and he was absolutely struggling. So he recruited Adamson.

“You really love her, don’t you?” Adamson said with a smile, “Never thought I’d see the day you get married.”

“What’s that mean?” Robby said with a snort, “Never thought I’d get married?”

“Now you’re putting words in my mouth.” Adamson said then paused, “You were married to your job Michael.”

Robby paused, setting down his bourbon, “Way to call me out.” He said with a laugh.

“Am I wrong?” Adamson asked and Robby shook his head, “Because believe me when you came into PTMC, I knew you were gonna be a workaholic. You are good at saving people. But you also need a life outside of work and she brings you out of that.”

Robby rubbed his chin and nodded, “Yea, you are absolutely right.” He said with a sigh, “Believe me, you’ll be grandpa Adamson in no time.”

“Better be. I wanna enjoy my retirement teaching little Robinavitch bad habits.” Adamson said with a smirk, “I’m excited for your wedding.”

“Me too.” Robby whispered softly, “I think it’s my first dance song Adamson.”

“Called it.” Adamson said, clinking his glass with Robby, “To your future marriage.”

The song ended on the radio and Robby immediately snapped back to the present. He didn’t even realize he was crying till he tasted the salty tears on his cheek.

“I love you. I’m sorry. I forgive you. Please forgive me.” He whispered as he continued to drive, “Oh fuck, Adamson I am begging you to forgive me.”

He soon pulled into the employee parking lot and immediately got out and started to panic. He couldn’t catch his breath and he couldn’t do this. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Adamson should still be alive. He should still be chief of medicine and working with him today, not buried 6ft under.

“Robby!” Abbot called out, speed walking as best as he could, “Brother! Are you okay?”

“A-Abbot? What are you? Why are you?” Robby said, his breath still quickening, “I thought you worked tonight.”

“I do.” Abbot said, “But my wife.. she’s not..”

He knew Abbot couldn’t finish that sentence. They had found out his wife had cancer right at the beginning of the year and every day was starting to get harder for her.

“I-I’m sorry.” Robby said, pulling Abbot into a hug, “God Jack I am so sorry.”

Abbot sniffled softly and nodded, “One day at a time.” He whispered, “We take it one day at a time.”

Robby nodded and wiped his eyes, “Right.” He whispered, “Well, I’ll let you go. Tell her I said hi and I’m thinking of her. We both are.”

Abbot nodded and patted his back one more time, “I’ll see you tonight.”

The two men parted and Robby headed into PTMC, prepared to officially step into the role as chief of medicine.

———————————————————————————

As Robby got his temperature checked through registration and grabbed a mask, slipping it on. He passed through the ER, dropping his bags off in the locker room.

“Nice to see you Dr. Robby.” Shen said with a tired smile, “Congratulations on the new role.”

Robby didn’t know Shen that well due to him being on night, but so far he seemed like a good doctor who still seemed to have that light inside of him.

“Thanks Shen.” He said with a nod, “See you tonight kid.”

Robby left the locker room, trying to avoid what the ER looked like around him. He couldn’t face it, not today or at least not yet.

“Just the person I’m looking for.” Gloria called out, waving him in a private hallway, “Ready for your picture?”

“Sure.” Robby answered with a sigh, “I’m ready.”

Gloria took out her phone and aimed to take a photo, “You can take your mask off Robinavitch.”

He took it off, holding it in his hand. Robby looked right into the camera and just stood there, unable to smile or give anything beside a RBF. Maybe he should’ve tried to fight for you to just take the photo at home, he probably would’ve smiled for you.

“All done. Do you wanna see it?” Gloria offered and Robby shook his head.

“No it’s fine.” Robby said, putting his mask back on.

“Congratulations Robby, we’ll send you a promotional gift basket to your address.” Gloria said, passing him a badge buddy that said ‘Chief of Emergency Medicine’.

He took it, clipping it to his old badge. His badge reel was one you had bought him, it was the two of you on your wedding day. Now he wore it more than ever because it was the only way he could be close to you now.

“We’ll be sending you a promotional ‘congrats’ gift basket.” Gloria said, putting on her mask, “I am sorry it all went down like this Robinavitch.”

She quickly left, leaving Robby alone in the hallway with that sentence.

‘I am sorry it all went down like this.’

She was right, it was never supposed to go down like this. It was supposed to happen with Adamson getting a surprise retirement party at a cabin. He was going to meet his adoptive grandchild that would hopefully be able to walk by then. They were supposed to celebrate him.

But there was no celebration, life just kept moving on like nothing had happened. Life didn’t stop for anyone and it especially wasn’t going to stop so that Michael Robinavitch could grieve the loss of his father figure.

Right now, he needed to doctor the fuck up and treat his patients, save people that needed saving. Because that’s what Adamson would want him to do.

He headed back into the ER, trying to swallow every little thing that was killing his spirit inside. Because Michael Robinavitch in the end was always dedicated to his job.

Because that’s what becoming Chief of Emergency Medicine meant, dedicating his life to saving patients and guiding students.

Even if it killed him.

The days passed quickly. You had a little less than a week left until your classes started, so you spent your days with your aunt. The two of you had always been close, but when your parents died earlier this year, you started leaning on her more than usual.

That’s what had driven you to Pittsburgh in the first place. You’d applied to the University of Pittsburgh’s doctoral program as your safety school, never intending to actually go there, but then your life took an unexpected turn, and you found yourself needing the emotional support of your favorite aunt and uncle.

They accepted you with open arms, helping you find an apartment that you could afford, conveniently situated between campus and their house. Your aunt helped you settle in, and her presence was largely comforting in the new space, reminding you of your mother. They had many of the same mannerisms, similar faces and voices, but there was a warmth that your mother had that was now missing. It left you feeling hollow.

Still, you let your aunt pull you along with her to the grocery store, helped her prepare meals, attended synagogue, and pretended like everything was fine.

Friday rolled around before you knew it, and unlike last week, it wouldn’t just be the three of you. Your aunt had given you the basics on your dinner guest. Your Uncle David had grown up with Michael here in Pittsburgh, and the two of them had been casual friends for most of their lives. Michael, who actually preferred to go by Robby, was a doctor in the Emergency Department of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. He came around every so often when your aunt could convince him to let her cook for him, but for the most part, he was alone in the world.

“It’s sad, really,” Aunt Deb spoke over her shoulder from her place at the stove. You stood at the kitchen island in their cozy brownstone, idly tossing the salad as you listened to her. “He was raised by his grandmother, but other than her, I don’t think he has much family.”

“And she died back when we were in college,” your uncle added. He passed behind you as he entered the kitchen, pressing a comforting kiss to the top of your head, recognizing that the topic was likely to bring up some negative feelings for you. “It was very sad. She was a wonderful woman—everybody loved her.”

You thought of your own parents’ funeral just a few months ago. The pews of the synagogue you’d grown up in were filled with mourners. People came up to you as you stood alone by the door, telling you how wonderful they’d both been, how sad—no, how tragic—it all was.

The doorbell rang, pulling you from your thoughts. You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I’ll get it,” you all but croaked, desperately trying to shove the emotion down.

You dropped the tongs into the salad bowl, practically bolting from the room to answer the door. You took a moment in the hallway, taking some steadying breaths. You looked at yourself in the large mirror that hung on the entryway wall, zhuzhing your hair and painting a charming smile on.

“Hi,” you sighed, trying to make your voice sound light, swinging the door open. “Come on in.”

Michael—no, Robby—stood just outside, his large frame taking up your entire view. He looked much more put together than when you had first met a few days prior—now in a crisp white button-up tucked into dark slacks. His left hand was shoved into his pocket, and the other was wrapped around the neck of a very expensive-looking bottle of wine. Your eyes drifted back up to his face. The porch light caught the grey in his beard just right, catching your attention on the shimmering patch just below his bottom lip. It suddenly occurred to you that you were staring, and at his mouth no less. What the fuck were you doing?

You flicked your gaze back up to his eyes. He was watching you intently, and your face burned at the realization. Robby stared back at you expectantly, one eyebrow quirked in amusement.

“Shit, sorry,” you stammered, stepping back out of the way so that he could actually come in the door. “I mean–”

Robby chuckled good-naturedly, making you feel marginally better about your fumble.

“It’s okay,” he smiled. He turned to face you as you stepped behind him to shut and lock the door back into place. “You look nice.”

The truth was, you did look nice. You’d worn one of your favorite dresses and put real effort into doing your hair. You’d gone above and beyond to look nice, but you just couldn’t figure out why. You told yourself that it wasn’t because of Robby—at least not specifically—but that it was because there’d be a guest at dinner. You thought you’d put in an effort for any guest. And even if it was because of Robby, it was because he was a doctor. He was probably someone who knew people, someone who might be able to help you out professionally.

“Thanks,” you mumbled. “You too.”

You led Robby further into the house, reaching the small dining room where Aunt Deb was setting the food that the two of you had spent the day preparing on the table. She grinned at Robby as he entered the room, pulling him into a big hug.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” you heard her whisper to him.

They parted, and she took the wine from him, shouting something like “you didn’t have to bring anything” over her shoulder on her way to the kitchen to uncork the bottle. Robby glanced over to you and let out one of his breathy laughs, which you’d started to recognize as his standard reply to just about everything.

“Robby,” your uncle greeted, shaking hands with the man, pulling him in to pat his back in a more ‘masculine’ hug. “It’s been too long.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he replied.

Aunt Deb came back into the room, the bottle of wine tucked under one arm and the last dish in her hands: the perfectly baked challah. You helped her place the final items on the table, and the four of you gathered to take your places.

The dinner was nice, blessings and conversations and wine flowing easily. Once, when Robby leaned forward over the table to reach something closer to your side, you caught a glimpse of a thin gold chain beneath his dress shirt. You had to force away the brief thought of it dangling over you that flashed into your head.

Instead, you asked Robby about his job at the ED, listening to his stories about the exciting department intently.

“You know,” your aunt chimed in as Robby finished telling you about one of his cases from the day, avoiding key details that would invoke a HIPAA violation. “Y/N’s going to be a doctor.”

“No,” you tried to correct.

“Yes,” she challenged.

You turned back to face Robby, trying to rectify the situation. He just looked at you with those kind, expectant eyes.

“I mean, yes, technically,” you started. “But not like you. I’m getting my PhD, not an MD.”

“Oh,” he nodded. “Interesting, what are you studying?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek. This was usually where you lost people.

“Microbiology and Immunology,” you stated. Robby’s eyebrows shot up, the lines on his forehead deepening. He looked… surprised? Amused? Impressed? You couldn’t quite place it. “With a specification in Epidemiology,” you added finally, biting your lip.

“Huh,” he voiced. Maybe baffled was the right word. “That’s, uh, wow…” He was blinking a lot. “And, uh, Pitt…” he continued. “They have a good program for that?”

“Pretty good,” you shrugged. “I was actually supposed to go to Johns Hopkins, but my, um,” you swallowed, “plans changed. Decided I wanted to be closer to family.”

“Well, we’re very proud of her,” Uncle David interjected, trying to lighten the mood before you could completely derail dinner. “And we’re so glad she’s here.”

He reached over and gave your arm a squeeze. You forced a tight smile in an effort to reassure him.

The rest of dinner went by quickly, as you stayed mostly quiet, listening as the others conversed. They fell into an easy conversation about mutual friends and your cousin’s engagement. It was not lost on you that now that her last son was soon to be married, your aunt would turn her match-making eye to you.

As you stood in the kitchen, helping to clean dishes and package leftovers for Robby to take home, it seemed the same idea occurred to Aunt Deb.

“Michael,” she started, looking over at him where he leaned against the kitchen island just waiting to be dismissed for the evening. “You meet a lot of people at the hospital.”

Robby opened his mouth to respond, probably to ask her what the hell she was getting at, maybe to shut down whatever she was going to ask next, but he couldn’t get a word in as she continued anyway.

“And I don’t mean patients,” she clarified. “I mean, it’s a teaching hospital, right? So you get a lot of young doctors coming in and out.”

“Sure,” he answered warily, not quite sure where this was going. 

But you knew. You saw her glance over at you when she set down the dish towel. Her smile was sweet—she wanted something, and she was determined to get it.

“Aunt Deb,” you warned, trying to put a stop to this train wreck. She ignored you.

“Great!” she beamed. “Then you can introduce Y/N to any nice Jewish boys you meet.”

“Oh, Deb, I don’t–” he argued.

“You really don’t need to do that,” you reassured before turning back to your clearly deranged aunt. “Aunt Deb, Robby doesn’t–”

“He doesn’t mind,” she retorted, swiftly shutting down any possible argument you could muster.

You turned back to face him, shooting him a pleading look with your eyes, begging him to talk some sense into her.

“Sure, fine,” Robby sighed. “I can’t say I meet many interns who fit that bill, but if I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“That’s all I ask,” she concluded. “You staying over, honey?”

“What? No, I–” You’d completely forgotten about that: no driving on the sabbath. “I thought you could take me home, but…”

Your aunt and uncle were far more orthodox than your parents had been. Growing up, you could get away with driving on a Friday night, or at least taking public transit. And when you’d moved out of your parents’ house, you’d basically disregarded most of the standard Jewish laws. Now, you were having to relearn everything you’d forgotten from Hebrew school.

“I can walk you home.” Robby’s voice broke your contemplative silence. Before you could argue, he added, “I’d be happy to, really. It’s a nice night.”

The two of you made it out the door about 20 minutes later, after several rounds of hugs and “are you sure you don’t just want to stay over”s. Stepping out into the cool summer evening air felt nice. You fished your phone from your bag, intending to pull up the directions to your apartment, but Robby was already walking.

“This way,” he called. 

You trotted after him, curious as to how he was so sure he knew the way to go when you hadn’t told him where you lived. You rounded the corner at the end of the block. 

“How passionate are you about actually walking home?” he asked, but you weren’t quite sure what he meant. “Because…”

You watched as Robby pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket, clicking the button a couple of times. Just a few feet away, the lights of a nice-looking SUV flashed.

“Oh, thank god,” you thought aloud. Robby chuckled, taking that as answer enough to his previous question.

He opened the passenger door for you, offering his hand for you to use to steady yourself as you climbed in. The soft leather seats felt nice against the backs of your thighs, your dress riding up slightly. Robby closed the door once you were settled, and you watched as he circled the car to the driver’s side. Once inside, he passed you his phone as he started the engine.

“Put your address in there for me,” he instructed.

You did as he said, and the directions appeared on the large screen between the two of you. Wordlessly, he pulled away from the curb, starting your journey home. You set his phone on the center console. The quiet was nice, comfortable, which was strange for the circumstances. You hardly knew this man, and yet, you felt completely safe in his presence.

Robby broke the silence first. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said. “I didn’t mean to trigger anything, asking about school and stuff…”

Oh, that.

“It was my fault, really,” you assured. “You had no way of knowing. It seems like you haven’t really seen my aunt and uncle in a while, so there probably hasn’t been much time to talk about my dead parents.”

You were trying to make a joke, trying to make it sound light as it came out of your mouth, but it seemed—like so many of your other attempts at humor—to fall flat.

“I–” Robby was struggling to find the right words. “I’m so sorry.”

That was, obviously, the standard reply.

“No, no, really,” you blurted, desperately trying to salvage the conversation. “It’s okay. I’m okay. It was just a few months ago, so it still gets to me sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That, uh—that might take a while. It might get to you sometimes for the rest of your life.”

“Oh, great,” you said. “So glad I have that to look forward to.”

That joke went a little better, you thought, as Robby let out a short snort and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. 

“Can I–” he paused, contemplating his next words. “Can I ask how they died?”

“Car accident,” you answered immediately. “Drunk driver. In the middle of the day on a fucking Wednesday. Just came out of nowhere.” You were staring straight ahead, your eyes getting a sort of faraway look as you talked about the incident that had dramatically changed the course of your life. “They both died on impact.”

“Right,” was all that Robby said, his voice sounding hoarse and almost muffled by your thoughts.

Silence fell over you both again—much heavier this time. When you came back into your body, you decided it was your turn to cut through it.

“Can I ask you something?”

Robby nodded, humming an affirmative response.

“Why Robby?” you questioned. “Like, why do you go by Robby and not Michael or Mikey or something?”

“Oh,” he faltered, not expecting that to be your inquiry. “It’s just what most people call me. I’ve been Robby most of my life—it was just the nickname that stuck, I guess. But when I became a doctor, I decided to be Doctor Robby. It’s a little easier to say than Robinavitch. Your aunt just likes to grind my gears.”

“So you prefer Robby?”

“With most people, yeah,” he said before adding, “but it’s nice to still be Michael sometimes.”

You hummed in response. You could understand that. The car slowed to a stop in front of your apartment building, finally home. You turned to face Robby.

“Who are you right now?”

He took a moment to think, looking over at you in the passenger seat of his car.

“Michael,” he answered finally.

“Okay,” you said, offering him a small smile. 

You would think about what happened next for days, probably even weeks, to come. Possessed by a boldness you’d never had before, you leaned across the center console and pressed a kiss to his cheek. The skin was warm and soft against your lips, your bottom lip catching slightly on the stubbly edge of his beard. The moment stretched for what felt like an eternity, but eventually, you pulled away. You reached back, opening the car door behind you.

“Goodnight, Michael,” you whispered sweetly before climbing out of the car and walking away.

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