// Thursday, April 9, 2026. 9:45 AM.

The cacophonous din that sets the Pitt apart from the rest of PTMC haunts Robby when he leaves. No matter how high he turns the volume in his earbuds or how serene his home is, the soundtrack of the ED is always humming in the back of his mind. At work, it becomes an anthem. Even if Abbott referring to it as an “assault on eardrums that survived war” made it a bit less welcoming for a week or so.

Robby tunes out as much of the noise as he can and squints at the board, mentally reminding himself to retrieve his glasses from his jacket pocket before he begins rounding. He tips his head back to drink the last of his coffee only to find that it’s empty. Straightening, he crumples the cup and tosses it into a trash can with a frustrated groan.

“Iced is the way to go,” Shen says, shaking his own source of caffeine on his way to the door almost three hours after he was supposed to leave. “Refreshing, energizing, and it lasts a full shift.”

“That iced monstrosity you call coffee was already melted and watery when you came in last night,” Robby argues. “Get out of here. And take that with you!”

“America runs on Dunkin, Robby! You’d get more done if you’d listen to me!”

Robby shakes his head, moving toward the staff lounge. The coffee they make within the ED isn’t great, but it does the job. While he pours from the (surprisingly) fresh pot, the door opens and closes behind him, letting the overlapping sounds of the Pitt in briefly.

“Research shows that excessive coffee consumption has anxiogenic effects,” Dana reminds Robby as she opens the staff medicine cabinet.

“Oh, I had plenty of anxiety before I got hooked,” Robby sighs.

“Just don’t come crying to me when you’re tachycardic and shaking.”

Robby smiles, backing toward the door and agreeing, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’m just saying!” she calls after him. “Cut back a little, a cup or two a day!”

“Dr. King,” Robby greets, waving over his shoulder to silence Dana. “What’ve we got?”

“Oh, uh, twenty-three-year-old female in central 14 presents with headache, chest tightness, difficulty breathing, and muscle cramps,” Mel answers.

“History of panic attacks?”

“No, none. Heart rate was elevated — 165 without any physical exertion — so EKG?”

Robby taps the counter and drains his fourth cup of coffee, keeping his eyes away from the clock. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Do a metabolic panel, too. And keep her hydrated.”

Mel stands, nodding as she straightens her stethoscope. “Got it. Are you alright? You seem kind of-”

“I’m fine,” Robby interrupts. “You drink coffee, Mel?”

“Oh, no, I avoid caffeine. It-”

“Good. Don’t start, kid.”

“What happened to trying to convince everyone to go to the new café at the corner?” Langdon interjects from the other side of the desk.

“Don’t you have a patient?” Robby asks.

“He’s just grumpy because he’s built up a tolerance to caffeine and doesn’t sleep,” Dana tells Langdon. “Nothing personal.”

“You know, research has found that green tea-”

“Fine, fine! I’ll go drink water or tea or anything else,” Robby exclaims. “Get this concerned about your patients, not me.”

Langdon, Mel, and Dana watch Robby disappear into a room, then look at one another.

“Seriously, last month he was convinced that the coffee at the new place would solve all our incompetencies,” Langdon murmurs. “Now we’re being lectured for his caffeine consumption?”

“I don’t think he actually goes for the coffee,” Mel muses, watching Whitaker rush from one gurney to another. “He goes every Wednesday and Friday, but he has coffee every day. Why get specific coffee, that you swear is the best, two days of the week and settle for store-bought the rest of the week?”

Langdon’s eyes widen as he turns toward Mel. “You think he’s going for something besides coffee?”

“He- he wouldn’t,” Dana murmurs to herself.

“He wouldn’t what?” Mel inquires.

“Langdon,” Dana says, grabbing his arm and watching for Robby. “Walk with me.”

“Gladly.”

Frank tips his head to whisper with Dana as they walk, leaving Mel by the desk.

“I’ll just… I’ll be with patients,” she mutters. “Kinda wish I knew what that was about but it’s fine. Cheerleaders with anxiety are fun too.”

Santos drops her hands on the desk, causing Mel to flinch before she says, “I heard cheerleaders, anxiety, and fun. What have you been keeping from me, Melancholy?”

“Uh, there’s a patient-”

“Oh,” Santos sighs. “Eh, good enough. What are we treating? And do you know if there’s coffee?”

“Don’t say that too loud,” Mel warns. “Robby’s… he’s being weird.”

“Robby is always weird. Would you prefer I fall asleep on your shoulder while you talk to we’ve got spirit, yes, we do?”

“Her name’s Hailey,” Mel offers. “And sleeping standing up isn’t an inherently bad idea, but resting a bony body part like a shoulder could cause jaw pain.”

Santos drags her hand down her face, then nods. “I’ll hold off on the nap then.”

“Coffee in the staff lounge,” Robby says as he passes behind them. “Don’t drink too much.”

Santos turns on her toe, watching him walk toward the ambulance bay with a bottle of water hanging from his fingers. “Weird,” she hums.

“Told you,” Mel reminds her.

“He needs more than coffee.”

Mel looks over her shoulder, then whispers, “You mean, like, alcohol?”

“Oh, Mel… Tell me more about the patient, yeah?”

“Sure. Langdon should be back from his walk with Dana soon, too.”

Mel steps past the curtain separating the patient from the rest of the Pitt while Trinity’s jaw drops.

“I miss all the good stuff!” she exclaims. “Donahue, remind me not to take bathroom breaks for the rest of the day.”

Donnie sends her a thumbs up, focused on inserting an IV.

“Is it always like this?” his patient asks.

“I really wish I could say no,” he mumbles.

// Wednesday, April 22 (Earth Day). 6:40 AM.

The café on the corner is technically a block out of Robby’s way. He has to either go past the Pitt or circle around the long way to stop on his way in. That’s part of his excuse for only going twice a week despite considering coffee a necessity to get through the day, and an abundance of it to get through a twelve-hour shift.

This morning, he anticipates a crowd of people advocating for the preservation of coffee beans or asking for a paper straw to save the turtles. Yet, when he steps into the café, he finds it to be average — there are no more and no less people than usual, plastic straws are sitting out beside the register, and you’re leaning on the counter, laughing with one of your coworkers.

Robby rolls his shoulders back, already a little more awake even without the coffee he craves nearly as much as seeing you. He pats his hip to ensure he has his wallet, then continues toward the counter.

“Good morning, Robby,” you greet, your smile shifting into something more genuine. “The usual?”

“Yes, please,” he answers, watching you as you tap the screen. “How are you?”

“Good enough,” you reply, glancing up at him. “You seem tired. Is everything okay?”

“All good. Although, I’m on the way in, so maybe I should add an extra shot.”

“You got it. I’ll have it ready in a minute.”

Robby nods, taps his card to the screen, then steps back. He opens his mouth to ask about your day so far, but the man sitting by the window overlooking the park lifts his hand, and you pass Robby’s order off to another employee to approach his table. Robby turns, watching as you give the man a polite smile and ask what he needs. Though he can’t hear what is said, Robby’s jaw tightens at how the man speaks to you. He treats you as if you’re only here to serve his every need. You walk to the counter and get the napkins and sugar packet that the man is apparently unable to retrieve for himself, then apologize to your coworker and focus on Robby again.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur. “Is Earth Day a busy one at the ER?”

“It depends,” Robby sighs. “We always have a few allergic reactions to green eating, splinters and scrapes from kids playing outside. Nothing too bad, for the most part.”

“That’s good,” you muse. “Hopefully you can find a couple breaks, get some rest.”

“If I remember how.”

You smile at Robby as you put the lid on his cup. The man by the window waves, then raises his arms in question. As if you’re supposed to respond to him before he even calls out for you.

Sighing, you pass Robby his cup. There’s a leaf drawn around his name and a ladybug with a cartoon zzz above it. “In case you need a reminder,” you explain.

Robby reaches out and catches your hand. “You’re not getting paid to be a waitress,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the pulse point on your inner wrist. “Definitely not getting tipped.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and shrug. “Not worth the fight. It’s easier to help him out than deal with him when he gets mad.”

“He comes in here often?” Robby checks.

“Often enough.”

Robby looks over his shoulder at the man, who drops his gaze to his laptop. “He can walk, sweetheart,” he reminds you.

Nodding, you request, “Wait here for a second?”

You wait until Robby nods to pull your hand back, then rush to the back. Less than thirty seconds later, you return with a paper bag and a smile — the smile you always give Robby, not the overly friendly, grimace-like expression you plastered on to speak to the man in the corner.

“Excuse me?” the man calls.

“Are your legs broken?” Robby snaps, turning entirely to block the man’s view of you.

“Uh, n- no, sir,” he stutters.

“Then get up and get it yourself.”

The man nods rapidly, electing to close his laptop and pack up to leave rather than getting whatever it was he wanted.

“Thank you,” you tell Robby after the door closes. “And this is for you. It’s a breakfast sandwich. You just- you seem like you could use more than espresso today.”

“How much?” Robby asks, reaching for his wallet again.

This time, you take Robby’s hand. “It’s on the house. It’s the least I can do for my favorite customer.”

“Favorite?” Robby repeats, smiling brightly. “If this is the treatment I get, maybe I should get tired more often.”

“What you should do is get some rest,” you counter. “Take breaks, okay?”

“Okay. As long as you make these entitled customers get some steps in every now and then.”

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

Sharing one more smile, you wish Robby a good day, then watch him hold the door open for a woman with a baby before he pauses on the curb to check for traffic. Rubbing your forehead, you sigh. You never feel as rewarded for caring for other people as you do for caring for Dr. Robby. Something about his smile makes the early shifts and the difficult customers worth the hustle.

Down the street, Robby carries his drink and the sandwich you gave him into the ED, wide awake. Since the first time you smiled at him, he’s known that you’re better at giving him energy than any drink he could try.

“Hey, boss,” Langdon greets. “Have enough to share? I was rushing to help Tanner get ready so Abby could sleep in and didn’t get a chance to eat.”

“Time management, Langdon,” Robby answers. “And no. Get something out of the vending machine like the rest of us.”

“You have fresh food!”

“I have an extra granola bar if you want it,” Mel offers. “It’s a new flavor that I haven’t tried, though, so it might not be good.”

“What are you doing at lunch?” Whitaker asks her, his eyes bouncing between Robby’s back and Mel’s face.

“Uh, I don’t know. I’ll probably call my sister if there’s time.”

“I say we all go check out that café Robby loves so much.”

“You won’t find anything,” Santos murmurs, passing with lab results in her hand.

“Not what Robby found at least,” Langdon adds, walking the other way.

“What does that mean?” Mel asks Whitaker.

“That you should find a patient and get outta my seat,” Dana deadpans.

“She’s not kidding!” Langdon calls over his shoulder, sending Mel and Whitaker scrambling away from the desk.

“He did look better today,” Whitaker acknowledges.

“Who, Robby?” Mel checks. “Maybe he finally tried the melatonin gummy Santos recommended.”

“That was Mohan. And I doubt it,” Whitaker whispers. “That smile has triple espresso written all over it.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t drink that,” he defends, “but Santos swears by them when she has whatever under-eye bags are.”

“Limb impalement, three minutes out!” Dana alerts.

Robby returns from his locker, dropping his empty paper bag in the trash before rubbing hand sanitizer between his palms. “First tree-climbing incident of the day,” he agrees. “Get ready.”

“What’d you eat?” Dana asks.

“Breakfast,” Robby answers, holding the door to Trauma 1 open. “I hear it’s an important part of the day.”

“Oh, you can remember that but not don’t OD on coffee?”

“Good talk. Bye!”

// Tuesday, May 5 (Cinco de Mayo). 10:00 AM.

“It’s barely mid-morning, how are these people already like this?” Whitaker asks, panting for air as he pauses between patients.

“Already like what?” Langdon asks. “Drunk, stupid, or injured? Because the ones that are drunk started last night, and we haven’t even started on the injuries. Wait ‘til the marathon runners start realizing they aren’t just sore.”

“How does this even happen? I thought people just celebrated Mexico’s victory and wore bright outfits.”

“Maybe in Kansas,” Santos interjects. “But where there are actually people and bars and places to buy alcohol, Cinco de Mayo is one of the biggest drinking and party holidays. So, strap in, Huckleberry, because this is just the beginning.”

“I’m not from Kansas,” he reminds her. “Nebraska.”

“Right,” she agrees facetiously. “Because they’re just so different no one could ever confuse the two.”

“Dr. Robby?” Javadi calls. “Dr. McKay and I have two twenty-year-old runners in chairs that haven’t been able to keep any food down since the marathon on Sunday.”

“Bring ‘em back,” Robby instructs. “Start diagnostics and get them on IV fluids before they get any more dehydrated.”

“What time’s the bar crawl start?” Dana asks.

“Bar crawl?” Whitaker repeats.

“Dude,” Langdon sighs, clapping his hand on Whitaker’s shoulder. “It’s Pittsburgh. There’s a bar crawl for everything.”

“4 p.m.,” Perlah offers. “Around the same time that those poor souls who had to go to work will get out in society.”

“You get a ticket?” Robby asks, smiling when Dana scoffs.

“Yeah, I’m goin’ bar crawling on a Tuesday,” she agrees. “And you’re giving up coffee cold turkey.”

“Oh, speaking of coffee,” Donnie begins.

The doctors, med students, nurses, and patients around the desk freeze, silent as they turn toward Donnie.

“What about it?” Santos asks.

“The machine in the staff lounge finally bit it. We’re going to have to get caffeine from soda today or call in an order from Starbucks.”

“The coffee machine is broken?” Robby asks. “Did you break it?”

“Nope, night shift left a note.”

Robby hooks his fingers behind his head, stretching and exhaling. “You’re telling me there is no coffee.”

“Correct,” Donnie repeats. “No coffee.”

“I’m quitting,” Robby decides.

“I’m Doordashing,” Santos says immediately after. “What’s everyone want?”

“Any idea who broke it?” Robby asks Donnie as the others huddle around Santos.

“The note was absolutely Abbot’s handwriting, but I don’t know. Sorry, boss. If you want, I can run upstairs and get a couple cups from surgery.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Go give Santos your order so we can get back to work.”

“What about you, Robby?” Langdon asks. “What’s your poison?”

Robby looks up at the board and shakes his head. “I’m taking ten. Call if there’s an emergency.”

“What? You’re leaving?” Mel calls after him. “I need to present on the ladder injury!”

“It can wait nine and a half minutes,” Robby assures her. “Or ask Langdon. I really don’t care.”

“I was going to say he actually does care but I really don’t think he does,” Langdon murmurs. “Can I get a cake pop too, Santos? I’ll give you the cash.”

“Such a child,” she mumbles. “You want the raccoon?”

Langdon hesitates, then nods. Robby exits PTMC through the ambulance bay, then jogs down the street toward the coffee shop. He probably should have taken up Santos’ offer for delivered coffee rather than leaving on one of the busiest mornings of the year, but with the way today is going so far, he needs more than coffee — he needs to see you.

“You look terrible, Dr. Robby,” someone calls when he steps into the dim coffee shop. The only noise in here is sputtering coffee machines, milk frothers, and quiet music playing through the overhead speakers. It’s not your playlist, he knows.

“Thanks,” Robby answers.

“That’s mean,” you chide, lightly backhanding your coworker. “Busy morning?”

“You have no idea,” he sighs. “And, on top of it, the coffee machine at work broke.”

“Oh no,” you hum, frowning as you tally up his usual. “We have 96-ounce travelers if you’re interested.”

“One of the residents is ordering coffee for everyone else.”

You pause, your finger hovering over the screen as you look up at Robby. Smiling, you ask, “Then why run down here?”

“I didn’t run,” he says. When you raise your brows, he concedes, “Your coffee’s better.”

“Thank you,” you decide on. “I’ll get it for you now.”

Robby nods, then asks about your morning as you prepare his drink. You give him a free size upgrade and make him a second cup free of charge, using the pastry display as cover. He smiles as he talks to you, but you have no idea how rare it is. When you’re not around, Robby has to fight not to be consumed by his past, by the Pitt, by the devastation and loss that’s never more than a minute away. Here, he can smile and joke with you and the cacophony of the Pitt finally silences.

Conversely, while you crack jokes and enjoy taking care of Robby, he can’t see the toll it has on you. He has no idea that your heart breaks a little more every time he comes in with fatigue weighing him down and a bone-deep tiredness that you can’t actually help him with. You do what you can, but the knowledge that it will never be enough makes it hard.

“Here you go,” you say, sliding the cups toward Robby.

“That’s not what I ordered, sweetheart,” he points out.

“No, but it’s what you needed.”

“You can’t keep giving me free stuff.”

“I can do whatever I want,” you argue, smiling as you lean on the counter. “And you can’t stop me.”

Robby sighs, smiling as he lifts the cups. “What am I supposed to do with you?” he murmurs.

You shrug, then suggest, “Take breaks and take care of yourself.”

“I’ll try,” he replies. “Since you asked so nicely.”

“Call if you change your mind on the traveler.”

Robby nods, pushing the door open with his back. He should have taken the opportunity to ask for your number.

“That was disgusting,” your coworker coos.

“Shut up,” you demand, tossing a towel at her.

“The man ran here to see you and then stared at you like he’d give you anything you asked for while you poured coffee. I’ll shut up when you man up and say something.”

You look out the front window, thinking of how happy you are to see Robby arrive every Wednesday and Friday, like clockwork, and how nice it was to be surprised today. “It’s not like that,” you murmur.

“Wow, convincing. What next, the cake is a lie, too?”

// Tuesday, May 5. 2:30 PM.

“You’re not looking too hot.”

“Wow, thanks,” you sigh, pressing your forehead to the cool metal door of the walk-in fridge. “Love you too.”

“No, seriously,” your coworker insists. “You should go home.”

“I only have thirty minutes left in my shift; I can power through.”

“Yeah, and then what? You power through tomorrow and the day after that, until… Until you burn out.”

“I’m not burning out,” you insist, pushing off the door. “I’m just tired.”

“Because you’re working an early shift, then staying up too late to get everything else done. Take a day off. Take a week off.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Sure, we might struggle but the place would survive.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes at you before she posits, “Unless it’s someone you’d be missing.”

“Robby,” you say.

“Interesting,” she hums. “Because I didn’t say-”

“Twice in one day,” you muse, stepping past her to greet Robby. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

Robby stops halfway to the register, his chest heaving as he stares at you. He was in here less than five hours ago complaining about a broken coffee machine, and you know immediately that something’s wrong. Moving past the register, you duck through the employees only door to meet him. You’re between rushes right now — the lunchbreak crowd is gone and the afterschool minglers have yet to arrive, so it’s just you and Robby standing in the middle of the café floor.

“Robby?” you ask, laying your hand lightly on his forearm. “Are you okay?”

He swallows forcefully, then questions, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you promise. “Just waiting for all the hangover sales in the morning.”

A singular chuckle escapes Robby at that, but he’s still rigid, watching you breathe.

“What happened?” you check.

“I… I just wanted to see you,” he replies. “And get another coffee to get me through the rest of my shift.”

You nod, though you’re not convinced he’s here just for coffee. Something happened and it drove Robby here. You’d never complain about that; you’re glad you can be here for him when he really needs it. But you know that if he keeps these things bottled up, the pressure will eventually become too much.

“The usual or you want to try something new?”

“There was a girl walking home,” Robby admits then, leaning into your touch. “She was on the sidewalk, looked down to check a text, and was struck by a drunk driver. We- we got her back but there’s no way to know if she’ll recover.”

“I’m so sorry, Robby,” you offer. “You gave her a chance.”

“She looked like you,” he adds before clamping his mouth closed.

He hadn’t wanted to confess to himself and certainly not to you that he’s here because he needed to see you, to know that you were okay. It easily could have been you on that gurney. The mere sight of you when he walked in loosened something in his chest.

Then something else took its place when he realized that you’re burning out. Worse, he thinks, is that you don’t seem to notice it. Your shoulders are drawn up, your muscles tensed like you’re fighting to stay upright and conscious.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “But I’m okay. I promise.”

“Dana, the charge nurse, thinks I need to cut back on the coffee,” Robby tells you when you step back, your hand falling from his arm.

“She’s probably right about that,” you agree with a smile. “We have some lower caffeine options if you decide to listen to her. But I’m assuming that isn’t happening today.”

“No,” Robby agrees. “When do you get off work?”

“Half an hour,” you answer. “And then I get to work on everything that doesn’t pay the bills.”

“And you tell me to take breaks.”

“I take breaks,” you defend.

Robby straightens his shoulders and glares at you.

“Okay, maybe I don’t,” you admit, squirming slightly. “But I need to get your drink, and you need to get back to keeping the people of our fair city alive and in one piece.”

“Someone needs to inform them of that goal.”

“You sure you don’t want to get a traveler for night shift?”

“They broke the coffee machine,” Robby reminds you. “They can suffer.”

“Eat your heart out, Hippocratic oath.”

Robby smiles at you, and you both feel a bit lighter. Even if your smiles fall when a streaker rushes past the window when yelling cops hot on his heels.

// Monday, May 11. 10:00 AM.

“Called it!” Langdon cheers, showing Robby and Dana a blood test result. “Dr. Robinavitch, thanks for playing. Better luck next time.”

“Do you have a setting that isn’t quite so… obnoxious?” Santos wonders from down the hall.

“Nope!”

“Congratulations,” Robby redirects, spreading his hands at his sides. “Moreso on a correct diagnosis for the sake of the patient than the betting on their health thing.”

“Hey, you took the gamble,” Langdon reminds him. “Don’t hate the winner, Robby.”

“What am I doing again?” Robby sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You owe me a latte. I’m thinking something seasonal, biggest size available.”

“That’s it?”

Langdon nods once, clearly pleased with himself. “That’s it.”

“Anything that’s a hard no?” Dana inquires.

“No, no, he said that was it,” Robby points out. “I’m done. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

“Been a pleasure!” Langdon calls after him.

Walking out of the Pitt, Robby waves over his shoulder when someone calls out for him, then puts his earbuds in. Listening to his favorite song, he keeps his eyes on the café as he walks. When he made the bet with Langdon, he knew he’d either win or get a break from PTMC. A win-win scenario, in his opinion.

It takes four minutes to walk down the block to the café, but there’s a line that Robby wasn’t anticipating.

“What’s taking you so long?” the overdressed woman at the counter snaps. “It’s not a hard order.”

“I- I’m sorry,” you offer weakly.

Robby’s brows pinch before he steps to the right. When he sees you, he ignores the line and the suit-clad man that scoffs loudly to walk to the counter.

“Can I get a name for your order?” you ask robotically.

“Who else is working?” Robby asks.

You look up, blinking rapidly when you see him. “Uh, um… Lilly’s here, I think,” you reply quietly.

“Lilly!” Robby calls, his voice loud and firm.

Lilly steps out of the back, shock evident in her expression. “Oh, hi, Dr. Robby,” she says.

“Take over,” Robby instructs. He nudges your wrist and adds, “She’s taking a break.”

You nod numbly, then stop. “It’s not time for my break,” you remember.

Robby spreads his hands open against the counter and leans toward you. “Break,” he repeats. “Now.”

This time, you don’t argue. He mirrors your steps on the other side of the counter until you step out. His hand finds your upper back, leading you to an empty table in the corner. It doesn’t have a view, but that’s the least of Robby’s concerns right now.

Standing at the register, your eyes had begun glazing over, your hands shaking above the tablet. You fall into the seat that Robby pulls out for you, letting your eyes close as you sigh.

“Don’t move,” Robby says, pointing at you.

“No problem,” you murmur, sinking into the chair. “I’ll be here.”

He returns quickly, setting an uncapped bottle of water in front of you. Before you can reach for it, he pulls a chair closer and spins it, so the back is toward you. He lifts one leg to straddle it, leaning against the back as he sits.

“I thought you’d follow the rules,” you admit, smiling softly at the sight of Robby draped over a wooden chair.

“What happened?” he checks.

“In history or?”

“Today,” he presses, shifting to lay his hand on your thigh. “You were about ninety seconds from passing out. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

“Have you eaten today? Had enough water? Taken a break?”

“Uh, I had a… something for breakfast. I think I had some water on my way in. And it’s not time for my break yet,” you list.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s on your schedule. It matters that you need it. Look, just- just take some deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Then keep working on that water.”

You nod, inhaling deeply. “I should probably be embarrassed about this.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s not a flaw to need help every once in a while.”

“You’re only supposed to have to save people at work,” you argue weakly. “Not ailing baristas who don’t have anyone to take care of them.”

“I don’t mind taking care of this barista,” Robby assures you with a smile. “But you need to learn how to take care of yourself. It’s not something you only do when you have someone to do it with… or for.”

You nod, then glance at the clock. “It’s not your usual time,” you realize. “Is everything okay?”

“No, it isn’t,” Robby affirms. “I owe someone a latte. Figured I could get him the best of the best.”

“Flattery,” you hum. “You’re smart.”

“And you’re worth it,” he replies. “All of it.”

You smile as you reach for the water again. Robby taps your leg, then drops his chin to his other arm, watching you perk up. It was a completely avoidable bodily response to being overworked and dehydrated. Rather than getting mad at you, Robby just wants to take care of you. He wants to stay at your side rather than returning to the ED, but it’s not the same as the need to care for the patients who come to him. Robby cares about you as a person, not as a doctor.

And that realization scares him more than the anxiogenic effects of coffee.

“You’re going home,” Robby decides.

“I can’t-”

“This isn’t a debate, sweetheart. Either you go willingly or I put you in the Uber myself.”

Your lips quirk up when he says sweetheart, and you decide not to argue. “At least let me make that latte first?” you whisper. “Best of the best, right?”

“Fine,” Robby concedes. “And if this happens again, and you feel like you need an excuse to take the breaks you deserve, call me. Okay?”

You accept Robby’s hand to stand. “Okay,” you promise.

// Friday, May 15. 7:30 AM.

“Hi,” you greet.

“Name and date of birth?” the nurse at the desk asks.

“I’m sorry, I’m actually just dropping something off for Dr. Robby,” you explain, smiling kindly.

The nurse looks up then, her eyes widening dramatically when she sees you. She slides her chair to the desk beside her, then slips a blank visitor’s card and a Sharpie to you.

“Write your name and I’ll buzz you back,” she invites.

“Oh, I was just-”

“He’ll be glad to see you.”

Rather than explaining you only intended to drop it off for Robby, you accept the sticker and walk through the door. Pausing out of the way, you scribble your name on it, then adhere it to your shirt.

“Looking for someone, hun?” someone asks.

“Yes, sorry,” you reply. “Dr. Robby?”

Her eyes widen, her response the same as the nurse at the front desk. She glances at the coffee in your hand, then says, “Follow me. I’m Dana.”

You give her your name, then stop as a gurney is pushed past you.

“You’re doing God’s work,” you muse.

“On the devil’s dime, it feels like,” she adds. “Dr. Robby’s in with a patient, but you can wait with me.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Sure thing.”

“Dana,” a man in scrubs greets, smiling at you even as he addresses the charge nurse. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, this is Robby’s friend,” she replies. The look they share means nothing to you, but you know it means something to them.

“I’m Jack Abbot,” he introduces, offering his hand. “A fellow friend of Robby’s.”

“He’s mentioned you,” you remember as you shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Abbot looks at Dana and brags, “He’s mentioned me.” Leaning on the desk, he smiles and asks, “What brings you by?”

“Uh, now that I’m hearing it in my head the answer makes me sound kind of like a stalker,” you chuckle.

“We’re doctors, we hear a lot of weird stuff.”

“Well, Robby usually comes by on Fridays, but he didn’t today. I thought he might need a pick-me-up.”

“Your barista go out of the way to deliver?” Jack asks Dana.

“Never,” she replies, smiling knowingly at you.

“You two moonlight as couples’ counselors?” you joke.

“Not unless we have to,” Dana mumbles before excusing herself.

Jack taps the desk twice, then salutes you and walks away.

“Hey,” Robby greets.

You turn, smiling up at him as you present his drink. “I realize I look like a stalker,” you blurt out.

Robby takes the cup, his fingers brushing yours. “I appreciate it,” he assures you. “I needed this.”

“I thought you might. How’s it going?”

“Busy. What about you? Taking breaks like you’re supposed to?”

“Oh, hello,” Langdon greets, backtracking before he passes you. “Who’s this?”

You say your name, then add, “I’m Robby’s friend.”

“You’re clearly a great friend,” he responds, smiling at you.

Robby’s jaw clenches when Langdon looks at you, and when he comments on what kind of friend you’d be, Robby suddenly thinks about the paperwork he’d have to do if he stabbed Langdon with a scalpel. Before that idea roots itself, you put your hand on Robby’s arm. Only then does he realize that Langdon is already gone, and you must have asked him a question.

“You taking a day off soon?” Robby asks.

“All Memorial Day weekend,” you confirm. “I’m going to do the stuff I never have time to do — sleep, bake, read. Sleep again, hopefully.”

“Good, good.” He dips his chin and reminds you, “Don’t push yourself, sweetheart. Not for me or for anyone else.”

“You got it, doc. Anything else you need?”

Robby nods at the drink and answers, “More than enough. Thank you.”

“Take care of yourself,” you remind him. “I’ll see you Wednesday?”

“Wednesday.”

After you’re out of sight around the corner, Robby flinches at the realization that Jack is lurking beside him.

“Why are you still here?” Robby asks.

“Working a double,” Jack answers. “Should we talk about it?”

“It?”

“I can’t tell if you’re hopeless, stupid, or messing with me. Or some combination of all three.”

“I have work to do,” Robby scoffs.

“She’s going to slip away,” Jack advises, flat tone but earnest intention. “I, for one, don’t want to deal with you if that happens. Talking each other off the roof is fun and all, but we can go bowling or something if you really need to see me that badly.”

“Let’s assume I’m the stupid option so we don’t have to do this again,” Robby requests.

// Wednesday, May 20. 5:00 AM.

“You’re early,” Jack muses when Robby enters the Pitt.

“Oh, but I wish I wasn’t,” Robby sighs, rubbing his face. “Have a patient coming back in for a consult.”

Abbot nods, then lifts a cup from Dana’s desk. Robby recognizes it immediately — it’s from your café, your signature cartoon doodles surrounding the top.

“Your friend is nice,” Abbot says when he realizes Robby is staring at the cup. “Pretty, too.”

“Take my consult,” Robby grumbles, moving toward the door.

“I’m leaving!” Abbot argues.

“Take it!” Robby barks, nearly out the door.

He runs to the café, not thinking about that he’s doing or what it will mean when he storms inside.

“Uh oh,” you hum playfully when you see him. Then you see Robby’s expression and realize it might have been the right response. “Am I in trouble?” you ask softly.

It’s on the tip on Robby’s tongue. All of it. Why he keeps buying coffee, how it went from a need for caffeine to a need for you. Even how he feels about you and the deep desire to care for you all the time, not just when it’s convenient. But before he can say it, Robby sees the clock.

“You’re early,” he points out. As if you don’t know.

“I was covering my friend’s early shift,” you explain. “I, uh, I kept my other shift, too, though, so I could see you later. If you came, I mean. Obviously, you don’t have to come in, and I don’t have to see you, if that’s not what you want.”

“Sweetheart,” Robby sighs, dropping his shoulders. “When we talked about you needing to take breaks, that wasn’t a temporary need. And one weekend off isn’t going to fix this. You’re going to crash if you don’t learn how to manage it all and take care of yourself instead of putting everyone and everything else first. When that crash comes? It will be bad.”

“I get that,” you defend.

Robby catches your wrist, subconsciously checking your pulse as he pulls you away from the display you were organizing.

“I’m not sure you do,” he murmurs.

“If… If I don’t work, I can’t see you,” you explain quietly, looking at Robby’s hand where he’s holding your wrist. “I- I want to see you. So, I work.”

“You don’t have to work to see me,” Robby interjects. “If you like this job and you need the money, work a normal schedule. But if you don’t, leave.”

“How?” you question.

“How to leave?”

You laugh, inching closer to Robby. “No, I mean, how would we see each other if I wasn’t working here?”

“Dana thinks I need to stop drinking so much coffee,” Robby says. You’re unsure how it relates to the conversation, but Robby’s holding your hand and talking to you like he cares about your feelings, so you nod along. “And you need to stop working so much. Going to dinner will fix both of those things.”

“Oh.” You continue nodding, trying to find the right words to respond. “Yes,” you decide on. “I’d love to. But only if you want to, too. Also.”

“Are you free Saturday?” Robby asks. “Because I want to.”

“I’m free. I can give you my number. Lilly’s been trying to get me to write it on your cups for like two months.”

“And you didn’t listen. I’m shocked.”

You laugh, then duck behind the counter to get Robby your number and something for the walk back to the Pitt.

Abbot is waiting in the ambulance bay when Robby returns, a cake pop rather than a coffee in hand. “When are you taking her out?”

“Saturday,” Robby answers.

Omni-Man didn’t anticipate fighting a self-proclaimed quote-unquote enhanced human when he left his home this morning. Yet, hours later, he’s hovering high above a forest near the equator, dodging punches from a jet pack-laden homo sapien. He sighs, giving the man a chance to get in a lucky hit. Omni-Man moves back, then catches himself in mid-air, tensing his muscles to remain vertical in the sky.

“Was that supposed to hurt?” he asks flatly. “It didn’t.”

“Less talk,” the man whose name Nolan didn’t bother to remember seethes. “More fighting.”

“Is that what you call what you’ve been doing?” Nolan asks with a laugh. “Genuinely, I’ve been tickled more painfully than this. Just give up.”

The man cracks his knuckles, then moves his hand to the joystick on his jetpack. Nolan hadn’t recognized the device when the man challenged him to a stratospheric fight — it was neither government nor GDA, but sourcing or building technology isn’t as hard as it used to be for the average man. Omni-Man prepares himself to catch the man when he launches forward, but a white blur enters the airspace and knocks the flying man down, dragging him to the forest floor, before he can move toward Nolan again.

Dropping his chin, Nolan watches the trees sway as the newcomer challenges the altruistic scientist. Or was he a doctor? Nolan shrugs and chooses to watch the fight rather than think about his opponent.

“That was another option,” he mumbles, crossing his arms when the white blur breaks past the tree canopies once more. When the person and the crest on their chest comes into view, Nolan pushes his arms back, flying toward the familiar suit before he throws a punch that lands perfectly against the newcomer’s jaw.

Flying through the sky, you keep your eyes on your destination. The mentor that taught you to fly didn’t exactly cover what to do when your destination is moving towards you too. Or how to avoid a hit you know is coming before a hardened fist collides with your face. You grunt at the contact, flipping in the air before you recover. No one thought to train the lab rats how to fly. Or fight. Or survive, for that matter.

“Wait!” you exclaim, raising a hand to the Viltrumite in the O suit as he prepares to swing again. Your jaw aches as you plead, “Wait. Please.”

“Did they send you to kill me?” Omni-Man demands, his hands curled tightly into fists. “How many of you are there?”

Inhaling deeply, you taste blood. You spit the result of his punch toward the ground below, then smile. You’re sure it looks as guilty as you feel. “About that… I kinda- sorta…”

“What?” Omni-Man presses. “Get to the point.”

You rush to answer, your words coming out in a jumbled mess of, “Iaccidentallyblewuptheplanet.” When you finish, you hold your breath, watching his face.

Omni-Man blinks twice, then asks, “You… you blew up Viltrum?”

Nodding hesitantly, you release your hands, letting your arms hang loosely at your sides.

Nolan laughs suddenly, curling in on himself slightly, his cape fluttering in the wind. “Oh,” he breathes out dramatically, “I always knew you were bat-”

“Easy,” you cut in. “I’m aware of what you think of me. Look, it was an accident. I got some people evacuated in time… but I couldn’t stop it.”

“The whole planet’s gone?” Nolan clarifies.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Nolan shrugs, looking out at the horizon. “I haven’t been there in over twenty years; I’m not feeling a direct loss.”

“Great display of compassion,” you deadpan.

“If I remember correctly,” he hums, inching closer to you with his shoulders pulled back, “you weren’t exactly eager to save our people before, either.”

“That was different,” you argue. “Look, I’m not here to argue with you. You deserved to know that Viltrum is gone. The World Betterment Committee is no more. No one is coming to check in or to stop you. Make a life here if you want. You’re free.”

Nolan glances down at the planet beneath you, his eyes searching a distant skyline with the same calculated evaluation he used to choose Earth in the first place.

“What happened?” he asks. “On Viltrum.”

You exhale, turning at his side to face the skyline. “More than I can explain in an afternoon.”

The Viltrumite leaders never gave you a chance to decide what you would do, choosing to rob you of a choice in your fate. You were deemed an incompetent fighter early in life, but your mind was considered to be worth something. On a planet that valued physical strength over mental acumen, you were glad simply to be valuable enough to stay alive. That’s how you ended up working for the World Betterment Committee, using data and calculations to track the soldiers sent to other planets. The Viltrum Empire expanded daily, your folders growing, filling, and being replaced faster than you imagined.

Until the day that everything changed. It had started like every other day, a burning star visible beyond Viltrum’s sky, your fellow citizens flying to and from their positions.

You arrived at your post to find your desk had been cleared and people were watching you, whispering to one another and failing to hide their interest in your arrival. A soldier whose name you didn’t know informed you of your “promotion.” As he showed you to a private sector, you begged him to let you speak to someone in charge.

“I can’t do this!” you’d argued vehemently. “I track things, I read stuff. I’m not a scientist!”

“You’re being asked to find a way,” he answered robotically.

“I don’t know how.”

He didn’t stop, using a gold device to open a door and usher you in. “No better time to learn.”

“You don’t understand,” you insisted. “If I get a calculation wrong — and I will — the consequences will be- be unimaginable.”

The soldier nodded toward something behind you before he closed the door. A team of scientists and Viltrumite leaders you thought left the planet years before greeted you. Their presence did little to encourage you that any of this was a good idea.

“Please don’t go through with this,” you pled. “I can’t do this.”

“We have to,” one of them whispered, laying a hand on your shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

And it had been. Until you were left in charge of a project and ended a planet with vast reach, an empire extended across galaxies.

“What about you?” you pose, swinging your legs over the edge of the barn roof you’re sitting on. “Why stay on Earth? Why call yourself Nolan and wait so long to do what the committee sent you to do?”

“Nolan was a common enough name,” he responds with a shrug. “A reminder of home, maybe.”

“Common was the goal… So, what’s with the costume then?”

Nolan stutters, looking down at his body with wide eyes, like he’s just realizing he’s essentially playing dress up to impress and soothe a population he has no real care for. “Uh, it’s my suit,” he explains. “When I’m not Nolan, when I’m a superhero, I’m Omni-Man?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you interrupt, waving. “Omni-Man? You come here, become a superhero, and call yourself all-man? You’re quite literally an alien!”

Nolan’s jaw tightens. “I needed them to trust me. I adapted to their customs, which involved this display.”

“You adapted?” You know that Nolan wouldn’t do that without help. He couldn’t do it alone, but you’re under the impression he only did it because of whatever — or whoever — led the way for him. Stretching your arms behind you, you ask, “What’s her name?”

The so-called hero beside you doesn’t answer, looking down at the countryside below.

“Oh,” you murmur, straightening. You consider laying a hand on Nolan’s arm, then remember how hard he punched you before and decide not to touch him. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

Nolan shakes his head, ignoring your question and your sympathy. “What are you really doing here?” he inquires.

“Just passing through. There are a few soldiers from the committee still working in this galaxy and the next one. I figured they deserved to know that there’s no home to go back to… no one to answer to if they decide to settle rather than conquer.”

“You’re leaving?”

Turning away Nolan, you counter, “What else would I do? What, stay here with you, put on a cape and pretend to be a hero?” You stand, gazing at this galaxy’s sun. “I killed my own people, Nolan. It’s time I answer for that.”

Nolan doesn’t reply, but he lifts a hand and grasps your wrist. When you tug away from him, his fingers tighten to keep you close.

“That’s ridiculous,” he snaps. “We’re Viltrumites. People, even our own, die. Running is futile.”

“You really don’t care that our home is gone,” you realize softly. “Well, I do. I should have done more, tried harder to convince them that I couldn’t do what they asked me to.”

“Sounds like it’s not your fault,” Nolan interjects. “Not that it matters. It’s over.”

“Nolan, you punched me when I got here because you thought they sent me,” you remind him. “Just because you have an issue with the committee doesn’t mean I can accept this. I- I’m guilty of-”

“They made you do it,” Nolan interrupts firmly. He stands, invading your space easily and keeping you close. “It still doesn’t matter, but if you’re this worried about it, admit that you did all you could to avoid it.”

“It- it’s not that easy.”

“Because you have too much emotion.”

“Maybe you don’t have enough,” you argue.

Nolan’s lips twitch. “There it is,” he murmurs. “The fight.”

Your eyes drop to Nolan’s cape where it flutters against his legs. “What will you do?” you wonder.

“I don’t know. Guess I could become a god or something.” He lifts his free hand, hooking a finger beneath your chin to lift your eyes to his. “You should stay.”

“And be a goddess?”

“Better fate than throwing yourself into the sun.”

“I wasn’t going to do something that extreme.”

“Stay,” he suggests. “It’s a good enough home.”

“I don’t know,” you hum, meeting his eyes. “The company seems questionable.”

“You blew up your last neighbor.”

Groaning, you drop your forehead to his sternum.

“I won’t make you stay,” Nolan says. He’s lying — he knows it and you suspect it.

When Nolan releases your hand to prove his point, you catch his fingers and tap his palm.

“I don’t even remember what I learned about Earth before you left. What would I do here?” you wonder.

Nolan smiles, hovering off the barn to show you to his home. “Something far away from explosives.”

“Hey, that wasn’t my fault,” you remind him.

“Something wrong?” Nolan asks, leaning against the doorjamb.

Mark flinches, his hand falling away from the jagged tear in the side of his suit. “Uh… no,” he answers.

“I’ve been through a lot of suits,” Nolan admits. “It means you’re good at your job.”

“Wouldn’t not tearing the suit mean you were doing a better job?” Mark checks. “You know, ‘cause you wouldn’t be getting hit?”

Nolan pushes off the wood, waving dismissively. “You’re reading too much into it. Take it to Art; he can patch it up for you.”

Mark hesitates briefly, then nods. “Yeah,” he agrees.

“And do it quickly,” Nolan adds from down the hall. “Never know when you’ll need it.”

“Right,” Mark whispers, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Because he was so thrilled the last time I woke him up in the middle of the night.”

He walks out of the bathroom, peeling the sleeves of the suit toward his wrists. His mom and dad are in the kitchen, out of sight and too busy talking to give him another lecture about taking his clothes off in view of the stairs. You surprise one of your mom’s friends one time, Mark thinks bitterly.

Collapsing onto his bed, Mark taps his phone. He knows Nolan is right; he should get his suit fixed before he needs it. But calling Art in the middle of the night sounds like a terrible idea, even if he is invincible.

Mark pulls the tear open above him, sighing when he realizes he can’t staple it closed. Maybe he could just wear a t-shirt beneath it if he has to go out tonight.

The sudden vibration of his phone startles Mark, but he answers quickly when he sees who’s calling.

“Hey!” Mark greets, perhaps a bit overeager.

Across town, you lay on the cool wooden floor of your sewing room and smile. “Hi,” you reply when Mark answers. “Saw your fight on the news. I put fifty dollars on ‘Invincible is now laying in his bedroom and/or bathroom looking at his messed-up suit, too scared to call his tailor.’ How’d I do?”

“I… How would I lay in my bedroom and bathroom?” Mark wonders.

“Ever heard of an en suite?”

“Oh. Right. I- Yeah, you may get your money back on that one.”

“Yes!” you cheer. “Hey, at least I didn’t bet against you getting thrown into a food truck. Oh, wait…”

“Salt on the wound,” Mark sighs, tossing an arm over his eyes as he smiles. “Why are you even watching the news at this hour?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the only channel the shop gets.”

“The shop?” Mark repeats, sitting up. “You’re at work.”

“Mmhmm. You coming by?”

The line beeps, and by the time you set your phone aside and sit up, Mark is in Art’s shop. He’s wearing Science Dog pajama pants, empty-handed.

“Forget something?” you ask, pressing your hands against the floor to stand.

“Huh?” Mark looks at his hands, then causes a gust of wind before he returns with his torn suit. “Sorry,” he says as he hands it to you.

“Torn suit means you’re doing your job right,” you muse, turning on the light over your worktable.

“My dad said the same thing,” he murmurs, pulling up a chair to sit beside you. “I don’t-”

“Not the act of getting it torn,” you amend, focused on keeping the stitches straight and as hidden as possible. “You’re out doing something, putting yourself between evil and its target. Means you’re doing good.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s a better explanation than my dad gave.”

You nod, pinching a needle between your lips. “He’s not big on talking to me,” you mumble.

“He talks to Art,” Mark points out. “Maybe you intimidate him.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “I intimidate Omni-Man. We both know you’re a little scared to walk in here, but I think my sunny disposition and easy to talk to-demeanor help you.”

Mark shifts in the chair, watching your face as you work. It’s true, at least in part. He finds it’s much easier to talk to you than to Art. Maybe it’s because you’re closer in age, maybe it’s because you’re pretty and you make him smile, maybe he really is scared of Art. Regardless, Mark would rather come into the shop knowing you’re here alone than-

“Do you walk home?” he blurts out.

“Sometimes,” you answer. Glancing up at him, you add, “Why?”

“Alone? At night?”

“Yes. Don’t tell Art, he’ll say-”

“You really shouldn’t do that,” Mark interrupts, unknowingly finishing your sentence. “It’s not safe.”

“I’m aware, Mark. I’m not completely helpless.”

“It’s not about you. It’s everyone else.”

“What would you have me do instead?” you ask, setting his suit down. “Leave Atom Eve’s suit separating at the seams? Make the Guardians wait for patches or new suits? Mark, this job doesn’t really give time to call a cab.”

“Then call me.”

You freeze, your hand spread over a sewing kit. Beside you, Mark’s eyes widen as he looks away from you.

“I just mean, you know, that I could walk you home or stay on the phone. Safety is important, and it… It was just an idea,” he rambles.

Swallowing, you spread your hands to check the repairs to Mark’s suit. It looks fine, despite the distraction of having Mark Grayson sitting beside you, his warmth pressing against you as he watched you work.

“Did you mean it?” you check.

Mark nods, his fingers hooked in his lap. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and offer Mark his suit.

“Thanks,” he says, brushing his finger over the new thread.

“Are… are you free now?” you question, turning off your lamp. “I’d like to get some sleep before Art calls me in at sunrise.”

“Yes,” Mark agrees immediately. He raises his hand, smiling when you lay your palm over his. “For the- for the call or the walk?”

You hold his hand after you stand, dropping it between your sides. “The walk,” you answer. “Please.”

“Okay,” Mark whispers to himself. “This is fine.”

“Is it?” you check. “You seem a little nervous.”

“Well, yeah. Why would I not be nervous?”

“Because it’s me.”

Mark tips his head, though you’re unsure if that means he’s agreeing with you or because it being you is why he’s nervous.

“You can call me next time,” you say while Mark opens the back door of the tailor shop. “Ripped suits are an easy fix. Broken goggles, not so much, but still doable in a night. Just let me know, okay?”

“Art shouldn’t make you work so much,” Mark replies.

“I don’t mind the night shift. Gives me time to think, lets me help the heroes that need it the most.”

“Like me? Thank you, by the way.”

“Sure. And I mean it; call me next time.”

“If I call you when I mess up the suit and you call me when you work late,” Mark muses, “we’ll be on the phone all the time.”

You smile, bumping your shoulder against Mark’s arm. “Would that be so bad?”

Mark smiles at you, slowing beneath a streetlight. “No,” he whispers. “It wouldn’t.”

“Art?” you call. “I finished the… cape.”

The shop is empty, a scribbled note from Art taped to his desk. You tap it, then place the folded cape beside it. It’s nearing midnight, a fight rumbling somewhere in the city. It’s been a few days since Mark walked you home, but you haven’t spoken to him since. There’s a chance he’s the one fighting or that he’s busy. Still, you pull your phone out and dial his number.

Your hand is on the doorknob to leave, convinced that Mark won’t answer.

“Hey,” Mark greets. “I’m outside.”

You hang up on him and pull the door open. His hair is messed up, a few strands hanging in his face as he smiles.

“Thank you,” you say, closing the door behind you.

“Sure,” Mark replies.

You reach up without thinking, brushing his hair out of his face. When you realize you’ve invaded his space, you pause. Mark leans into your touch, raising a hand to keep you close.

“Is this about to become more than you walking me home?” you whisper when his fingers meet your skin.

“I- I mean, yeah, I’d like that,” Mark begins.

You don’t let him continue, dropping your hand to cup his cheek as you kiss him. Mark hums against you, then snakes a strong arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

“Was that…” Mark interrupts himself to press another kiss to your lips. “Was that okay?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, pushing your hands up his arms. “It was great.”

“Cool. Good. Maybe we should do it again, then.”

“Maybe we should,” you agree.

After another series of quick pecks from Mark, he directs your arms around his shoulders, then pushes off the ground. He doesn’t walk you home tonight. Instead, he flies, but you don’t feel quite as high as when he kissed you.

“When was the last time Mark was in here?” Nolan asks before taking a drink of the beer Art offered.

Art shrugs, reattaching Nolan’s cape to his suit. “You’d have to ask my apprentice.”

“Oh?” Nolan asks, lifting a brow.

“’Fraid so.”

When you open your window to let Mark inside, he’s already talking. His apologies and his excuses run together, your name discernable every few words.

“Mark,” you call, leaning back on your bed. “Did you get lost on the way over here again?”

He tenses, then exhales when he sees your smile. “Maybe,” he admits softly.

“Where were you coming from?”

“Uh, somewhere that started with a C or a K.” He nods once, then adds, “It was hot.”

“How did you pass any geography class?” you wonder.

“It- it’s not that bad.” He moves toward you, running his fingers along your arm as he looks down at you. “I mean, I’m not helpless.”

“Mark, sweetheart, you know I like you, but you can’t even tell me what continent you were on,” you murmur, lifting a hand to capture his. “Luckily, I’m not in this purely for your directional capabilities.”

Mark hums, watching you trace his fingers. He swallows, fails to speak twice, then asks, “Why are you in this?”

You sigh, tugging his arm gently. “You’re so cute.”

“Thanks.”

Laughing, you stand, keeping your hand in Mark’s. “What are we doing? You’re late enough that pretty much everything is closed, but we can watch a movie or order something.”

“Sorry,” he offers. “I could go get something?”

“You don’t have to make up for being late with authentic foreign cuisine,” you remind him. “You’ll be late, I get it. Saving the world takes precedence over rewatching Magnum P.I.”

Mark narrows his eyes, his fingers tightening around your palms. “You started without me,” he accuses.

You don’t bother denying it, pressing a kiss to his chin before you say, “Just one episode.”

“You mean the two-part premiere?”

“Okay, two episodes. You went to Hawaii last month and didn’t even bring me back a shell.”

Mark considers your argument, then tips his head and fixes those irresistible brown eyes on you. “Even?” he asks.

“Even.”

Mark leads you to your living room, more comfortable in your space than you thought he would be. The first time he came over, he kept his hands in his pockets and looked like he thought you were going to dump him every time he took a breath.

“You never answered the question,” Mark remembers as he opens the fridge.

“Because you’re smart enough to figure it out on your own,” you murmur.

Mark gives you a look that makes you second guess if that’s true.

For all the little kisses you’ve given Mark, he’s never kissed you back. He’ll trail off mid-sentence when you kiss his jaw, freeze when your lips find his bicep, and hide against you when you kiss him in public. Though you can’t decipher whether or not it’s because the affection is too much for him or if he’s holding himself back from taking something more, you enjoy it.

“Mark,” you begin, flipping through his back issues of Science Dog.

“Yes?” he asks, scrolling in search of a movie William recommended.

“Are you happy?”

Mark drops the remote, unflinching when it crashes to the floor. He turns toward you, staring at your back.

“Uh,” he mumbles. “That depends on what you say next.”

“No, not like that,” you explain, still looking away from him. “It’s just. We hang out all the time, and you- you get me. But you never... you know.”

You shrug as you say you know, and Mark’s mind goes into overdrive. His eyes trace your body while he tries to determine what exactly he is supposed to know.

“If you want me to stop, just tell me, Mark,” you continue. “I’ll understand.”

“Stop what?” he questions softly.

Sighing, you close the comic you’d been perusing and move to Mark’s side. “The affection,” you respond. “Say the word, and I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“No!” Mark exclaims, reaching out for you. He catches your arm and pulls you forward to stand between his legs. “I don’t want that.”

“Okay,” you soothe. “You never initiate anything, so I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t pushing you.”

Mark tips his chin up, his eyes glassy and round as his thumb traces circles against your arms. He drops his hand, tracing your veins like he’s trying to get absorbed into your bloodstream. You soften when he blinks slowly, his eyes one of your many weaknesses.

“I’m scared,” he whispers. “I could hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you assure him, inching closer. “I trust you, Mark.”

He shakes his head, arguing, “I don’t know my own strength sometimes and when- when I get emotional, it’s so hard to control everything.”

After lifting your free hand, you push your fingers through Mark’s hair. “I trust you,” you repeat.

Mark closes his eyes and leans forward until his head is against your stomach. He sighs, shuddering when he exhales. “You smell good,” he says against you.

“Thanks,” you reply through a laugh. “Did you find the movie?”

“I… got distracted.”

He wraps his arms around your hips, and you get distracted too.

You’re waiting at Mark’s back door, absentmindedly examining your nails. A strong gust of wind draws your attention upward to Invincible, who has a broken goggle revealing one of his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes.

Pushing to your feet, you smile and wave a hand. “It’s fine. I ordered pizza like five minutes ago, so it’ll be here soon.”

Mark nods, dragging his fingers across your back as he unlocks the door and lets you in. You drop your bag behind the door and exchange your shoes for the Science Dog slippers Mark claimed to have ‘accidentally ordered in the wrong size,’ though you’re fairly certain he got them for you.

“I’ll be right back,” Mark says. He returns less than fifteen seconds later looking far softer than when he arrived. “Thanks for getting dinner.”

“I think I’m going to make you give me a manicure as payment,” you muse.

“Sure,” Mark agrees without hesitation.

You hum, dropping your elbows to the counter. “I’m thinking something artsy and unique. Maybe yellow and blue.”

“That’d look nice,” Mark agrees, watching your lips.

“You know, as my boyfriend, you have certain privileges.”

Mark blinks rapidly, then meets your gaze. His head tips to the side like a confused puppy before he inquires, “What?”

You take two steps forward, close enough that you can see his individual eyelashes. “Kiss me.”

“Yes,” Mark responds quickly, nodding as his hands flex at your sides. “Absolutely, I do want to do that. Uh, where? Like- like a friendly, on the cheek thing or-”

“Oh my gosh,” you breathe out before cupping both sides of his jaw and kissing him.

Mark’s eyes snap closed the moment your lips meet his, his arms winding around your waist to pull you flush against him. He takes control quickly, moving against you like he’s an expert in you despite never having been here before. It’s unfair really.

When you separate, you panting for air and Mark smiling like he just discovered his new favorite thing, you realize that Mark may not have been completely unfounded in his worries about losing control while kissing you. Your legs have turned to jelly, your mind gone fuzzy. Mark says something, so you nod, but you’re only thinking of how perfect he is. Mark steps around you, then returns with the pizza you ordered.

“You can do that whenever you want,” you tell Mark. “And you’re still doing my nails.”

Mark smiles, murmuring, “Okay.”

Strolling through the comic bookstore, you scan the shelves for something Mark might enjoy. The bell over the door chimes behind you, prompting the man at the counter to greet the new customer. You step closer to a display, tapping the spine of a compendium.

Before you can decide if it’s worth looking at, someone wraps their arms around your waist and presses their chest to your back. Their lips find your neck, pressing a long kiss below your ear before brushing over the point where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Mark,” you breathe out, leaning into him as your eyes close.

He says your name, matching your tone, and asks, “What are you doing here?”

“None of your business,” you reply, your voice soft as you press your weight into him. “You’re getting too good at that.”

Mark laughs against your shoulder, then reminds you, “Boyfriend privileges.”

It took Mark less than a month to find your weakest spots. Now that he trusts himself to be affectionate toward you, he knows exactly where to kiss, how to hold you, what to whisper, to make you unravel in his hands. Hence, why you’ve made efforts to remind him that you held that power first.

“That’s a dumb hero name,” you grumble. “Why would you just add man to the end?”

Mark doesn’t look up from your arm to agree, “Exactly!”

You shift, pressing your chest to his side and spreading your hand over his chest. He takes a deep breath, then wraps an arm around your waist to keep you close. When you kiss his jaw, he swallows.

“Mark?”

“Yeah?” he answers, dropping his chin to see you.

“I love you.”

Mark doesn’t give you a chance to see his reaction. Instead, he pulls you upward to lay on top of him, holds your chin, and kisses you. You hum into the kiss, holding his shoulders.

“We should go somewhere,” he suggests. “Let’s go get dessert.”

You’ve yet to go on a long flight with him, yet you smile and nod. “What were you thinking? Crème Brule? Macarons?”

“Both,” he answers, standing without releasing you. He moves toward the door, then slows. “Uh… where can we get that?”

You drop your forehead against his shoulder and groan, then laugh. “France, mon amour.”

Mark nods, though you know he has no idea where France is. You’ll have to tell him to fly until he sees the Eiffel Tower — but not the one in Vegas. He’s made that mistake once before, and his dad was ready and willing to tell the story regardless of Mark’s embarrassment.

“You going to talk like that the whole time?” Mark questions.

“In French?” you clarify. “Doubtful. Why, you like it?”

Omni-Man’s shoulders take up your entire doorway, blocking the fluorescent light from the hall and anyone who may be trying to enter. Not that you get many visitors besides him and the occasional drop-in from Cecil. Besides, it’s not Omni-Man casting a shadow into your closet of an office now. It’s Nolan Grayson. He has his hands clasped behind his back, the seams of his grey henley fighting to remain intact.

“What?” you ask, not yet looking away from your laptop.

Nolan clears his throat, then smiles when you roll your eyes. “Ahem,” he repeats, somehow more dramatically than the first time.

Leaning back in your chair, you turn toward him and ask, “Oh, great and powerful Omni-Man, how ever may I assist you?”

“That’s better,” he applauds, nodding as he takes a half-step over the threshold. It’s a tight space, so if you lift your hand, you’ll be touching his thigh. He doesn’t seem to notice how close he is, his warmth pressing into you.

“Did you need something or are you just here to use up the oxygen?” you deadpan, tipping your chin up to see him.

“I read the speech you wrote for tomorrow’s interview. It’s too…”

“Direct?” you guess.

“I was going to say god awful.”

You scoff, allowing the arm of your chair to hit him as you return to your desk. “Yeah, well, it’s not my job to make you seem like less of an a-hole, Nolan.”

Nolan reaches out with his right hand and catches the back of your chair. You try to pull away from him, but it’s useless. He bends, his face inches from yours.

“That’s precisely your job,” he argues lowly.

“Then maybe,” you reply slowly, “you should stop making it so hard.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up as the metal frame of your chair creaks.

“Don’t break another chair,” you warn.

This time, he actually smiles. “You didn’t seem to mind the last time.”

“You body slammed me, Nolan. The only reason I didn’t mind was because you saved my life. I couldn’t lift my arm over my head for a week!”

“Why would you need to do that?” he murmurs, glancing down at your hands.

“Because normal human people have things to do and don’t recover in twelve seconds, Omni-Man.”

He sighs, then releases the chairs and shows you his hands. “No harm done. See?”

“Good,” you muse with a nod. “Now go memorize your speech.”

“I think I’ll wing it,” he decides as he straightens. “Can’t be worse than what you wrote.”

“Fine.” You shrug and wave a flippant hand toward the door. “If it’s bad, I get fired.”

“What would you do then?”

Glancing up at him, you smile and answer, “Get a job where I don’t get accosted by superheroes every fifteen minutes.”

Nolan stiffens, his eyes darkening before he asks, “Other heroes?”

Shrugging, you look back to the laptop and remind him, “The GDA isn’t just for you. Cecil keeps us busy.”

Nolan hums, and then he’s gone. You drop your hand to the base of your chair, sighing when you feel the dent of his handprint. Cecil meant it when he said heroes were the reason you couldn’t have nice things.

Down three corridors and past two Top Secret clearance-only doors, Nolan finds Cecil.

“Did you break the door again?” Cecil asks, his pen stilling on the paper he’s signing.

“I’m taking her with me to the interview tomorrow,” Nolan says. He doesn’t have to say your name, and he wouldn’t even if you weren’t his assistant on paper – it seems you’re the only person in the GDA that Nolan has any semblance of care for. This is not a question or a negotiation; it’s a decision that Cecil has no say in. Unless, of course, he decides to argue.

“That’s fine,” he mutters. “Was that all?”

Nolan prepares to leave without answering, then remembers, “She needs a new chair.”

“It’s from Milan,” Nolan says, sounding far too proud as he watches you turn in front of the mirror.

“It’s a little much,” you mumble, smoothing the fabric down your sides. “It’s an interview – your interview – not dinner with the queen.”

“Oh, I’d get you something much more formal for dinner with the queen,” he scoffs.

You sigh, dropping your shoulders as you turn toward him. Nolan moves quickly, but you see his eyes shift to the mirror before lifting to your face. “Why am I even going?” you question. “I have work to do.”

“You are working. Someone has to keep me from acting like a-”

“When has that worked?” you interrupt incredulously. “The last time Cecil asked me to step in between you and a reporter, I made it worse!”

Nolan tips his head, then points out, “Technically, he made it worse.”

“That’s not the point here, Omni-Man,” you groan. “I know you can do this by yourself. Why drag me into it?”

Stepping toward you, Nolan crosses his arms over his chest and muses, “You lose a lot of your fight when I get you out of the office.”

“You’re still insufferable,” you snap, matching his stance.

Nolan smiles down at you and whispers, “I like the dress.”

“Then you wear it.”

“I think it would clash with the ‘stache,” he jokes. “If you can tell me one real, valid reason you shouldn’t go, I’ll fly you back to HQ right now.”

“Uh,” you breathe out, chewing your bottom lip as you try to think of a reason. “I have a report to finish.”

“When’s it due?” he checks, staring at your lips.

“Monday.”

“Plenty of time to do it after. So, shall we fly or use the car Cecil sent?”

You drop your arms, accepting your fate. “I think you do this just to see me miserable.”

“Milan and back for a designer dress,” Nolan reminds you. “Yeah, misery was the goal.”

It’s too quiet. The GDA offices in the Pentagon are silent; half of the staff is investigating what’s left from this morning’s fight, and the other half is staring blankly at muted screens trying to figure out how this happened. Your phone buzzes with a message from Cecil.

Now is all it says.

So, you leave your desk and walk through the halls, on autopilot as you scan your badge to reach a part of the building that doesn’t exist (or so the U.S. government thinks). When you reach your destination, your senses begin returning. The sharp sting of antiseptic reaches you first, then the overlapping beeps of various machinery illuminated by harsh white lights.

“In there,” Cecil tells you, pointing to a door. “I’ve got to make a call.”

He leaves you alone in the tiled hallway. You raise your hand three times before you actually find the doorknob and push the door open. The beeping is louder inside, a large machine showing numbers that blur together as you look at the world’s strongest man lying on a gurney.

Cecil told you when they got Omni-Man here that he’d probably be unconscious for a while. GDA has access to the best physicians, but Omni-Man isn’t supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be… invincible.

Moving to the side of the bed, you sink into a hard plastic chair. Omni-Man has bruises lining his face, a deep scratch on his left arm, and bruising on his chest that disappears beneath the blanket covering him.

“Idiot,” you scoff. “You’re not supposed to pick fights like that by yourself.”

The machine beeps twice in rapid succession before he mumbles, “Don’t like teams.”

“And this is where it gets you.”

Omni-Man doesn’t bother opening his eyes, but he smiles, which quickly transitions to a grimace. “You sound worried.”

“I’m pissed,” you correct, leaning toward him. “Do you know what happens if you lose a fight? Because we don’t. You’re not supposed to lose, Omni-Man. What happens then?”

“I didn’t lose,” he argues. “Just… took a few more hits than I should have.”

“I’m not fighting with you right now,” you murmur as you stand.

Omni-Man can still move quickly, you find, his arm a blur as he wraps his fingers around your wrist. His bright blue eyes are on you when you turn, clearer than you’ve seen them in weeks. “Stay,” he whispers.

You swallow, then ask, “Why?”

“Because I want to explain what happened, and you’re the only one who will listen without expecting the best of me.”

“That was… surprisingly earnest,” you realize. “Wait, are you dying?!”

“No, I’m not dying,” he groans, pushing his head back into the pillow. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the guy who got thrown into the sun!”

“Are you going to keep yelling at me or listen?!” Omni-Man exclaims.

You exhale sharply, then nod. “Fine. I’m listening, Omni-Man.”

He nods, shifting his hand to trace your palm. “Call me Nolan?” he requests.

“No.”

You don’t remember how many NDAs you signed when you joined the GDA, but there were a lot. And should you do something they don’t approve of, you’ll likely just disappear from the planet without a trace. Maybe they’d get Omni-Man to fly you to a distant planet and leave you there.

Even with the NDAs, you have to vent to someone. So, you talk to your best friend about work. Only she thinks you work in the fraud department at the bank – the GDA – and your boss – Omni-Man – is a jerk. It’s a solid cover.

“Interesting,” your best friend muses, stirring her drink with a bright green straw.

“What?” you ask softly. Some of the fight and stress has drained out of you after getting your frustrations off your chest.

“I’m, like, uh… estimate? 80 percent sure your boss is in love with you.”

You sputter, covering your mouth before you can spit your drink all over yourself and the table. Wide-eyed, you drop your hand and demand, “What?! That’s ridiculous, and wrong!”

“No, no, hear me out,” she continues, dropping her chin onto her palm. “He doesn’t like you working for other people, he gets you nice things when you have to go to events together, and he likes having you close. I mean, it reads a little over possessive, but that’s more than a boss, babe.”

Your eyes bounce between her and your drink, your brain going through a slideshow of memories in which Omni-Man was a little too nice to you. Usually, he was still wearing the mask of being a complete jerk, but he had good intentions as far as you could tell. Maybe you shouldn’t have told Cecil you were worried he’d snap and take over the world someday.

“Ooh, I know that look. I’m right, right? So, tell me more about this elusive guy… Is he hot? Because if he’s not, the behavior is totally creepy.”

“He’s hot,” you admit without thinking, staring at the paper coaster beneath your glass. “Super hot. And tall.”

“Who?”

You fall off your stool, surprised by the sudden intrusion. Before you can attempt to get your feet under you or fall to the sticky bar floor, two large hands catch you beneath your arms and haul you upright.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

You pinch your eyes closed, desperately wishing that he’ll disappear or that this is a nightmare that you can wake up from. When you blink and turn to your left, you learn that neither is the case.

“Omn- Nolan,” you greet. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area,” he answers with a shrug.

He's lying. There were no fights around here, and he lives on the other side of the city. He smiles when you narrow your eyes in a silent question, then taps your seat.

“I’ll let you get back to it.”

“No, wait,” your friend calls. “Join us.”

“He’s busy,” you interject quickly. “Right, Nolan?”

“Hey,” another man interrupts, leaning heavily on the corner of the table. “If he’s busy, I can join.”

“Sure!” Nolan greets enthusiastically. He takes the man’s hand and leans in like he’s talking to an old friend, but you know it’s more than that. You half expect to hear the man’s bones break, but he runs away before it gets that far. “He won’t be back,” Nolan tells you. “Enjoy your night.”

He walks past the table, and your friend is kicking your shin repeatedly, pleading with you to call him back. You close your eyes, well aware that it’s a terrible decision.

“Nolan?” you call. He turns without hesitation, his blue eyes dark in the low light. “You should join us.”

Five minutes later, your friend pulls the fake phone call trick and leaves you and Nolan alone at the table. Twisting your glass, you look at the table rather than him.

“What’d you say to that guy?” you wonder.

“I quoted one of your speeches,” he answers. “Scared him right off.”

“Jerk,” you scoff.

“Speaking of which,” Nolan murmurs, trailing off when two police officers carry the man from before out, his arm bruised and swollen. “What a shame.”

“Nolan,” you hiss, turning toward him.

“He needed it,” he insists. Lifting your glass to his lips, he holds your eye contact and adds, “Trust me.”

“…We need not focus on a better tomorrow,” Omni-Man tells the world. “Not when we can make improvements today.”

The crowd roars, several roses tossed onto the edge of the stage. Standing by the GDA motorcade, you watch Omni-Man scan the crowd, a fake smile on his face as he instills false hope in people young and old. Focusing on today rather than tomorrow isn’t bad advice, but the improvements that can be made in a day won’t change much. At least he’s delivering the speech well, you think.

“Uh oh,” Cecil mumbles, tapping his phone screen.

“I don’t like it when you say uh oh, Cecil,” you say, moving toward him. “What now?”

“Get him off the stage,” he instructs a nearby team.

“What?” you repeat. “Sniper? Airstrike?”

A sudden breeze nearly knocks you off your feet, but Nolan wraps his arm around your waist to steady you, glaring at Cecil.

“What did you do?” he demands.

“I- We have it under control, Nolan,” Cecil assures him. “It will be over in a matter of hours, I assure you.”

“You have six hours,” Nolan adds. “And then I take you to front lines.”

Cecil pales but doesn’t say anything more before Nolan launches off the ground. You shriek, wrapping your arms around his neck as the ground grows farther from you, the crowd blurring together.

“Nolan,” you whimper.

He chuckles, an arm around your waist as he passes through a cloud. You press your face to his shoulder, your eyes closed as you cling to him.

“What’d he do?” you ask, trying to focus on anything other than being so high and, of course, why Nolan decided to bring you along.

“Started a war,” Nolan answers. “Should be fine. Just like you are.”

“I’m only fine until I start falling,” you argue.

“You really think I would let that happen?” You don’t answer, and Nolan murmurs, “Ouch.”

“I- I don’t know what to think,” you admit against him.

“Then look,” he encourages.

You shake your head, your arms tightening around him. In return, Nolan wraps both of his arms around you, carefully lowering you until your feet are on his. It feels like standing, but you know you’re not. Your fate, your future, your life, it’s all in Nolan’s hands right now. The same guy you called an a-hole less than a month ago.

“I’ve got you,” Nolan promises. “Look.”

Carefully, slowly, you lift your head from his chest, then open your eyes. Blinking, all you can see is his suit. Exhaling, you turn your head, your eyes widening when you see the fluffy white cloud tops extending in every direction.

“Wow,” you breathe out. “It’s beautiful.”

Nolan isn’t looking at the clouds when he agrees, “Beautiful. I never get used to it.”

“I… I’m sorry for the things I said,” you confess, tipping your chin to see him. “We’re all doing this job for the first time. Doesn’t mean I should take everything out on you.”

“Are you saying all this because I’m holding you up here?” Nolan checks.

“Well, I do want to stay on your good side right now,” you admit with a smile. “But I mean it. I’ve been hard on you because I was being hard on myself. It wasn’t fair.”

Nolan shrugs, smiling when you bury your face against him again. “I didn’t mind it,” he says, rubbing your back.

“Didn’t mind me being awful to you?” you check.

“Yeah. I actually kind of liked it.”

“Freak.”

Nolan considers pretending to drop you but finds that your arms around him is too enticing to miss out on.

“Who’s the bouquet from?” the shadow darkening your office inquires.

“Those are for you,” you murmur, scanning a report. “But you don’t have an office, so they got delivered here.”

“Ah. Well, you can have them.”

“Selfless.”

Nolan stretches, his fingers brushing your shoulder as he grunts. “Come on,” he urges. “We’re taking a break.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “Sorry.”

Nolan nods, then grabs the already dented rod of your chair and pulls you backward into the hall. A passing GDA agent steps out of his way and then runs.

“Fine,” you sigh. “You win. What’s the break?”

“I was thinking lunch in Paris,” he answers.

“That sounds like a date, Omni-Man. Not a break.”

He nods, then suggests, “We can multi-task.”

“We fly once and we’re dating?” you inquire.

“Are you going to keep being a brat or answer the question?”

Your brows lift at his tone; you want to push him, but lunch in Paris does sound nice. She was right, you realize suddenly. He’s in love with me.

Nolan narrows his eyes at you, then pushes you back into the office. “Are you going to make this weird?” he checks.

“Depends. Does it mean anything?”

“It means as much as you want it to,” he answers.

You stand, offer your hand, and stipulate, “We’ll see how you kiss first.”

“Forward,” Nolan murmurs.

“And you breaking a guy’s hand for talking to me was totally normal,” you deadpan.

“I guess we’re both jerks, then.”