Light My Way

Your crush on Dr. Michael Robinavitch has been an open secret to everyone except the man himself.

Which feels statistically improbable, given the number of people involved, but here you are.

You try subtle.

Very subtle.

Subtle in the way a moth is subtle when it keeps reappearing near the same porch light.

You find reasons to be within arm’s reach when he dictates orders—close enough to hear the quiet rasp at the back of his voice when he’s been awake too long, close enough to smell antiseptic and coffee and whatever soap he uses that smells aggressively utilitarian.

You pass him instruments before he asks. You’re already holding the chart when he turns. You anticipate him the way nurses do when they’ve worked with someone for a decade—or the way someone does when they’ve been paying far too much attention and need to maybe go outside and touch grass.

You tell yourself it’s professional. You tell yourself you’re just good at your job. You tell yourself a lot of things, actually. You’re very articulate in your own head.

In your head, you’re devastatingly charming.

Out loud, you mostly nod.

The ER hums the way it always does: fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, the smell of stale coffee and disinfectant clinging to everything.

You lean in as Robby dictates discharge instructions, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that makes him look perpetually one bad cup of coffee away from homicide.

You hand him the pen before he asks.

He doesn’t even look at you. Just takes it, continues talking.

Which is fine. Totally fine. This is how professionals behave. This is normal.

Dana watches you clock out at the end of the shift, arms crossed, expression sharp with the kind of amusement that comes from knowing too much.

“You keep orbiting him like that,” she says mildly, “someone’s going to start calling it gravitational.”

You pause mid-bag-shoulder-sling. “I’m being subtle.”

Dana snorts. It’s inelegant. It’s devastating. “You’re being invisible.”

Rude. Accurate. But rude.

So you decide to take matters into your own hands.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You start with caffeine, because caffeine is universal. Reliable. Non-threatening. Also, if nothing else, it will keep him alive long enough to notice you, which feels like a reasonable goal to set for yourself. Manageable. Achievable. Low emotional risk.

You learn his coffee order by observation alone. A little milk. No sugar. Strong enough to raise the dead. You learn this the way one learns all dangerous things: quietly, carefully, without admitting to anyone—including yourself—that you’re doing it.

You begin making sure it appears on his desk during shifts.

Not announced. Not labeled. Just there. Steam curling faintly in the air. A benevolent force of nature. Like weather. Or fate. Or a very tired nurse with poor impulse control.

The first few times, he doesn’t comment. He just drinks it. Which feels… promising? Maybe? You try not to read into it. You read into it anyway. You read into everything.

One night, on a whim—on a deeply questionable whim—you write his name on the cup.

You stare at the blank cardboard for a full thirty seconds, marker hovering. You weigh the pros and cons. The pros: he might notice you. The cons: you might die from embarrassment.

You add a tiny smiley face.

You immediately regret it. You commit anyway.

You set the cup down and walk away like nothing in your life has ever mattered less.

He picks it up without comment.

You pretend to reorganize a drawer you reorganized an hour ago. You are very busy. Extremely focused. A paragon of productivity.

“Who made this?” he asks the room.

Your heart does something profoundly unprofessional.

“I did,” you say, leaning against the counter, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near strained confidence. You meet his eyes. You give him a look you are certain could crack glass, or at least communicate hello, I exist, please acknowledge this fact.

He studies the cup. The name. The smiley face. His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.

“Good call,” he says. “Saved my life.”

And then he turns back to his computer.

That’s it.

No follow-up. No lingering glance. No dawning realization that you are, in fact, a person with a face and a personality and a truly alarming amount of affection for him.

You wait.

You linger.

You give him another look, this one sharper, more deliberate, the kind that has historically been effective on bartenders and one regrettable ex.

He doesn’t get it.

He never gets it.

You sigh internally, telling yourself—again—that this is fine. That this is just a crush. That you are a grown adult with a job and a life and absolutely no business falling for a man who doesn’t notice smiley faces on his coffee cups.

Later, you overhear him tell an intern:

“The nurses here really look out for you.”

You freeze mid-step, one hand wrapped around a stack of IV kits, the other hovering uselessly in the air like you’ve forgotten what hands are for.

Really look out for you.

Nurses.

You stare at the supply room door in front of you, the beige paint chipped from years of gurneys clipping the frame, and seriously consider screaming directly into it. Not a polite scream. Not a dignified one. A feral, banshee-level howl that might echo all the way down to radiology.

You don’t. You are, tragically, an adult.

Inside your head, however, you are already screaming.

Nurses. As if the coffee just materialized out of thin air. As if caffeine itself clocked in for the shift and decided he looked especially exhausted. As if a disembodied union of scrubs and competence collectively decided to adopt him.

You picture the smiley face on the cup. The tiny one. The one you debated like it was a life-altering moral decision.

Apparently, it died for nothing.

You retreat to the nurses’ station, jaw tight, brain buzzing with the static of unspent emotion and overthinking. Dana clocks you instantly, because of course she does. She’s been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. She can smell romantic distress the way some people smell rain.

She leans back in her chair, arms folded, eyes bright with restrained amusement.

“Oh no,” she says. “You heard it.”

“He thinks I’m a collective,” you say flatly. “I’ve been absorbed into the nursing hive mind.”

Dana snorts. “At least he appreciates the hive.”

You drop into the chair beside her, spin it once, stop abruptly. Your leg bounces. You cannot stop it.

“I wrote his name on the cup,” you say quietly. “There was a smiley face.”

Dana’s eyebrows climb. “Bold.”

“I lingered,” you continue. “I linger. I make eye contact that should legally require a warning label.”

“And yet,” Dana says gently, “here we are.”

You scrub a hand down your face. The ER hums around you—monitors chiming, a trauma bay curtain snapping shut, someone arguing in triage. The world continues on, indifferent to your suffering.

“He’s not being dense on purpose,” Dana says, still watching you spiral. “He’s just… like that.”

You glance at her. “Like what?”

She tilts her head, considers. “Oblivious to romance. Exceptionally competent about everything else.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “That’s the worst possible combination.”

“Tell me about it,” Dana says. “Brilliant hands. Terrible radar.”

You glance down the hallway where he’s standing now, shoulders hunched slightly as he listens to the intern, nodding along, offering calm, precise advice like the very embodiment of competence and control. He looks tired. He always looks tired. Something in your chest softens despite yourself.

“That man could diagnose a patient through a wall,” you mutter, “but can’t recognize a crush if it hands him coffee with a smiley face.”

Dana hums. “To be fair, you’re very subtle.”

You shoot her a look.

“I’m being strategic,” you say. “This is a slow burn.”

“Sure,” she says. “Just know you might have to light the match.”

You don’t respond right away. You watch him laugh at something the intern says, just a brief huff of sound, gone almost as soon as it appears. It does something deeply inconvenient to your internal organs.

You sigh.

“Next time,” you say, resigned, “I’m drawing a heart.”

Dana grins.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You abandon subtlety.

Not dramatically—no grand declaration, no sudden hand on his chest in the middle of the trauma bay. Just the quiet, weary realization that implication is a language he does not speak. Or if he does, it’s one he refuses to acknowledge out of stubbornness, self-preservation, or a tragic devotion to professional boundaries that borders on ascetic.

Fine. Words it is.

The ER hums around you in its usual state of controlled chaos: monitors chirping like anxious birds, the low murmur of nurses exchanging vitals, the antiseptic tang of disinfectant clinging to everything, including your clothes. You’re leaning against the counter near the charting station, arms folded loosely, watching him finish dictating notes from the last trauma.

He’s still riding the aftershock of it—adrenaline not quite spent, shoulders tight beneath his scrubs, hair a little mussed in that irritating way that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine titled Overworked But Competent. Blood stains have been scrubbed from his forearms, but you can still see faint water marks where he rushed through it.

You clear your throat.

“You were incredible in that trauma,” you say, tone deliberately even, like this is a completely normal thing colleagues say to each other all the time and you’re not testing a hypothesis.

He looks up, startled just enough to notice. His expression softens into something easy, open.

“Thanks,” he says. “Good teamwork.”

Of course. Of course that’s what he says.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to point out that teamwork does not usually involve him giving orders with surgical precision while you anticipate them half a second before he speaks. Teamwork does not usually make your pulse jump when he looks at you like that—focused, trusting, utterly unaware of the effect.

“Right,” you say instead. “Teamwork.”

He’s already turned back to the computer, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. Compliment absorbed, neutralized, filed away under Professional Affirmation. You feel a strange mix of irritation and grudging fondness. Mostly irritation.

Fine.

You try again later.

Different shift. Different light. Same him.

It’s quieter—one of those rare lulls that feel like borrowed time. The overhead lights have been dimmed slightly, casting everything in a flatter, softer glow. He’s standing near the med room, sipping vending machine coffee like it’s a necessary evil rather than a beverage, shoulders slumped in the particular way of someone who has been awake too long but refuses to admit it.

You approach with intent.

“You look good today,” you say, deliberately casual, as if you’re commenting on the weather or the state of the supply room. You don’t smile. You don’t soften it. You just let the words sit there between you, unadorned.

He blinks.

Once. Twice.

“Oh. Uh.” He glances down at himself, like the answer might be written somewhere on his scrubs. “Long shift,” he says. “Probably just the lighting.”

You stare at him.

Not glaring—no, this is worse. This is the slow, incredulous stare of someone watching a grown man walk directly into a glass door and then apologize to it. You feel deeply, personally offended. By his humility. By his complete inability to parse meaning. By the fact that you have now complimented him twice and he has somehow managed to dodge both like they were incoming projectiles.

The lighting.

Right.

“Sure,” you say. “The lighting that makes you look… competent.”

He frowns, confused. “Is that—”

“It’s a compliment,” you interrupt, a little too quickly. You can feel heat creeping up your neck, annoyance prickling under your skin. You’re not embarrassed—no, that would imply regret. This is more like being thwarted by an unexpectedly dense puzzle.

“Oh.” He smiles then, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

There it is again. That smile. The one that makes you forget, briefly, why you’re annoyed at all. It’s open and unguarded, like he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone would look at him and see something worth commenting on.

Which is absurd. Objectively.

You turn away before you do something reckless, like point out the exact list of reasons he looks good today—broad shoulders filling out those scrubs, the silver streak in his beard and on his temples, the way his voice drops when he’s tired.

Still, you don’t stop.

If anything, you escalate.

You start finding reasons to be near him—charting beside him, handing him supplies he didn’t ask for, lingering just long enough to say things like, “Nice call back there,” or “You’re really good with patients,” or, once, when he manages to de-escalate a particularly hostile family member, “You have a calming presence. It’s annoying.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” he says, amused.

“It is,” you reply. “I’m just mad about it.”

He laughs at that—actually laughs—and for a moment you feel like you’ve cracked something. Like maybe, finally, he’s seeing it. The intent beneath the words. The way you’re watching him, not just as a colleague, but as someone who is increasingly, inconveniently important.

Then he says, “You’re good too, you know. Really sharp. Patients trust you.”

And just like that, it slides back into safe territory.

Professional. Neutral. Mutually assured restraint.

You smile, because you’re not cruel. Because you do like him. Because part of you suspects that if you pushed any harder, he’d retreat entirely, and you’re not ready for that yet.

But as you walk away, you can’t help thinking:

This shouldn’t be this hard.

You’ve stopped hinting. You’re using words now. Clear ones.

If he still doesn’t catch on?

Well.

You’ll figure out something else.

You escalate further.

Not recklessly—no, this is a calculated escalation. A measured one. You’ve ruled out subtlety, exhausted compliments, survived the humiliation of watching him interpret flirtation as atmospheric lighting. This is the next logical step: honesty, softened just enough to be deniable if it goes poorly.

It’s late. Of course it is. The kind of hour where the ER finally exhales after hours of holding its breath. The trauma bays are quiet, the monitors mercifully steady, the fluorescent lights humming with that faint electrical buzz that makes everything feel slightly unreal. Your feet ache in a deep, structural way. Your coffee has gone cold twice.

He’s at the counter across from you, sleeves pushed up, reviewing labs with the concentration of someone who refuses to half-do anything. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear. You notice it. You always notice stupid things like that.

You hover. Casual. Definitely casual.

“You know, I like working with you,” you say.

Your voice comes out softer than intended. Less banter, more… something else. You hate that you can hear it. You hate more that he can too.

He looks up immediately. That part is promising. His expression warms, easy and genuine, like you’ve just handed him something uncomplicated.

“Likewise,” he says without hesitation. “You’re one of our strongest nurses.”

There it is.

You feel something inside you shrivel politely and die.

Strongest nurse.

Not favorite person to share a shift with. Not I feel steadier when you’re here. Not even I like you too in the dangerous, human way. No—this is a performance review. This is the sentence that gets written in emails to administration.

You blink once. Slowly. Carefully. Like if you move too fast, you might scream.

“Wow,” you say, because silence would be suspicious. “High praise.”

He smiles, entirely sincere, entirely oblivious. “I mean it. You anticipate needs, you keep your head under pressure. Patients respond to you. Makes a difference on shifts like this.”

You nod, because that is objectively nice. Because he is being kind. Because it is not his fault that every word he says lands half an inch to the left of where you need it.

Inside your head, you are already standing on a bridge.

The Allegheny is cold, you think distantly. Efficient. A little dramatic, but honestly? Fitting.

“Yeah,” you say aloud. “Teamwork.”

Again with the teamwork. You are haunted by this word.

He glances at you, brow furrowing just slightly. “You okay? You look… tired.”

That does it. That’s the final insult. You have bared your soul—with softened honesty—and he has diagnosed you with fatigue.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly. Too quickly. “Just contemplating my life choices.”

He chuckles, assuming this is a joke. You let him. It’s easier.

“Join the club,” he says. “I’ve been doing that since med school.”

You imagine explaining it to him. Laying it all out. When I say I like working with you, I mean I like the way you look at me when we’re in sync. I mean I trust you with my back and my heart, apparently. I mean I’m flirting so hard I should get written up.

Instead, you straighten, plaster on a professional smile, and push off the counter.

“Well,” you say, already retreating, “thanks for the feedback. I’ll add it to my annual self-worth assessment.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You pause mid-step, glance back at him.

“You have no idea,” you say.

He watches you go, still smiling, still clueless.

You walk toward the supply room, toward the locker area, toward literally anywhere that is not within conversational distance of him. Your chest feels tight—not painfully, just enough to register as something you’ll unpack later, preferably with snacks.

Strongest nurse, you think.

Fantastic.

At this rate, you’ll confess your feelings outright and he’ll hand you a commendation certificate and ask if you’d like to precept next semester.

The Allegheny River continues to call to you.

Later, Dana finds you aggressively restocking gloves.

Not restocking in the calm, methodical sense. This is personal. Boxes are being yanked open with more force than necessary, gloves shoved into dispensers until they bulge slightly, like they’re being punished for something they personally did to you. The nitrile snaps sharply every time you pull a pair free, a sound that feels far too satisfying.

You’re on your third dispenser when Dana leans against the supply room doorframe, arms crossed, eyes bright with the particular interest of someone who has clocked everything.

“You know,” she says mildly, “those gloves are innocent.”

You don’t look at her. “They know what they did.”

She hums, watching you for a moment longer than strictly polite. The supply room smells like cardboard and antiseptic. The fluorescent light flickers once overhead. Of course it does. Even the building is tired.

“I’ve known him fifteen years,” Dana says finally. “You could flirt by skywriting and he’d ask about air traffic regulations.”

That gets you.

You stop mid-shove, one glove dangling uselessly from your hand. You turn slowly, staring at her like she’s just delivered a formal diagnosis.

“…That’s the most upsetting thing anyone has said to me tonight,” you reply.

She grins. “Accurate, though.”

You exhale, dropping the glove back into the box with a defeated little flick of your wrist. “I told him I like working with him.”

Dana winces in sympathy. “Oof.”

“And he said I’m one of the strongest nurses,” you continue flatly. “Strongest, Dana. Like I’m a structural beam.”

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “you are load-bearing.”

You glare at her. She holds up her hands. “Hey. Compliment. Sort of.”

You lean back against the shelf, arms crossing tight over your chest. The irritation is still there, buzzing under your skin, but now it’s mixed with something else—relief, maybe. Validation. The comforting knowledge that you are not, in fact, losing your mind.

“So it’s not me,” you say.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Dana replies. “He’s just… like that. Emotionally illiterate unless feelings arrive with a consent form and a peer-reviewed study.”

You snort despite yourself. “That tracks.”

She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now. “You’re actually trying, though.”

You hesitate. Just a fraction. Enough.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Apparently that was my first mistake.”

Dana’s expression softens—not pitying, but kind. She pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, lowering her voice even though no one else is around.

“He notices things,” she says. “Just not the things people usually mean.”

You pick at the edge of a cardboard box. “Great. So I need to flirt in bullet points.”

“Clear objectives,” she agrees. “Minimal subtext.”

You consider this. The idea of looking him dead in the eye and saying I am attracted to you and this is not about teamwork makes your stomach do something unpleasant and acrobatic.

“Or,” Dana adds, smirking, “you could just keep escalating until he accidentally figures it out.”

You laugh, short and breathy. “At this rate, I’ll propose marriage and he’ll ask if this is about shift coverage.”

She laughs with you, the sound easy and familiar. Then she glances back toward the hallway, where voices echo faintly—his voice among them.

“You okay?” she asks more quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Dana bumps her shoulder lightly against yours as she passes. “Good. Because watching you flirt with him is the most entertainment I get on days like this.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth now.

When she leaves, you finish restocking the gloves—this time with less hostility. Your pulse has steadied. The sting has dulled into something manageable. Almost fond.

You straighten the last box and take a breath.

Skywriting, you think. Air traffic regulations.

Fine.

If implication won’t work, and escalation keeps getting rerouted into professionalism, then eventually there will only be one option left.

You grab a pair of gloves and snap them on, resolve settling in your chest.

Next time, you won’t let him miss it.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You decide—foolishly—that if directness failed yesterday, then banter will surely succeed today.

Because banter is safe. Banter is deniable. Banter lets you pretend you’re not standing one ill-timed heartbeat away from emotional free fall.

The ER hums around you, the smell of antiseptic clinging to everything like a second skin. It’s late enough that the adrenaline has softened into something duller, heavier. The kind of hour where everyone’s shoulders slope forward and voices drop without anyone consciously deciding it.

He’s standing at the counter, reviewing labs on the computer, brows knit in concentration. One hand braces against the laminate, the other scrolls absently, as if his body knows this ritual so well it no longer requires supervision. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms. You notice this. You always notice this. You tell yourself it’s purely observational. Anatomical. Clinical.

Liar.

You approach under the pretense of dropping off a coffee and a protein bar—again. This has become a pattern. You tell yourself it’s because he forgets to eat. Which is true. You also forget to eat, yet somehow no one is shepherding you with snacks like a feral cat.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice. Casual. Easy. Playful.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head just enough to suggest mischief, “if I keep saving you coffee and snacks, people might start thinking I like you.”

There. Light. Teasing. A line with plausible deniability baked right in.

You wait.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just hums thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the screen.

Then he snorts.

Actually snorts.

“They should,” he says easily. “You’re excellent at your job.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Your brain stalls like a car refusing to turn over in winter.

“…That’s not what I meant,” you say, because apparently today you’re choosing honesty in the most pathetic increments possible.

He finally glances at you then. Just briefly. A faint smile tugs at his mouth—not smug, not teasing. Earnest. The kind of smile that suggests he truly believes what he’s saying.

“Still true,” he says, then turns back to the screen as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.

Ah.

Yes.

Of course.

Naturally.

You stand there for a half second too long, holding a coffee you suddenly resent deeply. Your internal monologue is a mess of static and profanity and the slow, dawning realization that you have once again underestimated just how profoundly literal this man is.

You wanted subtext.

He handed you a performance review.

You force a smile that probably looks more like mild indigestion and slide the coffee toward him.

“Well,” you say, voice pitched professionally neutral now, “drink that before it turns into a science experiment.”

“Already halfway there,” he replies absently.

You pivot on your heel and walk away before your soul physically exits your body.

As you pass the nurses’ station, you can feel your face burning. Not a cute flush. A full-body betrayal. Your brain helpfully replays the exchange on a loop, annotating it with commentary like bold of you to assume.

You duck into an empty supply alcove and lean back against the cool metal shelving, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Great. Fantastic. You tried flirting and somehow managed to sound like an HR email.

The worst part—the truly unforgivable part—is that he meant it. He wasn’t dodging you. He wasn’t deflecting. He just… answered the question he thought you asked.

And some traitorous, inconvenient part of your chest tightens at that. Because sincerity like that is dangerous. It doesn’t bounce off you cleanly. It lodges.

You straighten, roll your shoulders, and plaster professionalism back into place. You’ve survived worse than this. You will survive a man who cannot, under any circumstances, read a room.

Still, as you step back into the noise and motion of the department, you can’t help thinking—

Next time, you’re bringing diagrams.

You make the executive decision—questionable, but bold—that the previous disaster was a fluke.

Everyone deserves a second attempt. Possibly a third. Science demands replication.

The day has settled into that strange ER lull where chaos hasn’t stopped, exactly, but it has learned to whisper. Monitors beep softly. The overhead lights feel harsher when you’re tired enough to notice them.

He’s at the charting station again—of course he is—shoulders slightly hunched, jaw set, glasses pushed higher on his nose than necessary. He looks… focused. Grounded. Annoyingly competent.

You approach with the confidence of someone who has not yet learned.

He’s typing when you stop beside him. You lean your hip against the counter, deliberately invading the edge of his personal space. Not aggressively. Just enough to be noticeable. You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head.

“So,” you say lightly, “do you always look this intense while charting, or is this a special occasion just for me?”

This time, he does look up.

Progress.

He studies your face for a beat, expression thoughtful. Analytical. As if he’s running differentials on your sentence.

Then he nods.

“Usually worse,” he says. “Tonight’s actually been decent.”

You stare at him.

He goes back to typing.

You wait.

Nothing. Incredible. Truly. A masterclass in missing the point.

You try again. Because you are nothing if not persistent.

“Well,” you add, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “I was hoping I was at least partially distracting.”

He pauses mid-keystroke.

Looks up again.

Brows furrowed.

“Oh,” he says. “No, you’re fine. You’re not distracting at all.”

You feel something in your chest give a little cough and die.

“Great,” you say weakly. “That’s… reassuring.”

“I mean that positively,” he adds, earnest to the core. “You’re very focused. It’s good in a high-acuity environment.”

You nod slowly, the way one does when absorbing devastating news.

“Right. Yes. God forbid I interfere with the sanctity of the high-acuity environment.”

He blinks.

“You okay?”

You smile. Bright. Artificial. The kind of smile you could hang on a wall and call decor.

“Never better.”

A nurse passes behind you and gives you a look. Not subtle. A look that says girl, I saw that and wow, he’s dense in equal measure. You pointedly ignore her.

You straighten, tapping the counter once.

“Well,” you say, regrouping, “if you ever need a distraction, I take requests.”

He nods seriously, filing this away like a note for future reference.

“Good to know,” he says. “I’ll keep that in mind if we have a mass casualty.”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Open it again.

Decide against speaking for the good of everyone involved.

“Fantastic,” you mutter. “I’ll bring juggling pins.”

He hums, already back in his chart.

“That’d probably violate policy.”

You walk away.

Again.

Your footsteps echo louder than necessary as you retreat, dignity fraying at the edges. You pass the supply room, the trauma bay, the break room where someone has abandoned a half-eaten sandwich like a cry for help.

You stop near the medication fridge and lean your forehead briefly against the cool glass.

Okay, you think. New hypothesis: he is either completely oblivious or clinically immune to flirtation.

Possibly both.

And the truly infuriating part—the part that makes this worse instead of easier—is that none of it feels intentional. He isn’t deflecting you. He isn’t uncomfortable. He’s just… honest. Straightforward. Utterly unguarded in a way that makes your carefully calibrated attempts at subtlety bounce right off him like rubber bullets.

You exhale, lifting your head.

Fine.

You can play the long game.

Or—alternatively—you can accept that if you want him to understand what you’re doing, you might eventually have to use actual words.

You grimace.

God help you both.

The breakroom hums softly, a refrigerator rattling in protest, fluorescent lights flickering just enough to make you vaguely homicidal. Someone has burned popcorn at some point in the recent past, and the smell has settled into the walls like a warning.

You’re sitting at the small table, elbows braced, staring at the far wall with the intensity of someone hoping it might blink first.

It does not.

Your coffee has gone cold. Again. You don’t drink it. It feels symbolic now.

Your brain replays the night in unwanted highlight reels—every missed cue, every earnest response that landed like a perfectly executed dodge.

You’re contemplating whether you could feasibly fake a page to Radiology just to escape your own thoughts when Dana appears in your peripheral vision, plastic-wrapped sandwich in hand, eyes sharp with recognition.

She takes one look at you and snorts.

“Oh,” she says. “That’s the stare.”

You don’t respond. You don’t blink. You might be dissociating slightly.

She drops into the chair across from you and leans back, studying you like a fascinating case study.

“At this point,” she says, peeling open her sandwich, “you could flirt by interpretive dance.”

You exhale through your nose.

“And he’d ask if I needed an ortho consult,” you mutter.

Dana chokes on a laugh.

“Oh my god,” she says. “You’re not wrong.”

You finally look away from the wall, rubbing a hand over your face. Your palm comes away faintly smelling like antiseptic.

“I tried,” you say. “I really tried. Banter. Tone. Proximity. I leaned. I lowered my voice, Dana.”

She winces sympathetically. “Damn. You lowered the voice?”

“I lowered the voice.”

“That’s serious.”

“I told him people might think I like him.”

“And?”

“And he told me I’m excellent at my job.”

Dana slaps her sandwich down on the table.

“No.”

“Yes.”

She stares at you, appalled.

You sink back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling now, because the wall has judged you enough for one night.

“I swear,” you say, “if I straight-up said, ‘I’m flirting with you,’ he’d nod and ask if I wanted feedback.”

Dana is fully cackling now, shoulders shaking.

“He’d be like, ‘Noted. Thank you for the clarification.’”

You close your eyes.

“Kill me.”

“No,” she says cheerfully. “This is too entertaining.”

You open one eye, glaring at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” she says. “But also—this is incredible. You’re watching a masterclass in emotional obliviousness in real time.”

You sigh, long and theatrical.

“The worst part,” you admit quietly, “is that he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s just… sincere.”

Dana softens a little at that. She tilts her head.

“Yeah,” she says. “That tracks.”

You drum your fingers against the table, frustration buzzing under your skin. “I don’t know how to flirt with someone who treats everything like a chart note.”

She considers this.

“You could be direct.”

You recoil. Physically.

“No.”

“Blunt,” she corrects. “Clear. Use words.”

“I am using words.”

“You’re using riddles,” she says. “Sexy riddles.”

You groan, dropping your head into your hands.

Dana grins. “Hey. Look on the bright side.”

You peek up at her.

“What bright side?”

“If he ever does figure it out,” she says, “you know he’ll mean it. No games. No bullshit.”

You lean back again, chewing on that despite yourself.

Great. Fantastic. Even your consolation prize is emotionally sound.

From somewhere down the hall, you hear his voice—calm, steady, calling out an order. Your stomach does an unhelpful little flip.

Dana watches your face with interest.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “You’re screwed.”

You close your eyes.

“Interpretive dance it is,” you mutter.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You escalate to touch.

Not inappropriate. Not anything anyone could point to in a deposition or whisper about over bad coffee. Just… intentional. Precise.

The ER hums the way it always does. You move through it on muscle memory and caffeine, your body already angled toward the next task before your brain finishes naming it.

He’s at Trauma Two, shoulders hunched slightly as he leans over the gurney, hands moving fast and steady. There’s blood on his gloves, a smear on the cuff of his scrub top. Someone’s yelling out vitals. Someone else is fumbling with suction. It’s loud, it’s tight, it’s controlled chaos.

You step in close—closer than necessary—and reach for the collar of his gown.

“Hold still,” you murmur, already doing it.

Your fingers catch the edge of the fabric, tugging it back where it’s twisted awkwardly against his neck. It’s nothing. It’s practical. Except you let your hand linger just a beat too long, knuckles brushing warm skin at the base of his throat. You feel the heat of him there, solid and alive beneath your touch.

He doesn’t react. Not even a flinch.

Of course he doesn’t.

You withdraw your hand like you meant to all along, turn smoothly to grab another pair of gloves. Your heart is doing something stupid and unprofessional in your chest, but your face stays neutral. Calm. Competent.

Congratulations, you think dryly. You’ve officially flirted with a man mid-code.

Later, the hallway outside triage is too narrow, bodies passing in both directions like blood cells through a clogged artery. You spot him coming toward you, tablet in hand, brow furrowed in that way that means he’s already thinking three steps ahead.

You don’t sidestep.

You brush past him instead, shoulder to chest, close enough that you feel the solid press of him through scrubs. No apology. No “sorry—excuse me.” Just the brief, undeniable contact of two people occupying the same impossible amount of space.

“Hey,” he says automatically, half-turning as if to check whether he’s collided with equipment instead of a person.

You keep walking. You don’t look back.

Your mouth twitches despite yourself.

That one might’ve been a little obvious, you think. If he were anyone else.

But he isn’t. He’s still standing there, already absorbed. l

The blood draw is quieter. Routine. The patient is anxious, veins skittish and hiding deep. He’s focused, eyes narrowed slightly as he palpates, searching.

“Here,” you say softly, stepping in.

You place your thumb gently against the inside of his wrist, just below the glove line, steadying his hand. Your thumb rests right over his pulse, warm and unmistakable. You feel it there—strong, regular, a living metronome beneath your skin.

It’s intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip. You’re acutely aware of how close you are now, how your arm brushes his, how the space between you has vanished entirely.

“You okay?” you ask, your voice low, pitched for him alone.

He glances at you, surprised, then gives a small, almost sheepish huff of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “Why?”

Because I’m touching you like this on purpose, you think. Because I noticed your hands are warmer than mine. Because I wanted to see if you’d notice.

Out loud, you just smile.

“Just checking,” you say, and release him once the needle’s in, smooth and clean.

The rest of the shift passes in fragments—rooms, patients, clipped exchanges—but you’re hyper-aware now. Of proximity. Of angles. Of how easily your hand finds his arm when you pass something over, how naturally you stand just a little too close when you talk.

None of it draws comment. None of it earns even a flicker of suspicion.

That should be comforting.

It isn’t.

Later—much later—the department finally exhales. The noise drops a register. The adrenaline fades into bone-deep fatigue. You’re both charting at the counter, shoulder to shoulder, the glow of computer screens painting everything in tired blue light.

He stretches, rolling his neck once before glancing your way.

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For?” you ask, already bracing yourself.

He smiles, sincere and unguarded in a way that feels almost cruel.

“You’re very attentive,” he says. “Makes a difference.”

There it is. The gentle praise. The professional gratitude.

You stare at the screen a second longer than necessary, then nod.

“Part of the job,” you reply lightly.

Inside, something collapses with horrifying clarity.

He thinks this is excellent nursing.

Not flirting. Not tension. Not you very deliberately closing the distance inch by inch like you’re testing a weak point in a wall.

Just competence. Just teamwork.

You swallow a laugh that borders on hysterical and go back to typing, your fingers flying with unnecessary force.

Okay, you think. New plan.

You’re going to have to try harder.

Or accept that this man could be hit over the head with a metaphorical brick labeled as and ask if he needed an ice pack.

You keep going.

Carefully. Methodically. Like everything else you do.

The trick, you discover, is making every touch defensible. Plausible. Something you could justify to yourself in a court of law—or at least to a charge nurse with a raised eyebrow.

You hand him things directly instead of setting them down. Syringes placed into his palm instead of the tray. Your fingers brush his—accidentally, obviously—and linger just long enough to register heat before pulling away.

Nothing. Not a flicker.

Incredible, you think. Truly. A marvel of selective perception.

The department is crowded again, bodies stacked too close, sound bouncing off tile and glass. You stand beside him at the central station, reviewing labs. He leans in to look at your screen without asking, shoulder nearly touching yours.

You don’t move away.

Instead, you shift closer under the pretense of making room for someone else. Your arm presses lightly against his, the contact steady, unbroken. You can feel the solid warmth of him through thin fabric, the subtle tension in his muscles as he focuses.

He squints at the numbers.

“Creatinine’s climbing,” he says. “We should—”

Your hand comes up without conscious permission, resting briefly against his forearm as you interrupt.

“—switch fluids,” you finish. “Already paged nephro.”

Your thumb presses, just slightly. Not a stroke. Not a caress. Just… contact.

“Oh. Good catch,” he says, nodding.

You drop your hand like you never meant to put it there in the first place.

Inside, you are screaming quietly.

Later, a patient’s IV pump alarms—shrill, insistent. You step in before he can, silencing it with practiced ease.

“You’re hovering,” you tell him mildly.

“Am I?” He leans back, giving you space. “Sorry.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling faintly, relaxed. Comfortable. Entirely unbothered by the fact that you are very deliberately standing close enough that your hip brushes his thigh when you turn.

“It’s fine,” you say. “I like hovering.”

That earns a short laugh.

“Good,” he says. “Because I do it constantly.”

We are not talking about the same thing, you think.

You start finding excuses.

You smooth wrinkles from his sleeve when he rolls it up hastily. You reach past him to grab supplies instead of asking him to move, your chest brushing his arm, your breath briefly catching against his shoulder.

Once, when he startles slightly at a sudden alarm, you steady him with a hand to his back—broad, warm, undeniably there.

“Sorry,” you say reflexively.

He shakes his head. “All good.”

No comment. No pause. No awareness that your hand lingers for half a second longer than necessary before you pull away.

I could probably hold his hand for a full minute, you think, deadpan, and he’d thank me for emotional support.

The most egregious one happens near the end of the shift.

He’s tired. You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the way he rubs at his neck absently while reading a chart. You step behind him, ostensibly to look at the screen over his shoulder.

Your fingers lift, then settle at the base of his neck, just where tension knots.

“You’re carrying this up here,” you say quietly.

Before he can respond, you press your thumb in gently, circling once. It’s not a massage. Not really. Just pressure. Helpful. Kind.

He exhales.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. That’s—thanks.”

You keep your hand there for another heartbeat. Then another.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t comment. Just keeps reading, calmer now, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

You withdraw slowly, heart pounding.

He glances at you afterward, smiling faintly.

“You’re very good at that,” he says. “You should teach residents stress management.”

You stare at him.

“I’m managing something,” you reply, because if you don’t make a joke you might actually combust.

He laughs, already moving on.

When he finally leaves for the night, you watch him go with a mix of fondness and disbelief.

You have brushed, steadied, lingered, hovered, pressed, leaned, and touched him in every socially acceptable way short of writing THIS IS FLIRTING on your forehead.

And he remains serenely, profoundly unaware.

You rest your head briefly against the cool counter and close your eyes.

Fine, you think. If subtlety isn’t working, that’s on him.

Then you straighten, pick up your tablet, and follow—already planning the next escalation.

Dana finds you in the supply room.

Of course she does. Because the universe has a sense of humor, and Dana is apparently its chosen instrument.

You’re standing in front of an open cabinet, staring at a row of saline bags like they personally betrayed you. One hand is braced on the shelf, the other rubbing at your forehead as if you might physically knead the frustration out through bone.

Behind you, the door swings shut with a soft click.

You don’t turn around. You already know.

“So,” Dana says pleasantly, far too pleasantly, “how's it going with Robby?”

You exhale through your nose. Slowly. Carefully. Like a person trying not to commit a felony.

“If you say one more word,” you tell the saline bags, “I’m going to fake my own death and transfer to dermatology.”

Dana hums, delighted.

“That bad, huh?”

You finally turn. She’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, expression bright with the kind of interest people usually reserve for reality television or particularly messy breakups. Her badge swings slightly as she shifts her weight, catching the fluorescent light.

“He thanked me,” you say flatly.

“Ouch.”

“For being attentive.”

“Ouch,” she repeats, stronger this time.

You drop your head back against the cabinet with a dull thunk.

“I adjusted his collar. Dana. During a code. I brushed his wrist. I held his pulse. I practically massaged his neck.”

Dana’s eyebrows climb higher with every itemized sin.

“And?”

“And he suggested I teach a seminar on stress management.”

She bursts out laughing.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained snort. A full-bodied, hand-to-mouth, shoulders-shaking laugh that echoes off the shelves.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Oh my god.”

You glare at her. “I’m glad my emotional ruin is entertaining.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “I just—wow. I mean. Wow.”

You cross your arms, suddenly aware of how keyed-up you feel, how your skin still remembers every accidental-on-purpose point of contact.

“I am being obvious,” you insist. “I am flirting like a human woman with intent.”

Dana wipes at her eyes. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

“Then why—” You gesture vaguely toward the rest of the ER. Toward him. Toward the problem. “—is he still acting like I’m just exceptionally good at my job?”

Dana straightens a little, studying you now with something like fondness layered over her amusement.

“Because,” she says gently, “he is spectacularly oblivious.”

You groan.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Oh, I’m not done.”

She pushes off the counter and steps closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Everyone knows.”

You blink. “Everyone what.”

“Everyone,” she repeats, smiling. “That you’re into him.”

Your stomach drops.

“…Everyone?”

Dana nods. “Nurses. Residents. I’m pretty sure at least one paramedic has money riding on it.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am not.” She tilts her head. “You literally orbit him.”

“I work with him.”

“You glow,” she says. “Like. Physically. It’s unsettling.”

You press your lips together, processing this. Replaying the last several shifts in your head through a new, horrifying lens.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “But surely he—”

Dana’s smile turns sharp. Victorious.

“Except Robby.”

Of course.

Of course.

You sink down onto a stool, elbows on your knees, face in your hands.

“I hate this,” you mutter.

Dana perches on the counter across from you, swinging one leg.

“He genuinely thinks you’re just very competent and kind,” she says. “Which, to be fair, you are.”

“That’s not the goal.”

“I know.” She pauses. “Have you considered words?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at her.

“I have used words.”

“You’ve used adjacent words.”

“I complimented him.”

“You complimented his teamwork.”

“That was vulnerable!”

Dana snorts. “That was a performance review.”

You slump again.

“He’s not doing this on purpose,” Dana adds, softer now. “He’s just… wired wrong. Or very carefully wired.”

You think of the way he moves through the department. Focused. Earnest. Entirely present with patients. How he accepts touch as support, not signal. How safe he seems inside his own assumptions.

Your frustration dulls, replaced by something warmer. More complicated.

“That almost makes it worse,” you admit.

Dana studies you for a moment, then smiles—less teasing now, more knowing.

“Look,” she says. “You’re not subtle anymore. You’re just… quiet about it. And when it finally clicks for him?”

She grins.

“It’s going to hit like a truck.”

You huff a weak laugh despite yourself.

“Great,” you say. “I’ll make sure to stand clear.”

Dana hops down, squeezing your shoulder as she passes.

“For what it’s worth,” she adds, “this is the most entertained I’ve been in months.”

She leaves you there with the saline bags and your spiraling thoughts.

You sit for a moment longer, breathing in antiseptic air, heart still stupidly hopeful.

Okay, you think. If everyone knows…

You stand, straighten your scrubs, and head back out.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

Late shift has a way of stretching time until it feels elastic, thin as pulled sugar.

Rain taps steadily against the ambulance bay doors—soft at first, then harder, a persistent percussion that seeps into the bones of the building. The ER is quiet in a way that makes your shoulders tense instead of relax. Not asleep. Just… waiting.

This is the hour where everything feels too intimate.

You sit at the nurses’ station beside Robby, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. Paperwork sprawls between you in a messy truce: charts, lab printouts, half-scribbled notes. Someone’s abandoned a pen with bite marks near the cap. Probably not a patient. You try not to think about it.

He slides half a granola bar toward you without looking up.

No comment. No eye contact. Just the soft scrape of wrapper against laminate.

You blink at it.

Domestic, your brain supplies immediately. Suspiciously so.

You eye the bar like it might explode. Or confess something.

“You’re aware,” you say, dryly, “that sharing food is how relationships start in prison movies.”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. More like a concession.

“Eat it or don’t,” he says. “I’m not proposing.”

Shame, you think, and tear the wrapper open anyway. The bar is slightly stale, aggressively oat-forward, and somehow still comforting. You chew, glancing sideways at him.

Robby is hunched over a chart, glasses perched low on his nose, dark circles carved beneath his eyes like they’ve been earned through long, grueling labor—which, to be fair, they have. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms corded and pale under fluorescent light, a faint smear of ink near his wrist. You wonder, not for the first time, if he ever sleeps long enough to fully wash the hospital off himself.

The quiet presses in. You can hear rain hitting metal, distant thunder grumbling like an old man with complaints. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps once and stops. No one runs.

Rare. Dangerous.

You decide to poke the bear.

“So,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near reckless, “do you ever do anything outside this place?”

He doesn’t look up.

“Sleep,” he says.

You wait. He keeps reading.

“…That’s it?” you prompt.

A beat.

“Sometimes read.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Thrilling. You must be a hit at parties.”

“I don’t go to parties.”

That earns him a small smile, the corner of your mouth ticking up before you can stop it. You scribble a note on the margin of a chart just to have something to do with your hands.

“What do you read?” you ask.

“Whatever’s around.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is if you’re not trying to impress anyone.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Bold assumption. Maybe I’m deeply invested in your inner life.”

This time, he does look at you.

Just briefly. Assessing. Sharp eyes that miss very little. You feel that look like a fingertip pressed to your sternum—light, but intentional.

“Why?” he asks.

There it is. Not why are you asking, but why do you care. Subtle difference. Annoying man.

You shrug, deliberately loose. “Because we’re sitting shoulder to shoulder sharing granola bars while the rain stages a dramatic monologue outside, and it feels rude not to.”

He snorts despite himself, then goes back to the chart.

“History,” he says after a moment. “Biographies. Medical journals. Sometimes fiction if I’m too tired to think.”

“What kind of fiction?”

He hesitates. Barely perceptible. You catch it anyway.

“Does it matter?”

You glance at him. “No. But I’m curious.”

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whatever’s already on the shelf.”

You grin. “You’re allergic to specificity.”

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re evasive.”

“That too.”

The rain intensifies, drumming louder against the bay doors. A gust of wind rattles them slightly, and you both glance up out of instinct. Old habits. The kind that never really leave.

You finish the granola bar and brush crumbs from your scrub pants. Your shoulder bumps his—light, accidental, but you don’t move away immediately. Neither does he.

You become acutely aware of the warmth there. The solid presence of another person in the quiet. It’s… unsettling. And, annoyingly, a little grounding.

“What about you?” he asks suddenly.

You blink. “What about me?”

“Outside this place.”

Ah.

You lean back in your chair, considering the ceiling tiles like they might offer a safer answer.

“Sleep,” you echo.

He arches a brow

“Sometimes draw,” you add. “Occasionally forget to eat. Once tried pottery. It was a disaster.”

“I can imagine.”

“Rude.”

He shrugs. “Accurate.”

You laugh quietly, surprised by it. The sound feels too loud in the hush, so you rein it in, pressing your lips together. Something in your chest loosens anyway.

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Less sharp. More… companionable. You return to your paperwork, pen scratching softly. He flips a page. The rain keeps time.

You glance at him once more, unguarded this time.

He’s still here. Still steady. Still offering half his granola bar without ceremony.

And for reasons you don’t entirely trust, that feels like something worth noticing.

You hum, low and thoughtful, the sound vibrating somewhere in the back of your throat.

It’s a stall tactic and you know it. Your brain is rifling through safer topics—weather, lab values, literally anything that won’t get you emotionally maimed at the nurses’—but your mouth has already decided it’s feeling brave.

Or stupid.

Possibly both.

“You should let someone take you out sometime,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near reckless optimism. “Dinner. Drinks. Sunlight. Normal human things.”

The words hang there, fragile as blown glass.

For half a second, nothing happens. Then he looks at you.

Really looks.

Not the quick clinical glance he gives patients or the sharp evaluative scan he uses on interns. This is slower. Focused. His eyes lift fully from the chart and settle on your face like he’s actually taking inventory—expression, tone, intent.

Your heart trips over itself.

Full-on stumbles. Misses a step. Does that awful little flutter that feels suspiciously like hope and dread shaking hands.

You keep your face neutral through sheer force of will, like this isn’t the emotional equivalent of standing in the middle of traffic and daring the cars to stop.

“That’s good advice,” he says.

Earnestly.

No teasing. No deflection. Just calm, thoughtful agreement.

“Burnout sneaks up on you.”

And just like that, he looks back down at the chart and keeps writing.

Pen moving. Page flipping. Crisis averted. Life goes on.

You stare at him.

Actually stare.

Your mind scrambles, skids, tries to regain traction. That was not—not—the response you were braced for. You’d prepared yourself for a brush-off, maybe a sarcastic quip, possibly even gentle discomfort. You had not prepared for him to accept your suggestion like a continuing medical education module.

You blink once.

Twice.

Right. Of course. He thought you were talking about self-care.

You feel something inside you deflate with a quiet, undignified wheeze.

“Yeah,” you say, because silence would be suspicious and screaming would be frowned upon. “Very… sneaky. Burnout.”

He nods, still focused on the chart. “People don’t notice until they’re already exhausted. Or angry. Or making bad calls.”

You tilt your head, watching him. The way his jaw tightens just slightly. The faint crease between his brows that never quite leaves anymore.

“And you?” you ask lightly. “You noticing anything?”

He pauses, pen hovering.

For a moment—just a moment—you think he might actually answer honestly. That he might look up again, say something real. Something unguarded.

Instead, he shrugs.

“I’m fine.”

Ah. There it is. The universal lie of overworked physicians everywhere.

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Compelling. I’ll write it in your chart.”

He glances up again, this time with the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Very professional.”

“I contain multitudes.”

He hums in acknowledgment and goes back to writing.

You turn back to your own paperwork, pen dragging a little slower now. Your pulse is still loud in your ears, refusing to calm down, like it’s offended by the misunderstanding.

You told him to let someone take him out.

You had meant—well.

You sigh softly through your nose, shaking your head at yourself.

Of course he didn’t hear it that way. Of course he didn’t. This is a man who can triage three traumas at once and still miss a blatant invitation sitting three feet away sharing his granola bar.

You glance at him again, irritated and fond in equal measure.

“Burnout,” you think dryly. “Right. That’s definitely what I was diagnosing.”

The rain keeps tapping against the ambulance bay doors. The ER remains suspended in that quiet, intimate lull. He charts. You chart.

And you sit there, shoulder to shoulder, wondering how someone can look straight at you and still not see a thing.

Later, the lull breaks.

Not with sirens or shouting or a trauma rolling in at full speed, but with the soft return of movement—phones ringing, footsteps quickening, the ER shaking itself awake like a dog coming out of water. The rain outside eases into a steady drizzle, less dramatic now, like it’s gotten whatever it wanted out of the night.

Robby disappears down the hall with a tablet tucked under his arm, already halfway back inside his own head. You watch him go for half a second longer than strictly professional, then turn back to the nurses’ station and pretend your notes suddenly require your full, undivided attention.

They don’t.

Dana materializes beside you the way she always does—silent, efficient, terrifyingly perceptive. She’s got a coffee in one hand and a look on her face that says she’s been waiting patiently for this moment.

She doesn’t even try to be subtle.

“You practically handed him an invitation,” she says, voice pitched low but delighted.

You don’t look up. You highlight a line on the chart you’ve already highlighted once.

“I opened the door,” you reply calmly. “He walked into a wall.”

Dana snorts. “A wall?”

“A very sturdy one,” you say. “Possibly load-bearing.”

She leans an elbow on the counter, watching you with open amusement. “You told him to let someone take him out.”

“I did.”

“And he gave you a lecture on burnout.”

“He did that too.”

Dana takes a sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving you. “You know he’s not dense about most things.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” you mutter. “That’s what makes this so impressive.”

You finally glance up at her. She’s grinning now, the kind of grin that says she has Opinions and none of them are kind.

“You okay?” she asks, tone softer beneath the teasing.

You consider that. The question lands heavier than expected.

You roll your shoulders once, loosening tension you hadn’t realized was there. “Yeah. I mean—yes. It’s fine. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” Dana agrees. “He just completely missed you flirting with him like it was a pop quiz he didn’t study for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s generous. I think he thought I was offering a continuing education course.”

Dana chuckles, shaking her head. “I’ve worked with him a long time.”

“Congratulations,” you say. “How’s your blood pressure?”

“High, but manageable,” she replies cheerfully. Then, more seriously, “He doesn’t clock that kind of thing easily. Especially when it’s aimed at him.”

You angle your body slightly away from the station, lowering your voice. “So you’re saying this is a known… condition?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dana says. “Man can diagnose a ruptured spleen from across the room. Romance? Entirely different department.”

That shouldn’t make you feel better.

Annoyingly, it kind of does.

You glance down the hallway again without meaning to. Robby’s nowhere in sight now—swallowed up by exam rooms and corridors and responsibility.

“I wasn’t exactly subtle,” you say, more to yourself than to her.

Dana raises an eyebrow. “No. You were brave.”

You make a face. “Don’t rebrand it. I’m trying to be embarrassed in peace.”

She laughs softly. “Look, if it helps—he did look at you. Really look. I saw it.”

Your heart does that stupid little stumble again.

You shoot her a look. “You’re not allowed to say things like that without evidence.”

She shrugs. “I’ve got eyes. And decades of experience watching idiots fall in love at work.”

“Comforting,” you deadpan.

Dana straightens as a call light flicks on down the hall. “Give it time,” she adds lightly. “Eventually, it’ll click.”

“Or,” you say, “I’ll die of secondhand humiliation.”

“Also possible.”

She squeezes your shoulder once—warm, grounding—before heading off toward the noise.

You’re left at the station again, the hum of the ER settling around you. You exhale slowly, tapping your pen against the counter.

You hadn’t planned on wanting anything from him. Certainly not this. Not the way your chest tightens when he looks at you, or the way you replay his earnest tone in your head like it’s evidence in a case you can’t stop building.

Burnout sneaks up on you.

You shake your head, a rueful smile tugging at your mouth.

“Yeah,” you murmur to yourself. “Apparently so does obliviousness.”

You pick up your chart, square your shoulders, and step back into the noise—already bracing yourself to try again, someday, when you’re feeling just reckless enough.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

The breakroom smells like coffee and antiseptic and someone's reheated dinner.

Someone has left a protein bar wrapper on the counter like a crime scene marker. The microwave hums ominously, as if it, too, is judging your life choices. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead with the enthusiasm of a dying insect.

Robby stands at the counter, pouring coffee he absolutely does not need into a mug that reads WORLD’S OKAYEST DOCTOR. You bought it as a joke. He uses it earnestly. This alone should have tipped you off months ago.

You lean back against the table, hip pressed to the edge, arms crossed loosely—not defensively, just… strategically. Your badge swings forward, taps lightly against your sternum. You don’t move it out of the way. You absolutely notice.

“So,” you say, casually. Too casually. “You ever notice how we’re always alone in here together?”

He doesn’t look up. “Statistically unlikely,” he replies. “Breakroom traffic peaks around twenty past the hour.”

You blink.

Of course he’s done the math.

You try again.

You step closer—inside his personal space now, deliberately so. Your arm brushes his when you reach past him for the sugar packets you do not need. Your fingers linger against his wrist for half a beat too long. Pulse. Warm. There.

He glances at you. Smiles, faint and distracted.

“You want the last creamer?” he asks.

You stare at him.

“I want you,” you think.

You say, “No, I’m good.”

You watch him stir his coffee. You watch the tendons in his forearm shift. You have watched those tendons save lives. You have also imagined biting them, which feels like something a better-adjusted person would unpack in therapy.

You sigh.

“Robby,” you say, lightly, “if I leaned any closer, HR would materialize out of the vents.”

“Hm?” He takes a sip. Grimaces. “God, this is awful. Did they switch brands?”

You close your eyes.

Count to three.

This is not happening—

You snap them open.

That’s it.

You straighten, heart kicking hard enough to be rude.

“Robby,” you say, and this time your voice is steady only because sheer force of will is doing most of the work, “I’ve been trying to flirt with you for months.”

Silence.

Actual, physical silence. The microwave clicks off somewhere behind you like punctuation.

He freezes.

Mid-motion. Mug halfway to his mouth. Eyes flicking to you like his brain is trying to reorient gravity.

You don’t soften it. You refuse. You’ve earned this moment.

“The coffee,” you continue, ticking it off with your fingers. “The compliments. The touching. The lingering. All of it.”

His mouth opens slightly.

Closes.

You can practically see the internal slideshow start playing. Frames flashing past his eyes: you leaning in too close, your hand on his arm, your voice going softer when you say his name, the way you always find him during shifts like it’s coincidence and not muscle memory.

Understanding crashes into him all at once.

“…Oh,” he says.

Stunned. Genuinely. Like someone who has just realized they’ve been standing in the rain for an hour.

You exhale, sharp and humorless.

“Yes. Oh.”

He sets the mug down slowly, like sudden movements might break something fragile and expensive between you.

“You were—” He stops. Tries again. “You were flirting.”

You tilt your head. “Gold star.”

“I thought you were just… friendly.”

Your laugh comes out before you can stop it. Dry. Almost hysterical.

“Robby, I don’t touch friends like that.”

His ears turn red.

Actually red.

He rubs the back of his neck, a habit you know too well. His eyes don’t quite meet yours yet.

“I—” he starts, then stops. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“That’s admirable,” you say. “In theory.”

“In practice,” he says quietly, “I might be an idiot.”

You consider this.

“Debatable,” you say. “But not because of this.”

There’s a beat. Another. The air feels thicker now—charged, buzzing, like the seconds before a storm breaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “If I made you feel—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in. Softer now, despite yourself. “You just… didn’t see it.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not distracted, not half-thinking about labs or consults or the next disaster waiting to happen.

You feel suddenly exposed. Like you’ve taken off armor you didn’t realize you were wearing.

“I see it now,” he says.

Your pulse stutters.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “you’re… very good at it.”

He’s still looking at you like the room has tilted and he’s trying to stay upright.

Something in you snaps—not angrily. Not dramatically. Just… decisively.

You step closer.

Not rushed. Not reckless. One measured step that puts you well inside his space, close enough that you can smell the coffee on his breath, feel the warmth coming off him like a steady current.

He goes very still.

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You rise just enough onto the balls of your feet and kiss him.

It’s brief. Controlled. No teeth, no urgency—just your mouth fitting to his with unmistakable intent. Your lips are soft but deliberate, pressing once, twice, as if punctuation matters.

For half a second, he doesn’t move.

Then his breath catches—audibly, embarrassingly—and he kisses you back.

Not clumsy. Not hesitant. Just… surprised into honesty.

His hand comes up, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, fingers warm and sure against your jaw, thumb resting just below your ear. He pulls you a fraction closer, enough that your chest brushes his, enough that your carefully maintained composure dissolves into something warmer and far less clever.

You melt.

Annoyingly. Completely.

The kiss deepens—not longer, just fuller—his mouth moving with yours like he’s finally caught the rhythm you’ve been offering him for months. There’s no rush, no hunger yet, just confirmation. Yes. This. You weren’t imagining it.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

Your forehead nearly touches his. Your pulse is loud in your ears, traitorous.

“That,” you say, voice steady despite everything, “was me asking you out.”

For once, there’s no confusion on his face. No mental math. No missed subtext.

His breath stutters.

“Oh,” he says again—but this time it’s different. Softer. Warmer.

Then he smiles. Small. Genuine.

“I’d like that,” he says quietly. “Very much.”

Something settles in your chest. Not fireworks—something better. Something solid.

You step back before either of you does something that will absolutely require paperwork.

Later—much later—Dana catches your eye from across the ER. She doesn’t say a word. Just gives you a slow, deeply satisfied nod, like someone watching a long-running bet finally pay out.

You smile to yourself, turning back to your chart.

Some people, you think, really do need things spelled out.

Clearly.

Directly.

And preferably with mouth contact.

“It's not like he can fire you just from this,” said Whitaker. “Can he?”

Suddenly your pulse kicked up. Would he fire you? He was totally within his rights. This was the third time this week.

Santos rolled her eyes, leaning over to glare at Huckleberry. “Don't be a douche, of course he's not gonna fire her. She won't even get a warning. She'll get off lightly, she always does.”

“Hey!” you complained.

“It's true!”

You frowned. You didn't think so. When you made mistakes- which you did- they were met with the same firm reprimand, the same as anyone else. Except maybe Dr Robby moves on a little quicker with your mistakes than he does others.... but it was nothing to dwell on.

“Why am I even doing this?” you straightened up, looking to Whitaker. “You were on Merna duty!”

He paled (even more so then he already was) and stood as tall as he could, stuttering an excuse. “I-you- I turned my back for a second! How was I supposed to know she could get herself out of cuffs?”

“Well you should've known!”

“Yeah!” agreed Santos, really with any excuse to argue against him.

“Please don't make me tell him,” he begged, his wide eyes pulling at heart strings you really wished you didn't have.

“Yeah, we all know you're his favourite,” said Trinity.

It was a phrase that had been thrown around a fair amount. Either in a admiration about how much better he treated you then others or in disbelief of the biased he showed as the chief attending. At first it confused you but when they kept pushing you to be the one to tell Dr Robby things and taking the brunt for everyone's mistakes it started to annoy you.

“You know what- that's it!” you pushed yourself off the counter, allowing Santos and Whitaker to huddle together. “I'll tell him. I'll tell him I lost Merna and you will see that he doesn't treat me any different to how he treats the two of you!”

Santos scoffed. “Pssht. Yeah right.”

“Yeah, and then- and then-” you tried to think quick. What was in it for you? You get told off by your attending? It wasn't very appealing. You may as well get something out of it. “Then you owe me twenty dollars, each!”

Whitaker didn't seem to like those chances.

“Deal!” said Santos. “But when he doesn't fault you those forty dollars are coming our way.”

“Fine!”

Santos looked beyond your shoulder, brows raised. “No time like the present.”

You followed her gaze.

Dana had walked away from Robby, spotting the three of you. Her eyes narrowed, her fingers pointing out as if she knew you lot were up to something. Or she smelled a bet and wanted in on a chance to win some money. But with Dana back behind her post it left Robby free, head bowed over a chart.

You sucked in a deep breath, thinking of how you could put it. Break it slow. Tell him all at once. Say it with care or like it was nothing.

“Doctor Robby?”

He spared a quick glance, a soft up turn to his lips that tilted into his cheeks. “There she is! I was just coming to find you.”

Oh shit. He must have seen the vacant wheelchair that was practically always reserved for Merna.

“You were?”

“Yeah. Got a seventeen year old boy, screwdriver in the right knee, lodged between the soft tissues of the anterior, you want in?”

“Er yeah,” you couldn't even think of the trauma case, not till you had your wallet stuffed with forty dollars, your shower was leaking and would soon be out of it. You'd like to get it fixed so you could stop getting to the hospital early just to shower. “Can I talk to you first?”

Robby tilted his glasses down in a way that heated your body like it was a summers day in the ED. “This sounds serious?”

“No. Well- yes. Um... I don't know how to say this-”

“Are you hurt? Are you okay?” he asked, straightening.

“Yes, I'm fine. Um... we lost Merna!” you said, quickly. It was just ripping off a band aid.

Robby deflated down onto the bed that lingered in the corridor. It was there to catch him. “Oh god.”

You wondered why he seemed more upset then angry, before you realised your poor choice of words for a hospital. “Oh no! Sorry! She's alive! I think, sorry, poor choice of words. I meant she's lost. She- well, I turned my back for a second and she was gone. Got out off her restraints like some damn Houdini. But... yeah, um, I don't- I don't know where she is.”

Robby exhaled. “Oh, geez, you got me.” His face was red but his grin large like you had just shared a joke.

You dared to look back at Santos who made a cash grabbing move. You turned back to Robby. “I really didn't mean to, I'm so sorry, you must be angry.”

“Nah,” he shrugged. “You know Merna: she stays around till she gets bored, she makes her great escape and always winds her way back here. Ten bucks says she'll be back by the end of our shift.”

All you needed was a popped vein, a strain in the arm, to have him stand over you red in the face and not with humour.

“Oh no,” you chuckled, hiding the disappointment. “I'm not a betting person.”

He hummed, pushing himself up. He nudged you as he passed but his arm stayed close, lingering. “C'mon, we'll go see that kid.”

As he led you past Santos and Whitaker they waited for an answer.

You sighed. “The money's in my bag.”

“Daddy's favourite,” Santos coughed.

Dr Robby hesitated in his step. “You say something, Doctor Santos?”

“Nothing!” you said quickly, marching ahead. “Nothing, she said nothing!”

For the rest of the day Robby fluttered around your orbit. He kept you on the seventeen year old case, checking in every now and then by popping in his head and standing at the back, arms- large- folded over his chest.

If a trauma came in he called you over first. When he asked a question to the room (mumbling the 'this is a teaching hospital') his eyes found yours first then anyone else. You knew the answers half the time but kept eyes out on Santos who's mouth was frozen in the curl of a smirk.

All the while you thought about the charting you had to do and the shower you now couldn't get repaired.

“How's daddy's favourite Pittling?” Santos snuck up behind you as you charted.

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Why?”

“It's incredibly un-professional.”

“So's the way you oggle Doctor Robby.”

You mouth fell agape. “I do not oggle-” your voice carried across the ED and she spotted Perlah and Princess ready to lap up at any noise of gossip. You whispered. “I do not oggle Doctor Robby.”

“It's fine if you do,” she shrugged. “Sometimes I struggle to take my eyes off of Garcia.”

“Ew.”

“It's not ew,” said Santos.

It wasn't ew. You were happy for your friend even if you thought she deserved someone who could give her their whole heart. But you didn't want to think about Robby in the light Trinity thought of Garcia.

If you let the flood of want and admiration you felt for Robby into your head it might never leave. You were here to be a doctor, not to create a love with a man so emotionally unavailable you'd been warned off so many times.

“It's a tough job, it's natural to build that kind of connection.”

“Oh, are we still talking about this?” you huffed.

“It could be useful, this,” she said.

You finished up your chart, glancing at her as you turned off the computer. “What?”

“Having you as daddy's favourite.”

At that same moment Javadi joined the conversation, all wide eyed and eager to hear. “Why are we referring to Doctor Robby as daddy?”

Your head fell into your hands. “This isn't happening... this isn't happening...”

“Because she's daddy's favourite, poor peach just doesn't know how to handle that responsibility,” said Santos, seemingly finished with her own charts and heading off.

You held a finger up to Javadi before she could even start and finally she vanished too.

You were left at the computer, taking in a deep breath and taking the minute to assess the room. Patients waiting, doctors moving but there was no Robby. You thought, maybe it'd give you a chance to breath, to asses the situation. Did he really treat you differently? Was it so bad if he did? He was known to snap, be grumpy, if he wasn't like that with you maybe it wasn't such a bad thing?

But then... why didn't he snap and get grumpy at you?

“What are we looking for?”

“Jesus-”

Robby straightened up behind you, chuckling low at your startle.

You took a deep breath. “I was just um- er assessing.”

“Assessing?”

“Yeah?”

“Looking for someone?”

“What? No?”

“Has our screwdriver guy been discharged, we could really use the bed?” he asked.

Ah. You were behind. Not the first time. He'd told you several times not to fall into Dr Mohan's boots in taking your time with patients. This he could get mad at. “Not just yet, no, I can get right on that.”

There was no shake of his head, no tug at his hair or fingers through his beard. His hand only curled into a fist and he nodded.

“That would be great, find me if you need me.”

“Yes, Doctor Robinavitch.”

He'd started to walk away, moving onto the next case but he halted.

His hands had never gripped his stethoscope with such strength.

The last time you'd called him that was your first day and after that he was strictly Robby.

“What was that?” he asked.

“What was what?” you said as if you didn't know.

He peered at you and then pointed to himself. “Doctor Robby.”

“Yes?”

“Not Robinavitch.”

“Oh sorry- I was just.... trying something new.”

Robby slowly back tracked. “Don't.”

“You've got it bad,” laughed Dana with her low chuckle birthed by years of smoking in spite of warnings, mostly from him.

Robby was at her counter, standing in her castle looking over her empire. Outside the sun would set soon and the night shift would come to cross them off and he would go home to a quiet apartment, eat whatever food he could scrouge up (he'd at least try and throw one veg in there) go to sleep and do it all again tomorrow.

For now, as patients swapped out in beds, the ED was the only place he wanted to be.

“Got what?” he asked, tearing his eyes away from trauma two.

Dana joined his side, staring at him like he was a patient under examination. “Her.”

Robby didn't even have to follow the jerk of her head knowing she was looking through the glass he just was, at you, comforting the teen as you stitched him up.

He knew he shouldn't, knew it was borderline getting out of hand, as if it hadn't already. He knew there was probably a dozen HR rules against the rush of blood in his veins when he looked at you. He knew he was being the smallest bit biased when an interesting case came in and he wanted to give it to you first.

He'd been trying to quit it for months and it was like Dana's smoking. One of the only good things he has left in his life.

“Look at you, you're like a dog!” she chuckled.

“I am not.”

“I get it, she's good.”

He shook his head but his shoulders sagged under the relief of being seen. “She's a good doctor.”

“Pretty too.”

Robby grabbed the ipad of the side. Pretty, intelligent, gutsy. “I hadn't noticed.”

“Sure, and I'm mother Theresa!”

Robby planned to do a sweep of the rooms, check in with his residents, make sure triage was all handled. It didn't hurt that he was gonna check in on your first. He poked in his head. “How're the sutures coming along, Doctor?”

“Great,” you said without flinching at his voice unlike earlier. “Just finishing up now. Then it'll be crutches to minimise weight and we'll see you in three days to check the stitching.”

The boy smiled, his father standing over him just as grateful. As patients go, they'd been a pretty good pair. “Thank you.”

“She's the best,” said Robby with a proud smile. He caught your glance as you put the tools back and pulled off your gloves. There was amusement in your glance.

“One of the best,” you corrected.

“That's what I said?” Robby knew what he said, he wouldn't take it back.

You passed under his arm as he held the door open for you, shaking your head.

Like a dog- as Dana would put it- he followed.

“You took lunch?” he asked.

“Er no, haven't really found the time.”

Robby thought of chastising but knew if he was gonna do that he'd have to chastise half the other doctors and nurses. “Here-” he always carried a protein bar in his pocket, in case of emergency. This was that time.

You stared at it for a long moment. “Oh no, that's yours, I'm okay, really.”

“Take it, c'mon, can't have you passing out on me,” he practically shoved it into your hand and held it there. The only thing between palms touching was a bar. “I've had mine, you need it more than I do, you've been rushed off your feet all day.”

Your lips parted with an argument ready he was sure but instead you swallowed. “Thanks, Doctor Robby.”

Robinavitch. He remembered you calling him it earlier and he'd never been so worried he'd done something wrong since being in medical school.

“Yea, seems like you need it with the teasing Doctor Santos has been giving you also.”

You blushed.

Robby wasn't blind, far from it when it came to you. He recognised practically everything. He knew you and Santos were friends, starting residency together and all but he worried the teasing was too much. He saw the mumbling, the shakes of your head and the frowning, mainly of yours and the triumph of Santos.

“I know the two of you are friends, but if this teasing is ever too much,” he started, hoping you'd clarify.

“It's not, I promise, and-and it doesn't effect our workload.”

“I never said it did, I just wanted to check it was okay with you.”

You stuttered again, blushing. “It's just... harmless.”

“Harmless?”

“Girl stuff.”

“Girl stuff?”

He wondered what girl stuff usually entailed? He doubted working in a ED would give such trouble to menstruation cycles, surely as doctors that wouldn't be cause for teasing. Maybe it was an inside thing, or maybe, it was the other thing.

The boy thing.

“It is nothing to worry about, at all,” you assured him again, still holding the bar in your hands.

“Well if it ever is,” said Robby, his hands on your shoulders. His fingers started messaging the tension points before he could even get himself to stop. “You know where to find me.”

“That I do, Doctor Robby.”

You went home that night, tired, body heavy as it always was after a shift. You threw you scrubs in the wash, finished whatever takeaway was left in the fridge and then tried the shower.

It spurted cold water once and gave up on you.

So you resolved to doing the thing she didn't want to do.

The next day, getting in early to use the showers at work, taking time in the hot steam to let it wash away all the thoughts.

It didn't. If anything it caused them.

You wondered if Robby had ever had to use the showers then you thought about Robby naked in the steam, large hands lathering up and-

You slapped the temp to cold to wash away the sinful thoughts.

He was your boss!

You completely blamed Santos for calling him 'daddy.'

“Ah, I see-” called a familiar voice as you walked into work hour and a bit earlier than you were supposed to. “Wanted a piece of the night action.”

You smiled, throwing up your damp hair as you approached Dr Abbott. “You got me.”

“What're you doing here so early, kid?” he asked, kindly.

You were assured several times over that the night shift was crazy, whacky even but when you spoke to Jack you didn't see that. All you saw was his calming presence, his at ease voice and gentle touches. He was Robby's best friend- if he had one- and yet on the other side of the spectrum to him. Maybe that was why they worked best together. “My shower's bust at my place and the money I was going to use to fix it got taken in a bet. Thought I'd catch the early bird and just shower here.”

“A bet, huh? A bet I want to know about.”

“Probably not.”

Jack hummed. He always stared at you like that, quizzical and wondering. If he stared at you any longer you were sure you'd be spilling your guts.

“How's it been tonight?”

“Busy!” Doctor Chen called as he passed, sipping from his straw of ice coffee.

“Is that the same cup every time or does he replenish?” you ask Jack.

“Honestly, I'm not quite sure,” he said and pushed himself up from his chair. “C'mon, we may as well start the hand over.”

By the time Robby made his way through at seven in the morning the waiting room was already full, every seat taken and every corner filled with a person.

“Hey Doc!” Louie greeted as Robby made his way through. “How you doin today?”

“Oh, you know me, Louie. Always moving!”

He laughed, his full belly laugh. “Ain't that it, Doc.”

“You had your labs? What you in for today?” he asked, wondering how long he could delay entering the pitt.

“Just my gut, maybe it's finally giving up on me,” he said with the same bout of amusement he took just about everything else. “Your girl already got my tests done.”

He frowned, his coffee cup half way up his lips. His girl? Perhaps the reason the phrase was so alarming was because he knew who Louie was talking about at once. He bid Louie a simple 'see you later' and walked through the place, passing nods to everyone he passed.

He heard your laugh before he saw you, the melody guiding his way like he was Orpheus dying for the music. His grandmother had loved that story.

You were leant against the counter, laughing and smiling with Jack... that bastard.

Your creased eyes from smiling caught his. “Hey!”

Jack turned and sure enough, he was smirking. “There he is!”

“You're early,” he said to you.

Had you got in early to see Jack? He didn't know the two of you even knew each other well, only that Jack loved nothing more than to bring you up after a couple beers.

“Her showers bust,” said Jack like that explained everything. “Plus she wanted to see her favourite attending before her shift.”

You rolled your eyes with affection.

“Here I am,” said Robby.

He'd never been so angered so quick in the morning. What was Jack playing at? Well- he knew exactly what he was playing at. This was called jealousy and he felt it every time you and Langdon worked on a case together easily fitting around each other, or every time you and Whittaker had un-explained chemistry in a trauma.

Did he now have to worry about Jack?

“That you are,” you said, handing him an ipad with notes from the night and his body released its pent up breath. “Jack had kindly given me the run down from last night, I can work you through it?”

“That would be great.”

Robby moved around, putting his bag down under the counter, pulling off his fleece and counting how many stupid granola bars he had for the day while you went off somewhere.

Jack wondered over, hands clasped behind his back innocently. “My tool box's is in the van, I can leave it for you if you want.”

“And why would I want that?” Robby asked, rolling up his sleeves.

Jack nodded back to you. “Her shower's broke man. You know how to work a wrench, right?”

It was alarming how quick Robby understood what he was putting down.

Jack patted his back as he went by him. “Let me know if you guys need to come in late tomorrow, yeah?”

The morning rush is the only thing that stopped Robby from getting that far with you. After the morning rush and Dana's arrival the day continued busy on a random Wednesday in spring. There was a car crash involving an elderly family and a young man DUI. There was cops coming in and shouting and everything fun about working in the ED.

It wasn't until Robby stepped out in the afternoon to catch some breath he spotted you doing the same thing.

You spotted him first. “Hey, again.”

He nodded a greeting. “So, your showers out?”

You groaned at the mention. “Yeah, it's been hanging on for a while now. I just can't really afford to get it fixed right now.”

How wrong would it be to offer his help? Not wrong at all right? He was just extending a hand? Helping a friend...

“Showering in the hospital isn't like against some HR is it?” you panicked.

“No but it'd probably mean you get an extra hour of sleep instead of coming in here early every morning,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “If you want, I can take a look at it.”

The words felt so light from his mouth but he realised how badly he wanted you to say yes.

“Oh, I couldn't ask that of you-”

“You haven't,” he said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I'm offering. Thirty minutes after work, tops.”

You looked around as if looking for a way to say no. “I- I don't have the money to pay you.”

He chuckled. “I'm not asking to be paid. Unless you have beer and it'll make you feel better?”

You smiled to yourself before looking up at him through your lashes. He was afraid if you had said no he'd have insisted. “It would and yes. Thanks, Robby.”

He nodded once to hide the rise of heat that always came with you. “Now, get back to work.”

You didn't realise that when Robby said after work, he meant after work. He didn't insist on going home first or change his mind that he couldn't do it. He grabbed his bag at the end of the day- and yours- and the two of you walked out together.

“Have fun with daddy,” Santos mumbled on your way out and your face lit up in heat.

You were just thankful Robby hadn't heard.

On the walk to yours, maybe fifteen minutes out if the people on the streets weren't annoying, you talked casually about things you already knew. The patients of the day, or Robby asking how long you'd been in Pittsburgh. You dared pry into his personal life about his grandparents and he answered though with short responses, responses none the less.

On the walk up to your apartment you thought about everything that you hadn't cleaned up. Scrubs were in the washing basket, maybe plates and cups from the morning. Hell even knew the last time you dusted the place.

You lingered at the door.

“What you hiding in there? A dead body?” he joked.

“It's probably just a bit messy, I don't really have time to clean.”

He didn't care, he said as much that his place was probably in the same state. Still, you pushed the door open slow and turned on the lights. You tried to picture it through his eyes and really it didn't seem to bad. Actually- aside from dirty dishes and clothes, un-touched.

“Nice place,” he said, lowering your bags on the floor and slowly peeling off his fleece.

“Thanks. Uh- the shower's just through here.”

It was an ensuite, only a one room apartment but you hadn't exactly thought that you'd have to take Dr Robby through your room to get there.

The door pushed open to a wardrobe overflowing considering you typically only wore scrubs. Your bed wasn't made, just your covers thrown over the sheets and-

“Ah-” you threw a cushion over the red panties that laid there, clean.

Robby held his hands up but there was the tilt of lips that betrayed his words. “I saw nothing.”

You led him to the bathroom, making sure there was nothing else a slip.

You watched as if you were watching him do an operation that you would be tested on as he tried the shower, recoiling at the cold spurt of water.

In the doorway you were frozen as Robby directed around your bathroom like it was his own. He didn't still at the things littered around, at the scrubs you hadn't picked up from the floor. It was a different kind of mesmerising. Here- in your place- you could watch the flex of his arms and the way he flattened himself on your floor to look at the pipes had you thinking things you really shouldn't have thought.

“Want me to grab you a beer?” It was about the only thing you knew you had in the fridge.

Robby grunted as he messed around with what went on under there. “That's be nice.”

In the kitchen you pulled out two beers but pressed the cold against your head.

You'd never been so flustered by him. Not in the ED, not when he defended anyone that needed it against erratic patients, not when he stretched out and his shirt rose up, exposing a dangerous part of him. But no, here, in your place that was when you decided you wanted him.

Needed him.

You blamed Santos completely.

“Okay-” only five minutes later he was making his way into your living room/ kitchen. “You need a new part, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do till then.”

You deflated, taking the beer away from your forehead. “Shit.”

“But I know a guy,” he said, taking one of the cans you offered.

You rose your brows. “You know a guy?”

“I can get the part for cheap, next to nothing by this weekend, I can install it then.”

“I can't ask you to do that-”

“Again, you're not asking,” he reminded you. The crack open of his beer sounded between the two of you and he took a gulp, gaze levelled on you.

This was the start of a bad prono, you knew.

“I don't want this to sound, like, dirty? But there must be something I can do.” You regretted the words as soon as you said them. He probably didn't seem anything wrong with it, so you'd exposed your gutter mind before he'd even suspected.

“There is something,” he said. Robby led his way through your apartment like you were back in the ED under his commanding presence.

You followed until you were standing next to your couch. “Yeah?”

“You could enlighten me on why Santos keeps calling me daddy to you?”

You swear, the world stopped spinning.

“Fuck- you heard that?”

He chuckled, sipping his beer with a cock-sure expression. “A couple times, yeah.”

Your own beer dropped onto the couch- un-opened. “My god- I am so sorry Doctor Robby, it's just a joke. She, well all of them- the interns- they like to think you have favourites between all of us. And cause you're like, the daddy of the Pitt. And-and it's just a joke that I'm your favourite and you know they-they see you as the 'daddy' of the Pitt, so to speak. It's-it's totally unprofessional and I can get her to stop. In fact, I will! That is-” he wasn't saying anything, were you rambling? “That is what I will do for you.”

He nodded slow and leant down to put his beer on your coffee table even slower. When he rose up you swore he was taller than before. Closer, too. “Would that be so bad?” he asked.

“What?”

“If I did have a favourite? If it is you?”

Perhaps this was the start of a great porno...

“Isn't that unprofessional?” you uttered as his head leant down. His breath was warm, the slightest trail of beer in his breath, calmed by a mint he'd took earlier.

“Haven't we crossed that boundary?”

“Have we?”

When his lips met yours it was softer than you'd dreamt of. It wasn't rough with the scratch of his beard, it was light like a warm summers breeze waking you from a sleep. It lingered like the sun on you but burnt just as much.

His hands that you'd always admired were large as they crept up, cupping your cheeks, taking most of your face and his thumbs danced under your jaw eliciting shivers down your spine and across.

It could've lasted seconds, it could've lasted minutes but he pulled away too soon, sucking in a breath.

He nodded as if to himself. “I think we have now-”

You grabbed his scrubs and brought him down, showing the desperation in the smash of lips. You were firm on his lips and he grew firm everywhere else. Your hands planted on his shoulders as you pushed yourself into him, one of his arms strong around you and curling you into him.

There was desperation in his lips then, emergency like this could never last. Like if you were to pull away you'd never be together again. So when he needed breath he parted hardly before kissing you again... and again... and again.

Your hands found themselves in his hair, messing up what he had as his hands sprawled around your back, fingers dragging up and down, dipping into skin and pulling and pushing.

You tilted back enough to catch some breath, your eyes closed in bliss and scared you'll find regret in his if you looked. “Are we- are we crossing a line?”

Robby chuckled low in his throat. “God, I hope so.”

Your laugh rattled around the apartment that was empty besides the cars outside and Robby's laboured breath.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” His hand cupped your cheek again, thumb running over your cheekbone till you opened his eyes. Gone was the temptation, replaced by the sort of serious look he gave to patients. “Is this okay with you?”

Boundaries? Crossed already. Want had hardly been sedated.

“Yes,” you uttered in the space left between you. Your hands fell down to his scrubs. “Is this... okay with you?”

To answer he leant down, slow, giving enough time for you to pull back or think again. You'd thought about this enough to know you needed it. His lips were soft again but his hands were quick in working under your scrub top and the one underneath.

When his hands met flush he groaned into your mouth, lips trailing down to your neck. He was bowed over you and your hands fought at his back, pulling up his own shirt till you could feel the rough of his back.

“I promise I-” you gasped as he nipped at the skin. “My shower really is broken.”

He muffled some sort of understanding as his hands gripped your hips, pushing down the pants just enough to tease the both of you.

“And I really did lose the money in a bet with Santos-”

“I'm sure,” he uttered, turning the both of you around. He didn't sound like he was listening but as you watched him slowly sink down onto your coach you knew why.

His eyes trailed down your body till they were eye level where your core hid.

“This still okay?” he asked, eyes stuck on where you pulsed for him.

You nodded. It was sinful watching him on your coach, hands cupping your thighs as he stared at your pussy like he was already filling it. “I don't think this'll ever stop being okay.”

“Good. Take your top off.”

It stole your breath away, the demand in his voice only heard at work now used to un-dress you. But it worked. Your hands were as steady as always as you brought off your scrubs and top.

You were efficient- you were sure that's something your colleagues would say about you- that's why you reached for your pants at once.

Robby's hands wrapped around your wrists, stopping you. He pushed them back, not harsh but with enough intent for you to know that was his job.

His fingers were rough as they dragged around the elastic and yanked.

There was another cocky smile as he tugged them all the way to your ankles. It was one of the biggest smiles you'd seen of his.

You were so distracted by it you didn't notice his finger sweeping into you until you felt the rush of pleasure and jolted in his hold.

“Doctor Robby-” it had slipped out, it was just natural.

His finger curled into your folds and lips kissed upon your nerves.

You gasped and arched closer into him.

His knees were spread, you were standing between his thighs as he had you pulled into him, finger slowly working you. It had slipped in easy enough but you didn't have much time to be embarrassed before he took your wetness and spread it over your lips. “You are my favourite,” he admitted low. He was focused as he curled two more fingers into you. His lips pressed on your stomach briefly.

“Ah-” you gasped, a hand cupping the back of his head, stroking over his hair. The other held his shoulder, bunching the scrubs.

“Lean into me- like that-”

You had no control over your body as it did. You were open for him, wanting for him.

Robby leaned closer and his tongue darted out, licking up the mess that was coming out of you and over your clit. He worked his fingers and tongue until you were gasping, trying to be quiet because you knew how thin the walls of your apartment were. Robby didn't.

He moved his fingers slow but hard in and out, drawing out your wetness.

You were close, so close when he took out his fingers and grabbed your ass, pushing you into his face as he buried himself there. For a moment all you felt was the tickle of his beard before the wet of his tongue took away any other feeling.

“Ah... hmm.... Doctor Robby-”

His hands pulled at the flesh of your ass as he leaned back, tilting his head up to reach further into your core.

You were almost climbing on the couch to be closer to him.

Your stomach coiled like a snake to strike-

Robby pulled back, out of breath before you reached your climax. You whined- you didn't know yourself to ever want enough to whine. "Lean back, lean back-" he said, voice hoarse as he stood up.

In your own apartment you didn't know where to lean back to until you understood.

He helped you lie back on the coffee table as he knelt in front of you and went back to your heat.

This was desperate. This was the all encompassing need that had been driving you crazy for months but it was in him.

By the move of his tongue and the grip he had on you, he'd wanted you to. Wants you.

“Robby! Doct-doctor Robby I'm gonna cum.”

“Mmh.” He nodded, his nose driving up and down your pussy as he kept your legs open.

He gripped your hips tight and groaned when you finished on his lips- on your coffee table!.

This was the sort of bliss you read about. Your chest was heaving, catching your breath as sweat stuck bits of your hair to your forehead.

By the time you composed yourself to push yourself up onto your elbows and look at him you saw him in his own bliss. His eyes were fluttering close, mouth agape and his hand was down his pants. You could see the tip of his cock.

Hard.

Large.

You surged up, surprising him as you wrapped your arms around him and kissed him, pushing your tongue into his mouth as he pulled you into his lap. Your wetness pooled at his cock, staining his scrubs.

“Awh- fuck-” he cursed between the moves of your mouth. He stretched out his legs, pushing back your coffee table with a screech.

You were grinding down on his lap maybe to eager, maybe to hard as his chest heaved and he lost his breath in you.

Your hands went under his scrubs and pulled off his shirt eagerly, pens in the pocket of his shirt scattering.

“Wait-” he gasped as you kissed him and kissed him, hands running down the softness of his stomach and dragging down the hairs that trailed.

“Please-”

“Honey-”

You pulled back enough to see his face. He wasn't as sweaty as you were but his face was hard as he stared at you, brushing your hair off your neck and for a moment he just ... stared. “What? Is it-is it too much?”

He smiled. “No, no it's not too much. You want to take care of me?”

You nodded.

“Okay.”

He helped you up to your feet, helped you stand out of your pants and kissed you. It was gentle and promising of a night full of this, of nights and days and a future.

His hands steadied you, keeping you against him as he pushed you back to your room.

You fell back, watching him as he un-did the ties of his pants and pushed them down.

Oh.

You were left, mouth watering on the edge of your bed as his cock sprung out, thicker than you'd have thought. Harder then you imagined. “Doctor Robby-”

His hand reached out to your neck as he bent over you. “You have to stop calling me that-” his kissed you, tongue working against yours in the warmth of your mouth. The both of you shuffled up the bed until you could feel the weight of his cock against your thigh.

“Wait-wait- I wanna-” you reached to brush his cock.

“Later-” he kissed you quick again.

You grumbled against his lips. “I-I don't have condoms. I'm on the pill, I'm clean-”

He nodded. “So responsible.”

Robby leaned back on his knees enough to see you. There was a thin sheen of restraint on his skin and as he pumped himself once- twice you marvelled at his body. The planes of it, the hairs. He was older than you by enough. His body wasn't rock solid but fuck was he the best thing you'd ever seen. “Tap out any time.”

You nodded, looking up at him as he looked at you. “I want it. I want you,.” you gulped. “In case I hadn't made that very clear..”

He rose a brow. “Well-.” slowly he descended toward you, an arm bracing himself on the side of your head. “Apparently I hadn't made it very clear that you-.”

Between one word and the next he pushed the head of his cock into you.

Your back arched and he groaned, head falling into your neck.

“-are my favourite thing in the world.”

You moaned out as he pushed inches of himself into you.

“Ah fuck- ah fuck- you just- just-” he mumbled to himself, body clenched.

“Robby please!” you begged, nails scratching at his shoulders.

“Jus gimme a sec.” His eyes darted down to his cock was slowly sinking into you. He controlled himself as he gave it inch by inch, the veins in his arms prominent as he controlled himself. “Fuck- oh I need you- I need you-”

With a smooth push he fell all the way into you, groaning out and taking your hand, entwining your fingers next to your head. He kissed you, stealing your breath and moans as he slowly worked in and out of you.

“I won't last long,” he warned you.

“I don't- I don't want you to.”

“Okay- okay- fuck-”

The composed man you worked with vanished as curses spilled from his lips as he went between kissing you and sucking at your collarbones to watching where he slid in and out of you.

He groaned where you moaned and as your body trembled he pushed himself up, the sound of skin slapping skin bouncing around your bed room walls.

“I'm gonna-”

“Wait!” he barked.

“Robby!”

“Jus-” he tested his body weight on you, moving at a brutal pace till his necklace was close enough for you to grab. You hooked a finger around the chain, bringing him in and locking your legs around him. “Ah fuck- fuck!” he moaned against you as he released inside and you let go, arching up into him.

His arm circled around you, holding you in.

The two of you stilled wrapped in each other, catching breath.

He ran his hand over your hair, pushing it back as his cock softened and he slipped it out.

“Shit-” he fell back on your bed, pulling the covers over the two of you. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, catching your breath. “Yeah, okay.”

Robby nodded, opening his mouth to say something when he felt an itch at his back and moved around. His hand came out, revealing the bundle of red panties.

You grabbed them, throwing them behind him and out of sight as he chuckled. You fell back on your bed, hiding your face in your hands and knowing there was little point in hiding from him.

Robby still chuckled as he turned on his side to watch you, his chest still moving as he caught his breath.

You mirrored him, tucking a hand under your head. “You know I don't think I've ever seen you smile so much.”

“Don't tell anybody they'll all expect special treatment.” His hand reached your thigh, circling it gently. “That was okay?” Under the smiling and the want that subsided a little you could read the mask of insecurity.

You were at a loss for words by how good it was.

You leant over and kissed him slow, feeling his lips with every note of your brain and trace of your lips.

You pulled away when you remembered why he was here in the first place. “I still don't have a shower.”

Robby glanced over his shoulder like he'd also forgot it was there. “We'll just have to shower at mine then.”

It takes you a minute to find the right position where just the right features are visible: your slightly parted mouth, your soft breasts, your bare tummy, and your slick cunt that you have two fingers buried inside of, and once you do, you click the big red button to record.

You allow a few squelching pumps of your fingers inside your slick cunt before muttering a few chosen words, "Do I look pretty, daddy?". After a few more seconds, you cut the recording off before making to share it. You type a simple R into the search bar, click the first contact that comes up, and it's on its way to the desired recipient.

Closing out of the camera app, you redirect into your messages... And then your entire body grows cold while your heart jumps so violently into your throat that the squeezing sensation feels quite painful.

Swiftly removing your fingers from inside yourself, you wipe them off on the fluffy white towel you left folded beside you incase things got messy tonight, then stare down at your phone with a horrified open-mouthed expression.

"Oh no," you squeak while sliding toward the side of the bed and planting your feet on the floor. "No, no, no!" you scream. "Fuck!"

Google, yes, you'll Google it! He hasn't seen it yet.

Swiftly typing, you become enraged when you're given an unsatisfactory answer to your question of how to undo such a monumental mistake.

What do you fucking mean there's no way to unsend it? Even Gmail gives you a so many second window to unsend an email, but a text, once sent, is irretrievable?! Stupid piece of shit!

Switching back to your texting app, you stare as blue dots fill, indicating that he's viewed it.

Your superior.

Your damn attending!

R, it was supposed to go to R, not Robby!

typing...

Pause.

typing...

You can feel a panic attack coming on. You're going to lose your job. What you just did can and will be considered sexual harassment. Doesn't matter if it was a mistake. You have absolutely no way of proving that. And once the entirety of the ED hears why you were fired? You'll be the laughing stock of the Pittsburgh medical industry when the news spreads like wildfire across hospitals and ambulance bays.

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl! And for what? To get yourself off?

You had already been halfway there, so you should've kept going, or just watched porn for Christ's sake!

Was that meant for me?

You bark a hysterical laugh while hot tears slip down your cheeks.

Trying to type an apologetic reply is fruitless with you continually making typos because your hands are shaking so terribly. Backspacing the entirety of it, you instead opt for voice-to-text.

"No, I am so, so, so, so sorry, Dr. Robinavitch. It absolutely was not. I was trying to send it to someone else whose name starts with a R and hit the wrong contact. Please forgive me for such a humiliating mistake."

You reread the message once, twice, three times, then hit send once you've confirmed beyond a doubt that there're no typos.

typing...

No worries.

No worries?! That's all he has to say? You just sent your naked body—your whole vagina to the man and he says 'No worries'?

Tossing your phone back onto your bedside table, you consider slapping yourself across the face as punishment before wrenching the towel from the bed and padding into the bathroom to clean up before slamming the door shut behind you.

You consider many things overnight. Like assuming a fake identity and moving to a tropical island, like the one in Castaway where the only company you'll ever keep for the rest of your days will be a volleyball. No chance of sending salacious videos from there to the incorrect party.

Maybe you should invest in a rotary phone.

You check your cell more than once, but when the clock reads well past midnight and there's been no further contact, you finally lock it and force yourself off to sleep for the day ahead.

When you come into work the next day, you tell yourself to keep your head down. At least until you reach your locker and store your personal effects away. But never one to listen to yourself, you bother glancing up just once, and you bristle when you meet the unwavering gaze of Dr. Robby at the nurses station.

Your cheeks burn in mortification—a rush of blood which spreads across your nose, causing it to prickle, as well as the tips of your ears which start to itch—so you promptly look away before speed-walking past him to a place of hopeful solitude.

Rounding a corner at the end of the hall, you sigh when you find the corridor empty, then make a beeline for your respective locker. Once you've popped it open, you hang your head inside while trying desperately to gather yourself. "It's fine. You're fine. You know you didn't mean to," you mumble while taking a few therapeutic breaths.

Once you've safely tucked your things away, you slide your stethoscope around your neck and resolve to get to work and put your very stupid, yet nevertheless silly mistake behind you.

Maybe he didn't even watch it, but only viewed the thumbnail. While that would've undoubtedly given him a full view of everything, it would at least save you the shame of him hearing your...arousal, as well as the horny little question you asked. Dear God, you cannot imagine calling that imposing man daddy.

This is the worst thing to happen to you since you threw up in front of your 7th grade class because the teacher insisted on you signing out first before she would excuse you to the restroom.

Avoiding Robby at all costs, you go to join McKay on whatever case she's already grabbed this morning.

It's midday before you manage to grace the nurses station to check the board to snag a case of your own. Studying the multi-colored blocks, you debate between a cakewalk and something a bit more challenging, but your decision making is cut short when a familiar frame steps up beside your own.

The corner of your mouth twitches, and you fear you may break into a fit of nervous laughter over the close proximity.

Hopefully Robby is just grabbing something real quick before—

"I haven't told anyone," he whispers while leaning in slightly toward you. "So you have nothing to worry about."

You continue staring, but with impossibly wide eyes. "I'm so sorry," you mutter shamefully.

He chuckles and you look at him out of the corner of your eye. How dare he find humor in this?

"Nothing I haven't seen before. Well, I suppose it technically is, but..." he turns to walk away. "You know what I mean."

You half want to ask him if he watched it, but refrain when you head for Chairs instead.

Grabbing a small snack, you decide to take a quick break outside before grabbing a new patient after your last discharge. Compound fracture, which Park was forced to come down for. He'd not been pleased about the page, but had softened when Dana told him that it came from you.

You're not sure why he seems to hate you a little less than... Well, everyone, but you're also not complaining about the fact, either.

Munching on a meat, cheese, and nut medley, you scroll idly through social media while the ambience of sirens, car horns, and distant voices fill the air.

"This seat taken?"

You jerk your head up and nearly drop your phone and snack both when you see that it's Robby looking down at you with a thoughtful expression.

You silently shake your head before returning your attentions to your screen. Not that you'll be paying much attention to whatever is on it now. Perhaps eating isn't such a good idea either for the moment being. You might choke, and then he'll be given cause to touch you when he administers the Heimlich maneuver, and, well, things are already bad enough.

"Was it, uh..." Robby scrubs a hand down his beard. "Intended for someone here at the hospital?"

You blink stupidly at your phone. "N-No," you stutter. "Just...someone I met in a chatroom a long time ago."

He hums while crossing his arms and turning to look at you. "Is that safe?"

You raise a brow. Why must he discuss this?

Why must this be your fate?

"I don't ever put my face or defining characteristics in any photos or videos, so... We don't know each other's real names, either."

He nods. "Might be showing my age, but that sort of thing seems a bit dangerous to me. May I ask why you do it?"

You pop a salted almond in your mouth and chew very, very slowly while trying to think up a non-embarrassing reply. "I get lonely sometimes," you say quietly. "It can feel nice to hear someone else's voice. Or...read flattering messages."

You'd like to peel your skin off now.

"Wouldn't you prefer it to be someone you actually know and trust?" Robby questions while turning even more toward you.

You take a couple more bites of your snack. "Maybe. But if things eventually came to a close, it could make facing them in-person difficult."

Robby hums in understanding. "Well," he says while resting a palm against your thigh fleetingly. "If it means anything to you to hear, I was interested in what I saw last night."

You look at him in surprise.

"Just something for you to consider next time you think about sending yourself to a complete stranger." He stands. "You have my number, and it can stay just between us, if that's something you think you'd want."

Your jaw is left slightly hanging when he heads back inside.

You've tried occupying yourself tonight with Netflix and reading and browsing random internet forums, as well as studying medical textbooks, but it's all done little good when your interest continually drifts back to a small electronic communication device.

After your and Robby's conversation, you'd tried telling yourself that he didn't entirely mean it, even if he thought he did. Give it a few more hours, and he would be regretful for ever making such an offer.

But every time the two of you ended up in a room together, it was all he could do to not look at or touch you, even covertly. It was almost like it was a silent invitation, or encouragement every time he did: please, think it over, I want more of what I saw last night.

So here you lie, fingering the hem of your panties while staring at an empty chat with Robby's name at the top.

This is insane to even consider. You could both wind up in massive trouble if something so indecent were discovered to be going on between you. But, God, that makes it impossibly hotter, doesn't it? You having a dirty secret with him of all men, who you practically worship. Someone so much older and wiser and handsome and smart and—

Did you really mean what you said?

You double over in bed while staring at your screen, expecting either no reply at all, or a succinct one in which he expresses regret for the offer he extended.

typing...

I did.

Your heart leaps in your chest. And then your thumbs hover above the touchscreen keyboard while you try and think of what to say next.

Have you ever sexted before?

typing...

typing...

It'd be a first for me.

You grin. You'll get to take his digital V-Card if you follow through. Not that that's even a thing, but...

Would you want to right now? You consider the message at length before pressing send with a slightly shaking hand.

typing...

If you do

You sink down in bed while squealing and kicking your feet excitedly. Does that mean you'll get to see him without clothes on? His chest? Belly? Cock? Will you learn what it sounds like when he cums?

The possibilities are truly endless.

How would you like to? There's FaceTime, phone calls, voice messages, texting, photos, videos...?

You don't mean to overwhelm him, but there is admittedly a wealth of options.

Does a phone call make me sound old?

You grin while shaking your head, even if he can't see it.

Of course not.

When his name pops up on your screen, accompanied by accept and rejection buttons, you shoot up in bed. "Oh God..."

With a shaking index finger, you slide the green symbol inward and lift the phone to your ear. "H-Hello?"

"Hey," drawls an all-too familiar voice.

You stay quiet for a moment.

"You there?" Robby asks.

You shake your head to snap out of it, then nod. "Yes. Sorry."

"Is a phone call how you normally do things?"

You flop back against the pillows behind you. "Sometimes. It just depends. But, yes, I do like hearing his voice and him being able to hear mine while I'm...y'know."

He clears his throat. "Have you and he known each other long?"

You shrug. Always with the physical mannerisms, when he clearly cannot see you. "A few months. Like I said, we haven't even exchanged names. It's just the one thing we have a common interest in."

"Orgasms," he says with a quiet laugh, which causes you to squeeze your thighs together.

"Yes," you confirm quietly. "Did... Did you watch the video, or just look at the thumbnail?"

You don't know it, but he smirks at your question. "Oh, I watched it."

And? And?

"Oh."

"Would it bother you if I told you I got off to it?"

Your heart is pounding so hard that you wonder if he can hear it through the speaker. "No," you say breathlessly.

You may pass out, you think.

"I worried that I went too far after our conversation. It's why I sort of hovered for the rest of your shift."

You smile warmly at his concern. "You didn't. I was just...very surprised that you were that interested in me."

He chuckles again. "Kind of hard not to be after watching that a few dozen times."

A few dozen?

"That many times?" you ask with surprise.

"At my age... Things can take awhile to work the way they used to twenty something years ago."

You toy with one of your breasts. "Oh. Do you take anything for it?"

"I have Viagra, but I haven't had much reason to use it." You can hear the grin in his voice when he continues. "'Til now, anyway."

The line goes silent for a moment.

"That bother you?" he asks.

"No! Of course not. I like it, actually."

You hear him shift on the other line. "I don't think I've ever heard of a woman liking a man having ED," he replies with mild disbelief.

"Well," you begin with dragging a hand beneath your camisole. "For one, it's a sign of your age, which I like. But also...to think that a man desires me that much that he's willing to take medication, and also wait for it to kick in because the drive is that strong..."

"Thought you might've just been trying to humor me," he remarks.

You giggle. "Nope. I'm telling the truth."

He feigns a cough. "I did, y'know?"

Your eyes shift this way and that in confusion. "Pardon?"

"Think you looked pretty. Since you asked in the video."

You deadpan while removing your hand from beneath your clothing. "I was mortified. Not to mention terrified that you might report me."

He laughs. "And lose out on the chance of this happening?"

You nibble on your lower lip. "So, um..." You sigh. "I'm sorry, I'm just so nervous."

"That makes two of us," he states. "But just relax. Do whatever you normally do, and I'll do my best to play along."

You swallow thickly. "Okay." A pause of silence. "Should I just... Call you Robby?"

"You can call me whatever you like, sweetheart. Whatever makes you comfortable. But I'd prefer Robby, yes. Or Michael. But no one I know really calls me that anymore."

Michael. Feels so intimate. Maybe you'll try it when things get hot and heavy just to gauge his reaction.

"Okay," you sigh. "I'm gonna take my clothes off now."

His brows raise in response, though you can't see it. "Take your time."

You consider your bedside table for a moment. "Hold on. Let me put my earbuds in."

Leaving your phone in the middle of the bed, you stretch and yank open the drawer to your nightstand and retrieve the wanted devices. Removing them from their charging case, you pop them in, then wait a moment. Once they indicate that they've paired, you speak. "Can you hear me okay?"

"I can," he replies.

With your hands now free, you set your phone to the side, then take off your shirt and toss it onto the floor.

With all your limbs freed, you feel a bit braver, in terms of getting down to business. "Do you want me to sort of lead things?"

"That might help a bit," he says with a quiet titter.

"Well, I just took my shirt off." You hook your thumbs under the waistband of your underwear. "And now my panties. They're already wet, by the way."

You can hear him swallow. Poor man is probably more nervous than you.

"Do you, uh... Are... Do you get wet pretty easily?"

It endears you to him knowing that he's so flustered. "I do. In particular when I think about you. I've had a crush on you for a really long time, Robby."

He snorts. "Can't imagine why."

You frown and your brows furrow. "Why do you say that? You're incredibly attractive."

"I guess I just don't see myself that way anymore."

You wish you were there with him to rid him of such insecurities. "I'll tell you everything I like about you, then. Are you ready, because it's a pretty extensive list?"

"Ready," he replies with a chuckle.

You use one hand to roll a nipple between your fingers while the other drifts down between your legs. "In no particular order," you sigh, starting off. "Your voice; how deep it is and how easily you wield it to command authority. Your hair, which I'd love nothing more than to run my fingers through. Your beard, which I've fantasized having between my thighs and the silver throughout it."

You hear a quiet moan.

"Your hands, and how much bigger they are than mine. And speaking of size, your height—how I have to lean my head back to meet your beautiful, warm brown eyes. The way you dress—Carharts and boots and hoodies that I wish I could try on just because you wore them first. How intelligent you are, and steady; reliable and someone I know I can come to. For anything."

He's quietly panting now.

"Even the fact that you're Jewish."

He snickers. "Really?"

"Yes," you sigh while dipping fingers between your slick folds. "It's a part of you that means so much. I like the necklace you wear, with the Star of David on it. Do you wanna know what part of you I like best?"

"Tell me," he rasps.

"Your belly. I have no interest in abs. There's just something so erotic about a man who's grown comfortable in his body. God, Robby, even your name. Everything about you turns me on."

"Are you touching yourself?" he groans.

"I am, baby. Things are really slick between my thighs right now. All because of you." You sigh quietly. "Are you hard for me yet, sweetie?"

"I am," he huffs.

You drag your fingers over your clit. "Good. You like that I'm playing with myself while you listen? Hm?"

"Fuck," he moans while sliding through his fist. "I do."

"Tell me what you liked about my video. About watching me fuck myself with my fingers." You circle your clit a few times, then dive back inside.

"Everything, sweetheart. You were perfect. The sound of your voice—the pitch, since you were so turned on—how wet your pussy was, asking me something like that." Even though the question wasn't meant for him then, he deems that it was now.

You smirk, then go for it. "Am I? Am I pretty, daddy? Can you tell me if I am?"

Robby laughs while continuing on with stroking his weeping cock. "You are, baby. Very much so. Naked or otherwise."

You hum. "But you prefer me naked, don't you? All wet and ready to take whatever you have to give me?"

You listen to his ragged breaths, punctuated by the sound of skin against skin.

"I wish I was there right now, fuck."

"What would you do to me, Michael? Tell me."

He groans. "Don't call me that again unless you want me to cum."

You laugh musically. "Oops."

"Lie you back on the bed, kiss you between your thighs like you wanted. Taste you."

"Would you let me cum on your tongue?" you whine.

"However many times you wanted," he grates.

Your body shudders. "More, more, tell me more."

"I'd sink my cock inside you, once you're good and wet and ready for me."

"No condom," you state. "I want you to be able to finish inside me."

He snorts. "Horny li'l thing."

You laugh and ease a third finger inside yourself. "When it comes to you, I think I'd let you do anything you wanted to me if it made you feel good."

Robby continues. "And I'd make love to you. Until we both finish. Until you do around me. Spilling myself inside of you until we can't breathe because we're both so spent."

So old-fashioned. Making love. Not fucking, screwing, or any other derivative. It brings you impossibly closer to finishing already to hear it.

"I want that," you sigh. "To feel you inside of me. To come all over your cock so you can know how much I want it. You." You whimper. "Could I see it?" you ask softly.

"What? My—"

"Yes," you reply with certainty. "I showed you mi-ne," you say in a sing-song voice.

Robby chuckles, then sighs. "I need a solemn vow that it's for your eyes only."

You roll said eyes. "I'm far too selfish when it comes to you to think about sharing. And uh... Could you maybe use the front facing camera? So I can see your belly, too?"

The other line goes quiet for a moment. "You're sure you want that?"

You giggle excitedly. "I really do."

He sighs. "Alright, hold on."

You quickly grab your phone and wait with bated breath for the notification to arrive.

"I sent it. Just...don't judge the bush, alright? I don't prescribe to the whole waxing trend. That or...my slight gut."

"I'm glad to hear it," you say breathlessly, with a giddy smile. "I asked for the latter because it's what I'm most eager to see, baby."

As soon as the text pops up, you press on it, then proceed to stare in awe. "Oh my God, you're perfect," you moan, letting your eyes roam the heavy swell of his stomach that hangs just above his long red cock, which is smattered with dark brown hair. "But I...I don't think that'd fit inside of me."

He barks a laugh. "It would if I took my time with you. Trust me."

"It's so thick," you say while swallowing down pooling saliva. "And veiny and... I like the bush, just so you know. A lot. But your belly really is the icing on the cake. I hope you know I'd ride it if I could."

He exhales with relief while shaking his head and grinning. "You're somethin' else."

You giggle excitedly. "I'm having so much fun."

He smiles broadly on the other line. "You and me both, honey."

You swipe your fingers repeatedly over your clit. "I'm getting close, though. Are you?"

You can hear him lick his lips. "I'm workin' towards it."

"Where would you cum?" you inquire while teasing yourself toward your climax. "I'd let you finish anywhere on or inside me that you like."

He sighs. "Generous of you."

"Only because it's you, Michael."

He curses quietly. "Inside of you. Between your legs."

"Why?" you whimper, desperate for an answer.

"It's more intimate. Somehow anywhere else just doesn't seem right. Not with you."

"I'd like that," you intimate. "So, so much."

You continually circle your clit with lubricated fingers. "I'm so close, baby."

"Let me see."

You raise a brow. "My pussy?"

He chuckles. "Yeah, sweetheart."

Feeling generous, you decide to record a quick little video again, up close and personal. You spread your labia in all its dripping glory, swipe your fingers through your messy folds, advertise your swollen clit, then send it. "Hope you like it," you say lowly.

"It just came through," he confirms. Then, "Oh, sweetheart."

You gasp when he says it like that—wantonly, like he's been overtaken by lust.

"You like that? You like seeing how wet you've made me?"

"Christ," he groans.

"You're watching it on repeat, aren't you?"

"Fuckin' right I am," he rumbles. "Do you have any idea how pretty you are, sweetheart? How absolutely perfect?"

"Tell me. Please." Between porn and social media, you're not so sure anymore...

"I'd give anything to be inside of you, honey, even just one time. Not even for myself but for you."

Your chin wobbles. "Really?"

"Really."

"Please, Robby, come with me. Come with me, baby."

You listen to his ragged breaths as they grow in fervor. "I'm so close, sweetheart."

Plunging your fingers rapidly between your dripping folds, you lick your lips and nod. "I am, too. Just a little more. God, I love it."

"Fuck, I can't remember the last time jacking off felt this good."

Hearing him speak so filthily about his own self-pleasure only heightens your own. "C'mon, baby. Come for me, Michael. Come all over my pussy. Come right inside of it like I want you to."

"Oh fu—Oh fuck. Oh, fuck!" he groans, and you curl your legs back toward you while fingering yourself into oblivion.

You hardly speak a coherent word as you cry, whine, whimper, and squeal from your overwhelming finish. Once you come down from your passionate high, you do your utmost to catch your breath, and listen as Robby does the same on the other line.

Just hearing his labored breathing serves to make your loins stir yet again.

"So... Was it good?" you ask shyly.

Robby tosses his head back. "It was perfect, sweetheart. Never thought the first time I put eyes on you that I'd eventually hear what you sound like when you orgasm."

You're a naked, slippery mess, but somehow that's what makes you flush. "Same here," you murmur. "Um... thank you." It comes out sounding more like a question.

"Thank you," he replies with a gravely voice. "God, that felt good, baby."

Nibbling on your thumb, you can't keep yourself from smiling gleefully. "I'm so glad to hear it," you whisper. "So, uh... I'll see you tomorrow?" God knows how you'll face him after this, but you'll just have to figure it out.

"Oh," he chirps. "You wanna get off?"

You both chuckle at the same time.

"Yeah, guess we already did that, huh?" he jokes.

"We certainly did."

"Yeah," he replies. "I should probably clean up."

"Mm," you hum with interest. "Make a mess, did we?"

"On a towel, thankfully, but yes," Robby says with a quiet laugh. "Alright, honey, I'll see you tomorrow morning. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Once the call has ended, you remove your earbuds, then throw a pillow over your face and squeal to the high Heavens with delight.

The next morning, you and Robby arrive in PTMC's parking lot at around the same time. Ironic, you muse to yourself while gathering your things before climbing out of your vehicle.

Coming around to the driver's side of your car, Robby slips his hands into his pockets while smiling down at you rather sweetly. "Mornin'."

You smile in return while your cheeks warm from a feeling of utter enchantment. Oh, this is no good. You shouldn't be forming some juvenile attachment this early-on. But if you let on that you have, last night will be the one and only instance of such intimacy between you.

It had made you feel so special, so you don't want to lose the possibility of having it again.

"Hello," you say quietly while glancing down to your shoes.

"You, um... You don't regret—"

Your jerk your head back while staring up at him, and the way the rising sun has practically formed a halo around his head. Maybe you're more than just a bit fond, after all. "No," you say while reaching out to touch his forearm. "No, Robby, not at all. I just don't know how to meet your eyes now," you say while chewing your lip.

Resting a hand on the crown of your shoulder, he slides it around to the small of your back while leading you toward the hospital. "Just like you always have. Hell, maybe," he begins with a shrug, "It'll make things easier. Talking, I mean. Being around each other now that we," he gestures with his hand. "Have this between us."

You giggle quietly. "I still refuse to believe it'd fit," you state while glancing toward his waist.

He throw his head back and laughs. "Oh, sweetheart, I have moves you've yet to see."

"Decreased breath sounds on right side, BP holding steady at 109/70, pulse dropping and down to 62."

Racing around to the other side of the gurney your patient lies unconsciously upon, you pull open one of her eyelids while flashing a small flashlight across it. "Eyes are PERL, but that airbag nailed her in the face—"

Robby shakes his head while pressing his chest to your back and assessing the broken nose she came in with. "It just knocked her out. I'm not worried about head trauma at this time if pupils are reactive." He points to the gaping wound on her abdomen where a piece of shrapnel sliced through. "Hey!" he says—calling to someone you don't glance up to see. "Have Perlah page the OR and tell them to prep for a laparotomy. They've got one incoming."

Pulling you back by the elbow, Robby releases the brakes on the gurney and you stand back, watching as a team rolls it away. Snapping off his gloves, he tosses them into a nearby waste bin. "You did good, sweetheart," he whispers while squeezing your hip reassuringly. "There's something I wanna talk to you about on your next break, though, alright?"

Pulling off a dressing gown, you bunch it up. "Did I do something wro—"

He shakes his head while pushing out of the room. "Not about that," he interrupts with a wink.

"She gonna make it?" you ask when Robby walks over to you from the ambulance bay doors.

He nods. "Already out of surgery and in a recovery room. Apparently things were touch and go for a minute, but she'll be fine."

You loose a sigh of relief.

"You wanted to talk to me about something?" you ask when he sits down next to you.

"Yeah," he rasps while settling his palms atop his thighs. "I just... Thought it might be good for us to lay some ground rules if we choose to continue this."

You nod hesitantly. "What did you have in mind?"

He grins while running a nervous hand through his hair. "I've never done any sort of "friends with benefits" thing before. Especially not for phone sex. That said, I can still tend to be a jealous guy. Now," he states while holding up his hands. "This isn't me trying to tell you what to do or stake a claim or anything, but I would prefer if I was the only one you were carrying on with like this."

Oh, so he's the territorial type, huh? You rather enjoy hearing that, actually.

"So, no more talking to your other friend," Robby requests while looking at you.

You nod. "Done."

He shrugs and sweeps a hand over his beard. "And if you wouldn't mind, no dating while this is ongoing, either."

You frown. "I'm sorry, Robby, but that feels a step too far for me."

"How so?" he asks while crossing his arms.

"I'm a young woman exploring her options. I want to at least try and find someone to start a life with. I can't do that if I keep myself strictly tied up with... Well..."

"The man you're sexting at midnight?" he asks with a chuckle.

You look at him from beneath your lashes. "Yes."

He sighs while gripping the brick half-wall you both sit upon. "Yeah, I can respect that."

You scoot closer. "If it would help, I don't have to tell you when I have a date scheduled, or about when I go on one. Could make things easier? Jealousy is a normal, human emotion, and I get it, so this is my way of trying to prevent it if I can."

He licks his lips. "Deal."

You swing your legs out, then let the heels of your tennis shoes bounce off the wall. "Anything else you were thinking about?"

Robby tries—quite poorly—and fails to bite back a smirk. "Are you, uh..." He pinches the bridge of his nose while wrapping an arm around himself and breaking into a fit of laughter.

Unable to stop yourself, you start giggling almost hysterically at the sight. "What?" you question with a snort, which makes him double over.

Gosh, I adore you, you think.

When he eventually begins to calm, he swipes tears from his eyes. "I'm sorry, honey, I don't know what the hell happened," he says between occasional chuckles.

You beam. "That's okay."

"I was gonna ask," he says lowly while leaning in close. "If you're aware of the little noise you make just before you cum."

You bite your lip. "I am now."

"It's pretty cute," he drawls while sliding a hand over your knee. "So, are we gonna talk tonight so that I can hear it again?"

You grant him a sultry expression. "Sure."

"On my knees," you pant while shoving a vibrator between your fluttering walls. "Sucking your cock while you spill down my throat when you finish."

"Fuck, that's good," he moans. "You'd do that for me, sweetheart? Swallow?"

You circle your clit with the sex toy. "I'd do anything you wanted. Of course I would, baby."

"Oh yeah? And if I fucked you after because I haven't had enough? If I need to feel you squeezing around me?"

"It might be slick," you whine. "You'd have a pretty easy time slipping in and out. I'm just that wet for you, Michael."

He curses. "You're dripping, aren't you?"

You circle your lips with your tongue. "I'm lying on a towel, if that tells you anything."

He chuckles. "You're not the only one desperate to give oral, I can tell you that."

"Oh yeah? You like my pussy that much, baby?"

"It's all I can think about. It's why I keep watching those videos. I want you to send me more."

You open up the camera on your phone. "Well, Dr. Robinavitch," you begin while pointing it between your spread legs. "That I can do."

It's been almost every night for the last two weeks. After a few days, however, you did have to crush Robby's libido by telling him that you needed a break for at least a day because you were starting to get a bit sore.

Unable to help himself, however, shortly after eating dinner, he sent you a photo of his semi-erect cock with an accompanying text that read Thinking about u

So you sent him a photo of your tits pushed together and a voice message asking, once again "Am I pretty, daddy?" while also worrying that maybe he finds being called that rather odd.

Until he replied with a voice note himself—you could hear his wet cock in the background—"Fuckin' beautiful, baby."

You went back on your promise to refrain from masturbating for a night when you ran to your bedroom and stripped down naked before hopping on a FaceTime call with him so you could finally watch each other get off.

You genuinely gasped when you saw the amount of semen that spurted from his cock when he came, then shoved the camera between your thighs while spreading your labia so he could see the way your tight little hole pulsated when you finished.

After cleaning up, you fell asleep on the phone together—a very charming gesture.

"We on for tonight again?" Robby asks quietly and with a soft, affectionate smile.

You click your locker shut and turn to him. "I'm actually busy tonight. I'm sorry, sweetie," you state regretfully while resting a palm against his upper arm.

"May I ask with what?" he inquires.

You study him from beneath your lashes while shifting on your feet. "We sorta agreed not to talk about it."

His brows knit together while brown eyes flit between your own, and then they unfurl when a look of realization dawns across his handsome features. "Oh. You're going on a date?"

You nod while nervously massaging one of your shoulders. "I am."

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Does he work here? Or...he's not the guy you used to—"

"No. No to both," you interrupt while waving your hands. "I couldn't even tell you what state R lives in."

Robby nods. "So, is it pretty serious, then?"

Your brow raises, curious as to why this conversation is still ongoing. "Well," you begin while skirting past him. "Considering that it's due to be a first date, no."

He turns and matches your strides to keep up. "What does he do? Is he—"

You turn back to him on your heel. "Robby?"

He crosses his arms and leans down, watching as you purse your lips and shake your head while looking at him with wide eyes.

He sighs, then chuckles. "I'm sorry; being nosy. Just—you're being safe, right? Taking precautions? Like," he glances away, then back to you. "You've told someone where you plan to be, who you're going to be with—"

"Yes," you interject with a smile. "Cassie is kinda my go-to girl for those sorts of things. I've sent her his profile, told her where I'm going to be and what time, and we even have a location tracking app. So, if my phone shows me somewhere I shouldn't be, she can contact the authorities. But I very much doubt that will be necessary."

"You hope not," he deadpans and your smile begins to fade from his suddenly dry tone. "But, y'know, meeting strange men on the internet, you have no way of knowing their true intentions."

"Which is why we're meeting in a public place," you state firmly.

"And if he follows you home?" he insists while stepping closer.

You huff, then step around him again.

"Alright, I'm sorry," he says while grabbing your forearm. "Just trying to show a bit of concern. I'll back off."

"I appreciate it," you assure. "But I'll be fine. Promise. You have no reason to worry."

Wouldn't have to if you just offered yourself up instead...

"Call me if you need anything," Robby utters tenderly. "An excuse to get out of there, or whatever else you may need, alright? And...have fun."

He doesn't truly mean the last part. Whatsoever.

You nod while also deflating just a little. "Alright, and I'll see you in a couple of days."

"Wait, a couple days?" he asks while squeezing your forearm in question.

"Tomorrow is my scheduled day off," you quip simply.

"Are...Are you planning on taking him home, then? Is that why—"

"Okay, Robby, for one, that's none of your business. But if you must know, no, I don't do that. Not on the first date."

He crosses his arms again, but in irritation this time. "Not on the first? So, what? The seco—"

Saved by the bell, Whitaker comes around the corner and tells Robby that he's needed in a trauma bay.

That's when you make a break for it.

Flipping your phone over, you check the text that's just come through.

Everything going ok?

"Do you need to get that?"

Glancing up to the young man who sits across from you, dressed in a crisp white button-up shirt with perfectly quaffed hair, you smile while shaking your head. "No, I'm sorry. Just one of those automated texts that tells you that you're about to be billed for your car insurance in a couple of days."

He sighs. "As if we need any reminders."

You chuckle while turning your phone on silent mode and flipping it back over. "You're telling me. I should probably look into opting out of them at some point."

He's far past the age of waiting up by the phone, waiting to hear from an opposing party who's clearly more interested in another. But he'll be damned if he hasn't checked his cell at least thirty times tonight, just waiting for even one little text that will finally grant him relief.

Just a simple he was an ass will do.

Good thing McKay has your location and not him, because if Robby had any idea where you were at right now for dinner? He's not entirely sure that he wouldn't show up and crash it.

Maybe it's a difference in generations. Yours, which seems to think of intimacy as a casual thing, whereas his often took it as the beginning of something more serious.

He paces, tells himself to get a goddamn grip, considers calling Abbot to see if he has a way of tracking a cellphone with his military and SWAT expertise, then finally falls into bed when he can no longer bear to keep his eyes open, while praying that this prick isn't whatever you've been looking for.

"So, how'd it go?" Cassie probes with an eager smile as you grab a mask to tuck away in your scrub pocket.

Almost like magic, Robby appears at your side and grabs an iPad, but of course doesn't leave.

You turn your back to him to face McKay instead. "He was very polite and sweet, but he brought up his ex more times than I felt comfortable with. So, I questioned him on it and—"

"Rebound?" she assumes.

You nod. "Three years, only broke up two month ago." You sigh and shake your head. "I don't even think he's aware that it's what he's doing. But he will eventually," you state wearily.

"Whole point of a first date," she replies while giving your hand a squeeze. "Weed 'em out."

"Starting to think they're all weeds," you grumble with disappointment while following her to Chairs.

Unable to fight the feeling of smugness which fills his chest, Robby walks into an exam room with a satisfied smirk and his head held high.

The only "breaks" you were allotted today were those you spent relieving yourself in the restroom. You had nearly a dozen patients, one of which ended up in the morgue after they were brought in by an ambulance: a husband working on his wife's car when the jack stand collapsed and he was left trapped under the vehicle for nearly half an hour until she came to check on him and found him aspirating on his own blood due to his chest caving in.

You can still hear her screaming over his body as you lie in bed scrolling mindlessly through your phone while looking for an escape via social media or stupid YouTube videos.

Until a text pops up.

U awake, sweetheart?

"Not in the mood tonight, Robby," you mutter while swiping the text away.

You did everything you could today. Just want 2 make sure you're alright.

You soften then. Pressing on the text, you type a reply. I know & I am. Thank you.

typing...

Worried you were mad at me.

Your brows wrinkle. Why?

typing...

Didn't speak much to me today, even when I pulled you onto my cases.

You huff. How to politely say that you were more concerned with patients than a silly office romance? Just trying to focus on the medicine.

typing...

typing...

Understood. Want me 2 leave u alone?

Your stomach sinks. Great, now you've hurt his feelings most likely.

You type your reply, then wonder if perhaps it's a bit too much, even if it's only one word. But he doesn't really seem to have anyone. He's lonely. And sweet; concerned.

Never.

typing...

Mind if I call so I can fall asleep to your voice again?

You smile contentedly while pressing the phone icon.

It's been over a month now, and while you and Robby have continued with sexting and the like, more and more, you're just generally talking. FaceTiming while you're cooking, calling when he's running errands in his truck, sending mundane photos of your days to each other—like pretty flowers you see on your walks, or he the two new pairs of boots he was trying to decide between, ultimately allowing you to be the deciding factor.

When he comes into work with them on, you can't help but to grin at the sight. Something so simple and dumb, but it's like another little secret. Hey, everybody, he's wearing the Rockies because I picked them out!

He even gets a bit brave by giving you swift kisses on the cheek when you're leaving work, or one on the forehead when you're just coming in before the two of you throw yourselves into a mess of waiting patients.

But no matter how domestic things may seem, you make sure to hold true to the promise you made to yourself to keep your options open. Because you know it's nothing serious to him, whereas that sort of connection is what you're desperate for.

"He's gorgeous," Samira exclaims while scrolling through your phone.

Robby glances up from the counter he stands at, overlooking results from a CT scan.

"A lawyer?" she asks with interest. "Aw, cute kitty. Wait, is that his daughter?"

You smile while shaking your head. "No, his niece. He said she loves playing doctor." Warmth blooms upon your cheeks. "He told me that if things go well, he can't wait for me to meet her."

"Wants kids," she mumbles, reading various tidbits he's provided. "Homeowner, goal of marriage.." she trails off, then sighs dreamily. "He could seriously be the one this time," Samira remarks while wheeling closer. "Have you heard his voice?"

Robby's jaw is clenched so hard a fucking tooth might crack.

"I have," you mutter bashfully. "The call was only a few minutes long because he had another client about to come in, but he said he couldn't wait any longer to hear what I sounded like."

You giggle.

"Ok, he sounds dreamy, actually," Javadi says from behind you.

You throw your head back and she smiles while waving a hand. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to eavesdrop or anything..."

Shaking your head, you spin around. "Oh, it's no problem. Wanna see his picture?"

"Yes!"

Tossing down a pen in irritation, Robby stalks off with a pissed-off shake of his head.

He's had an absolutely shit day. Two deaths, a patient who insisted they knew more than him because they spend all their spare time watching fucking Grey's Anatomy and listening to RFK Jr's bullshit, one of the new med students nearly making a critical mistake because they wanted to do more than they wanted to listen, and a patient high on opioids tackled a phlebotomist in the hall.

He knows he should just take a breather. Go outside for some fresh air and count backwards from a hundred. Instead, however, he goes in search of you.

"So, a lawyer this time, huh?"

Running on empty, you have no energy to deal with this tonight. "Yes. We go out tomorrow night."

Wrapping his arms around himself, Robby shakes his head while chuckling sarcastically. "Another dead-end first date? Sounds like a waste of time to me. Probably just some rich asshole who doesn't know the first thing about y—"

"Robby?" you hiss while stalking toward him. "I don't know what the hell your problem is right now, but you need to back off. Got it?"

"He know?" he whispers while bending at the knees to meet you at eye-level.

A gesture which just sets you to burning all the hotter, but not in a good way.

"That when you get bored and needy, you send photos of your pussy to someone else?"

"Fuck you!" you shout. "As of this moment, this is over," you spit. "You understand me?" you seethe through clenched teeth.

An expression of hurt flashes across his features and a lump forms in your throat when something between the two of you snaps and breaks.

He rises to full height again and snorts. "Until your date goes sideways and you go home lonely, just like always. So, you better be sure of that when you find yourself wanting for me in the middle of the night."

You choke back a sob then shove past him while heading directly for Chairs to get the hell out of PTMC, and even further from Robby. How the fuck were you stupid enough to get involved with him in the first place? If he wishes to make your life a living hell here at work now, he can. Easily. And it's not like reporting him to HR would lead to anything good.

That's not who you are—someone who stirs up trouble if you can avoid it by any means—but of course you're now afraid for your future here.

"You know that you never even fucking asked me?" Robby bellows from behind you, refusing to just let the matter go.

So close. Another thirty seconds and you would've been gone from this damn parking lot.

"Excuse me?" you cry while swinging around.

"You made this assumption," he growls. "For whatever reason that apparently I'm only interested in one thing." He marches closer. "Maybe you think I'm too old for the prospect of anything meaningful. That my bed is made and that's just the way it is." He gets in your face and you back up against the side of your car. "But it was more to me than just some stupid little tryst. The fact that you never even considered me?"

He shakes his head while pressing a hand to the back of his neck. "What?" he asks, and his voice breaks. "I'm not enough for you? Not good enough? Too old and broken down and—"

Realization slams into you in that moment like a speeding train.

He's desired more all along, hasn't he? But how could you have ever known? Did it hurt him when you went on your last date? Have you made him feel used?

You throw your arms around his neck then and your body against his, deciding that your forgiveness has already been granted. "Sweetie, no," you whisper while carding your fingers in his disheveled hair. "You're right. I assumed that you were content with bachelorhood. Baby, I'm so sorry that I did." You lean back just enough to gaze into his glassy eyes. "You could've told me," you mutter while brushing tears from under his eyes with the pads of your thumbs.

"Why didn't you?" Robby murmurs.

You sigh. "Robby, I felt attached to you after the first night we talked. But I was so..." you blink back tears yourself. "It's why I chose a stranger before: no risk of developing feelings. Not really. But I kept things going between us, despite knowing that I was going to get my heart broken, because I deemed it worth it. Getting to have that kind of intimacy with you? I was terrified of losing it."

Robby presses his forehead to yours while sliding his arms around your hips.

"Tell me that you want me to be yours and I'm yours, Michael."

"I want you all to myself, then," he grates. "Don't go with him. Just you and me, like it's been, but more. We'll be together."

He sucks his teeth. "I'm just... I'm no good at it. I have commitment issues. I know it sounds fucking ridiculous and stupid," he starts while pulling back and staring at the blanket of sky behind you. "My mother left when I was eight, and ever since—"

Your face crumples. "Oh, sweetheart..."

"So, I have a tendency to push back or run if someone gets too close, because that reminder is always fucking there that no matter how close you may be to them—no matter how much you may care, maybe they don't. One morning you might wake up and they'll be gone."

You cup the back of his head in one hand while the other cradles his cheek. "Robby, I am not going anywhere. Honey, if you could feel how I do about you—could read my mind and see how I think of you—you would know that you have me wholly. I wanted you, before my last date, to stop me. But you didn't. So I went..."

He slides a hand to the curve of your neck and holds you still while pressing his lips to yours.

Grasping gently at the soft protrusion of belly that hangs over Robby's Carhart trousers, you fist your hands in his shirt and hold yourself to him. "'M yours," you mumble against his lips and the scratch of his well-groomed beard.

He nods with a solemn expression. "Yeah, you fuckin' are."

Robby holds you so close that you're sure he'll never let go.

That makes two of you.

"Guessing Robby is running a little late today?"

You smile up at the nurse that stands over you and shrug. "Probably. He said he'd be here. But you never know what's going on down there."

You fiddle with the ring on your finger.

A quiet knock sounds at the door, followed by his entry. "Sorry, sorry," he says while coming around to the side of the exam bed before planting a kiss on your forehead and plopping down in the seat provided.

You extend a palm and cup his cheek while brushing your thumb along the corner of his mouth. "Do I wanna know?"

He shakes his head with a feigned, sarcastic expression.

Turning back to the screen beside you, you stay quiet while a probe is pressed to your swollen belly, and a rapid heartbeat soon fills the silence of the room.

"There's our girl," Robby murmurs with shimmering tears—same as always—while taking your hand between each of his and holding it to his lips.

"Hi, baby," you whisper while grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, shoot," Hannah, your nurse, says quietly. "Ran out of paper. I forgot to refill it earlier." Removing the probe, she looks at you. "I'm gonna grab some real quick so I can get you both a few prints to take home."

You nod. "Take your time."

Once she's stepped out, Robby rises and kisses you, and with tongue no less. "I've never thanked you," he says quietly. "For marrying me, having my child..."

You shake your head. "Those are things I wanted just as much as you. You don't owe me thanks for being your wife and choosing to make a baby with you, honey. For loving you. We've both given the other things they thought they may have to one day settle with not having. That's what marriage is. What love is."

He kisses both of your cheeks. "How the hell'd I get so lucky, huh?"

He removed the scanner from his nightstand. He ended his days as a TEMS provider and learned what it meant to take a real day off. He realized that he didn’t have to spend his mornings memorizing you before running into a burning building, because you’d still be there when the fire died out; he just needed to learn to stop running all the goddamn time.

Now, the silence in your home feels softer than it used to. Changed, almost. Filled not by a strangling tension of what once felt like an inevitable end, but rather by the steady hiss of running water and panted breaths as heavy as the steam swirling between you.

Jack slouches in his shower chair to accommodate your round stomach as you straddle his lap, bracing your hands on his freckled shoulders. His heavy eyes are clouded with a mixture of desire and worry as they dart between your face and the half-hard cock he holds in his fist.

“You sure about this?” he wonders through panted breaths, which make his flushed chest rise and fall at an uneven pace beneath you.

You exhale hard through your nose, annoyed in a flicker. “Are you gonna ask me that the entire time, or…?”

“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Jack hums, lip quirking into a distant half-smile, ‘cause he loves how easily grumpy you get. “That’s all…”

You flash him a glower, and only slightly melt under his touch when his calloused hands trail up your waist and over your back, skin slick from the warm water rushing from the mounted faucet behind you.

“I’ve been hurting all day— This is the only way to not hurt.”

Jack melts for you instantly. ‘Cause he’s been worried about you all day, in truth, unable to find the root of your sudden headaches and stomach pain. He’s been checking your blood pressure every hour since he woke up, and giving you pain meds every two — though nothing seems to help you quite as much as sex, which you’ve been craving more and more in the latter half of your pregnancy (not that Jack is complaining, of course.)

“Sure you can handle it, honey?” the older man hums, teasing now, as the tip of his weeping cock nudges your achingly sensitive clit.

“Don’t I always, baby?” you deadpan, and don’t give him time to breathe before sinking down over him. 

A groan rumbles deep in his throat as your pussy swallows him, inch by inch. Your relieved sigh entwines with the humming faucet as you ease yourself onto him. The warmth of him inside of you cuts through the ache that’s been lingering in your body for days now — a dull, persistent pain that only he can cure.

You melt into his slick chest as the aching leaves your body, replaced now by the fuller feeling of him nestled deep inside of you. You bury your head into his corded neck, inhaling the scent of musky soap clinging to his skin there. Jack noses into your damp hair.

“This okay?” he pants against your temple.

You nod lazily against him and murmur something that sounds like “fuck, you feel so good…” into his skin, though the words come out mostly muffled.  

You thread your fingers into the damp silver curls at the nape of his neck, and Jack fights back a shiver. He molds you back together when you go lax on his lap, clutching your hip in one hand and cradling the base of your neck with the other, helping you move back and forth over his scruffy thighs.  

“Take it then…” Jack mumbles in half-drunken slurs. “Take it for me, honey. C’mon…”

He leans slightly over, straining one arm to reach for the shower head hanging off the nozzle at his feet, left splashing against the tiled wall beside you. He keeps you pressed against his chest with one hand while his other angles the spout between your thighs. The water sprays against your already sensitive clit; you twitch instinctively at the warm pressure there.

“Jack—” you whimper through a gasped breath.

The man moans through gritted teeth when you clench around him. His free hand tightens around the back of your neck. “I know, honey. I know,” he hums in uneven breaths. “It’s okay. Just use me, baby. There you go. Just use me.”

His words cling to you the same way the rolling steam does, softening all the hardened edges of you. And just for a little while, as Jack keeps you together as you fall apart for him on his lap, the pain finally quiets.

The smell hits him about halfway down the hall. 

The lingering steam from the bathroom, smelling like a mixture of your sweet-musky shampoos, gives way to something far more bitter as he nears the kitchen — which has become nothing short of your own personal laboratory since your pregnancy cravings hit. You’ve made otherwise unfathomable concoctions within these walls in the meantime. Jack’s just glad you’ve moved past the sardines and lemon juice phase.

“Wow…” the man croons sarcastically from the threshold, stuffing his keys into the pocket of his scrub pants. “It smells absolutely delicious in here, honey. What’s on the menu for today?”

You don’t look up from the counter before you, as you drench a plate in hot sauce. “Pickles and tabasco,” you answer in monotone. “AKA the only thing I can eat without puking.”

“Hm,” Jack hums, closer now, as his wide hands splay along your shoulders. He spots the container of Rocky Road sitting just to the side, slowly weeping until it gets to the consistency you like. “And the ice cream?”

You tilt your head, glancing up at him like it’s obvious. “To help with the burn. Duh.”

His stomach turns at the thought of such a mixture. His nose scrunches as you reach for a pickle slice, which seems to serve purely as a vehicle for the hot sauce that drips onto the side of your thumb and forefinger when you shove the thing into your mouth.

You hum with a slow nod, eyes fluttering shut as you lick the excess from your fingertips — you didn’t even look this gratified when he was fucking you a half-hour ago.

A laugh sputters from his mouth at the thought.

“That’s what makes you less nauseous?”

“Well, you made me eat real food last night, and I spent all morning puking, so…”

“You don’t feel nauseous anymore, though, right?” he asks, more solemn now, as his chest reignites with a red-hot worry.

“Mm-mm,” you hum wordlessly through another bite.

“And the medicine helped your headache?” 

You sigh hard through your nose, turning once more to face him. “Yes, Jack— What’s with the third degree?”

His scruffy jaw tightens a fraction as concern flickers behind his eyes. The hands on your shoulders grip you harder, absentmindedly massaging the ache in your back with his thumb. “You just worry me, honey. That’s all…”

You roll your eyes, though there’s no real bite to your annoyance now. “It’s your fault for getting me pregnant…”

“Hey. You were there, too,” he scoffs, watching with a big dumb grin on his face as you shovel a bite of Rocky Road into your mouth to wash down the pickle-tabasco mixture. “You played a pretty big part in the whole getting pregnant thing, if I recall. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it, either.”

He reaches past you for the plate and steals a sauceless pickle from the pile there, pinching it into his mouth with his thumb and forefinger.

“Hm,” you shrug and swallow down the mouthful. “Jury’s still out on that, I think…”

That earns you a look. Jack’s eyes widen with something sharper and visibly amused, scruffy cheek softly jutted until he downs the bite. “Oh, you are just asking for it, aren’t you?” he hums, leaning forward with clear intent.

You pull back from him at the last second, scrunching your nose in disgust. 

“My breath smells.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Jack scoffs, and leans down again to press his mouth to yours anyway — a chaste and smacking kiss, filled with a sort of domesticity that makes your stomach do a back flip. It’s hard to imagine, now, that there was ever a time you didn’t want this; that you didn’t want him.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” he tells you with a huff, parting from you to head to the front door. “Get some sleep while I’m gone— I need you to be well-rested for what I have planned tomorrow.”

Your eyes narrow in his direction, because you thought you’d made it pretty clear that you had zero plans of doing anything until the baby got here. “And what is that exactly?”

“Well, it’s my professional opinion that intercourse is the best way to induce labor,” Jack tells you as he swings open the door, letting in streams of golden hour sunlight and wisps of cool evening air. He picks up his military bag from the entrance and swings it over his shoulder. A slow grin spreads across his face as he says, “And I plan on intercourse-ing the shit out of you when I get home.”

Your chest burns with a giddy feeling. One you haven’t felt in quite some time, a flame burning anew.

“Yay…” you deadpan anyway, rolling your eyes for dramatic effect. “So exciting…”

“Yeah. Keep it up,” Jack squints with a smile as he swings the door shut behind him. “Let’s just hope you can back up that mouth when I get back.”

It starts first with a headache. It always did, even before you were pregnant. That sharp, splitting pressure behind your eyes is all too familiar to you now. You languish in the ache for a while and wait for it to pass with a cold press over your forehead like you always do. It doesn’t start to really scare you until it feels like the room has tilted slightly on its axis; an unwavering dizziness that doesn’t seem to shake off with a few blinks like it normally would.

The panic that gives you makes it suddenly very hard to breathe. Each exhale comes out shorter and tighter, as if your lungs have forgotten how to stretch properly. A cold, leaden weight settles in your chest accordingly, overpowering the pain that curls warm and low in your stomach where the baby kicks and writhes — an alien sort of feeling, like being stretched from the inside.

When it doesn’t pass after five minutes, you fumble for your phone and call the number for the PTMC like Jack had told you to — the best way to reach him while at work. It rings three times and clicks once when it’s answered. Static hums briefly on the other line before a familiar voice comes in, stammering slightly, as if they’d been told to answer.

“Uh— Um, PTMC— This is Mel. I mean, uh, Dr. King.”

“Hey, Mel…” You squeeze your eyes shut when your voice wavers, despite your attempt to steady it. You exhale slowly through your mouth and rub at the right side of your stomach, just below your ribs, where the baby kicks mercilessly at your side. “Is, uh… Is Jack around? He told me to call if I—”

“Honey?” Mel blurts, then turns slightly away from the receiver to call somewhere distantly. “Hey, Robby? Dr. Robby— It’s Honey.”

There’s a beat of silence, filled by distant shuffling as the line shifts again.

“Honey?” Robby calls, immediate and alert. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t think you’d still be around…” you hum into the receiver, voice taut as you blink away the blur creeping into your vision. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the road by now, Motorcycle Mike?”

He huffs a tired laugh. “Yeah, I-I’m headed that way, actually— Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I— I’m fine,” you lie weakly. “Is Jack there?”

“Uh…” Robby trails off, voice distant as he glances over his shoulder. “He’s in the OR right now, I believe. Do you need something?”

Your clammy grip tightens on the phone. Asking for help feels like choking.

“Do you remember my last check-up? With Dr. Myers?” 

“Yeah?”

“Well, she told me that if I had another one of those headaches that feels like I’m being stabbed through the eyeball, that I need to come in, right?” you ramble on bated breath. “But do you think she meant it, like, I need to come in, or was she just, you know, saying that as a… formality?”

Robby’s silence is less than comforting. The static that precedes his response is heavy and ominous.

“Do I need to come get you?” he asks, suddenly very, very serious in a way that makes your aching chest that much tighter.

“Yeah,” you scoff anyway. “Because driving a motorcycle with a pregnant woman on the back is so safe.”

“No, I—” he huffs a breath, a mixture of a laugh and a frustrated sigh. “I meant, do you need someone to come get you?”

The thought of someone picking you up to take you to the ED is just as nerve-wracking as having to call someone for help. So you spend another two minutes convincing Robby that you’re fit enough to drive, and the eight minutes it takes to get to the hospital praying your migraine doesn’t blind you before you can pull into the parking lot.

Robby meets you in the waiting room to escort you the rest of the way inside. The white-blue fluorescent lights overhead feel like daggers in your temples. The sounds of a moderately controlled chaos blur around you — of beeping monitors, rushing footsteps, and distant voices. 

He ushers you into the nearest room and dims the lights before he goes, leaving you alone just long enough for you to put on a hospital gown.

You wait for him on the edge of the made bed, with your heart in your throat and your legs swinging off the side. Robby knocks before he enters, flashing you a small smile as he rubs sanitizer between his palms.

“Jack’s finishing up. He’s on his way down now,” he tells you, then tilts his bearded chin in a more concerned look. “How’s your head?”

“Eh,” you shrug. “Haven’t had any complaints.”

“Okay, I’m not even— gonna comment on the sarcasm,” Robby huffs as he descends onto the squeaking stool beside the monitor. He slips his glasses out of his scrub pocket and slides them onto the bridge of his nose. “You being a smart ass is a pretty good sign, actually…”

He slips a blood pressure cuff over your elbow with practiced hands. You try not to focus on the strangling feeling as it tightens around your arm, where you can feel your heart beating as your fingers start to tingle. Robby watches the numbers closely, with a strange sort of attentiveness typically only reserved for less-than-desirable results.

“What?” you blurt when his expression shifts. “What is it?”

He blinks hard for a second, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Sorry. Your— Your blood pressure just a little higher than I’d like…”

The cuff loosens with a mechanical whir. Robby slips it off and slides it back into place on the monitor beside you. You tilt your chin to watch him as he looms suddenly over you.

“Is that bad?”

Robby doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slips his stethoscope over his ears and presses the cold chest piece against your back. 

“Take a deep breath for me,” he murmurs in a distant, gritty voice. You abide and pray silently that he doesn’t notice how the inhale catches somewhere deep in your chest. He listens for a few beats longer than you expect him to, with his brows lowered in a look of concentration.

“Any chest pain?” he wonders suddenly.

“I had some earlier. You know, before I called.” You inhale once more. “But I feel better now.”

“What about any nausea or vomiting in the past week?”

“I had some morning sickness when I woke up, but… Google said it was normal, so…”

“Well,” Robby scoffs a laugh, sliding his stethoscope back over his neck. He keeps his hands wrapped around either end as he walks backward for the door. “If it was Dr. Google, then I guess it’s alright.”

His smile slips off his face the second he’s back outside. His pace hurries as he rushes for the work station down the hall. He makes a beeline for Dana by the overhead monitor, keeping his voice low, though it trembles around the edges with urgency.

“Get a crash cart and a fetal monitor to North 2,” Robby whispers to the woman, who tenses at his direction, because she knows you’re the one in North 2. “Call the NICU, call the OB, and wherever Jack is— tell him to hurry the hell up. Now.”

Robby disappears for no longer than a minute or two. He brings a strange air in with him when he returns, an undeniable tension that makes it suddenly very hard to breathe. He plucks on a pair of blue gloves this time before he steps in — and you’ve known him long enough to tell that the smile he gives you is faker than the one he had before.

“Is everything okay?” you ask, heart pounding against your ribcage. It’s like anxiety times a thousand — the racing pulse you get right before a panic attack, except no amount of breathing can seem to slow it down again.

“Yeah,” Robby says gently, and steps out of the doorway when a team of doctors and grey-scrubbed nurses rush in — machines rolling, wires tangling, voices overlapping with directions. 

Robby looms at your side and ducks his head to keep your wandering attention. “Everything’s great, honey— You’re just about to meet a lot of people right now.”

The inhale you take feels shorter than usual as you blink up at him with eyes swimming with worry. “But… I’m okay, right?”

“You’re gonna be,” he tells you, steady and only slightly reassuring, as he reaches for the oxygen tube propped on the monitor at your side. “You and Jack are gonna meet your baby before the night’s over— That’s exciting, right?”

You feel strangled. Like worry’s wrapped a cold hand around your throat and your heart, too — and when you go dizzy again, you can’t tell if it’s from the news or if the migraine is flaring again. You take in a stuttering breath when Robby slips the oxygen tube over your ears, cool air rushing up into your nostrils.

“Where’s Jack?” is the only thing you can think to say.

“He’s on his way,” Robby promises firmly. 

Shen lays a cotton blanket over your lap as Crus stands on the other side of the bed, rolling an ultrasound machine with him. “Some jelly on the belly, Ms. Honey,” the R4 tells you with a smile, too soft for all the chaos filling the room. “We’re gonna do a quick ultrasound, okay? Check on little Abbot in there.”

You can’t find the words to speak. You feel like your throat’s too tight for that now. So you just lift the bottom of your hospital gown and drag it over your round stomach, leaving the rest of you concealed beneath the blanket. He squirts gel onto your skin, and a shiver trails up your spine.

Only then do the words on the tip of your tongue seem to gain the courage to spill out. 

“What the hell is going on—?”

The door swings open then. You just barely catch sight of Jack over the bustling bodies surrounding you, but his voice is unmistakable. “What the hell is going on?” he announces the same way you had, though his sharper tone cuts through the room like a blade.

Robby leaves your side to intercept the man, pulling him to the corner and debriefing him in a hushed voice. “Her BP’s 170/110. Her symptoms have only gotten worse since she’s been here— I’m worried if she doesn’t deliver this baby right now, she’ll go into cardiac arrest.”

Jack’s face drains of color. 

He crosses his strong arms over his chest in a feeble attempt to soothe the sudden tightness there, as his head whips suddenly in your direction. He watches his residents tend to you with a controlled sort of chaos, moving around each other in swift motions usually reserved for when someone’s really in trouble. 

He shakes his silver head to himself. “No… No, she was— She was fine this morning, man. I’ve been— I’ve been checking on her all day. She was 130/80 when I left—”

“Well, it’s not anymore,” Robby interjects, firm but not entirely unkind. His dark eyes swim with a similar sternness when he catches Jack’s eye. “If we don’t do something now, something will happen to this, baby— Or to her. So you don’t have to stay and watch, brother, but you cannot get in the way, understand?”

Jack struggles to catch his breath. He feels a little like the room is spinning around him. He blinks hard once, regains his bearings, and rushes immediately to your side. He plucks a handful of tissues from the dispenser on the wall to wipe the gel from your stomach as Crus finishes the ultrasound. 

Your pinched look of worry ebbs at the sight of him. Your heavy head lolls on the pillow behind you as your bleary eyes follow his face, though you struggle to blink the haze from them now.

“Jack…” you sigh.

“Hey, honey…” he says, voice soft but still tighter than usual.

“What’s going on?” you tell him, in half-breathless slurs. “I just came in for a headache— I don’t… I don’t understand what’s wrong?”

“Everything’s fine—”

You shake your head, then close your eyes when it makes the room spin harder. “You’re lying…”

“You have severe preeclampsia. It’s a blood pressure disorder. The only cure for it now is to deliver the baby,” Jack explains in a strangely even voice as he leans over the side of your bed, keeping your gaze on him and not the chaos surrounding you. “But your heart’s working a little too hard right now, so we’re gonna have to put you to sleep so we can get you upstairs to the OB—” 

“We’re inducing here,” Robby says, as a nurse helps him tie the back of his PPE gown.

Jack’s head snaps over his shoulder. “Here?”

“It’s better than her arresting in the elevator.”

Your breath stutters, and this time, it feels impossible to catch again. 

“Am I gonna die?” you hear yourself ask.

“No,” Jack answers immediately. “You’re fine, honey. Between all of us, we’ve seen this procedure done a hundred times, okay? You’re in good hands— The best hands.”

McKay enters your tunnel vision then. The PPE covering her from head to toe feels sort of daunting, but her eyes are still kind behind her safety glasses. 

“I’m gonna give you an IV, okay? The medicine’s gonna sedate you— It’ll feel just like falling asleep,” the woman coos to you, as she smooths an alcohol wipe over the inside of your elbow. “A little pinch and some burning…”

You wince when the needle pierces your skin. An icy burning sensation follows quickly, spanning the length of your forearm. You’re grounded only by Jack’s hands on your cheeks, warm and softly calloused, velvet personified.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he tells you, holding your weary gaze with a sterner one. “For you, it’ll feel just like blinking, okay? It’ll be over in a second. You won’t even know it happened—”

His words do little to comfort you. You can hardly hear him now over the heartbeat whoosh, whoosh, whooshing rapidly in your ears.

“Please don’t let me die…” you whimper as burning tears cloud your vision. 

It’s not the death part that’s so scary to you exactly, but rather the fact that the nursery isn’t even finished; and that the crib is only halfway done; and that you haven’t even decided on a baby name yet. There’s too much you haven’t done yet — a whole life inside of you that you haven’t gotten to hold between your hands.

“Please, don’t let me die, Jack. Please, don’t…”

You trail off. Your eyes grow glassy and distant, like you’re looking right past him. Your head grows heavy in his hands a second later.

“…Honey?”

“Is it the medicine?” Nazely asks from where she observes in the corner.

“No. It wouldn’t work that fast—”

Your neck jerks back, and your eyes flutter shut, never quite closing as they dance back and forth. The monitor starts beeping first — “She’s seizing!”Shen announces to the room. You begin trembling in his hold a half second later. 

“Get her on her side!” Robby calls through the surgical mask being tied around his scruffy jaw. 

Jack works with quick, practiced hands despite his racing mind. He cradles the back of your head in one palm, and your jerking shoulder with the other.

“Push another 10 of IV diazepam!” he commands. “Have another on standby!”

“Put the AP pads on in case of cardiac arrest,” Robby says as the crowd parts for him to make his way to your side. He flashes Jack a stern look from the opposite side of the bed. “I love you, brother, but right now, you either need to gown up or get the hell out of the way.”

Jack’s worried eyes snap to his. He inhales sharply through his nose, though the breath tries to hitch in his chest. He nods once to clear his head, then twice more in confirmation.

“Alright. C’mon. Matteo— Help me scrub in,” he commands and stands to full height again, shifting to doctor mode in a blink. He never quite takes his eyes off you as the nurse dresses him in sterile gear. 

Please, god, don’t take her, he finds himself praying to a god he’s not entirely sure he believes in. I only just got her back. You can’t take her from me now.

Recusitative hysterotomy in thirty-six seconds. The whole ED is talking about it.

You were V-Fib for two minutes. Your baby wouldn’t cry for five. It took a roomful of doctors to bring you both to life again. But all that havoc is gone now — your baby is in the NICU for more intensive monitoring, and all the doctors have moved on to all their other patients that need saving.

Somehow, the stillness feels more nerve-racking than the chaos.

Maybe because Jack never was the best at waiting. It’s a truth that lives deep in his bones, etched there from decades of sirens and split-second decisions, that hesitation can cost lives. To him, waiting has always felt a little like negligence — like standing still and watching everything else happen around him. But that’s all he can do for you now. Wait. And it feels a little like dying.

He sits at your bedside in a hard plastic chair with his elbows braced on the thin mattress and his trembling hands holding your limp one. He can’t bring himself to take his eyes off of you, scared to miss you for even a faint fraction of a second. The dim lighting of the recovery room casts soft shadows over the edges of your sleeping face. Machines whisper just next to you, in slow and rhythmic beeps that remind him that you’re still here — that your heart’s still beating.

He knows this. He knows sedation, and post-op recovery, and how to read every machine in this room. But none of it matters now. Because he can’t stop thinking about all the cynical what ifs — what if your heart stops beating when no one’s looking; what if your brain was starved for a second too long; what if the last thing you ever said to him was ‘please don’t let me die?’ 

Jack doesn’t think he could live with himself if that were the case.

When he hears the door swing open and shut behind him — when he hears the noise of the hallway swell and muffle again — he knows it’s Robby entering the room without having to look over his shoulder. Maybe because he knows no one else is brave enough to come talk to him in a state like this.

Jack’s eyes flicker to the monitor.

“BP’s 102/64,” he announces to the silent room. “Hemoglobin’s up to 9.”

“Good,” Robby nods slowly. “Baby Abbot’s stable down the hall— three pounds, seven ounces. Fifteen inches…”

Jack doesn’t say a word.

“You can go hold her if you want,” the older man presses.

Again, Jack stays silent. He doesn’t know how to say that he’s too scared to leave you, too scared to face that he’s a father without having you beside him, too scared to ruin a little life before it’s even begun.

Robby sighs hard through his broad nose and walks to stand at the man’s side. 

“You can’t stay in here like this, brother—”

“The hell I can’t,” Jack snaps with a hardened glare.

“You’re not her primary caregiver,” the man reminds him. “So, technically, you shouldn’t even be in the room— Gloria would have a fit if she found out you were treating your wife.”

“Well, good thing she’s not gonna find out, right?” Jack deadpans. “And I couldn’t care less if she did. I’m not leaving my wife.”

“It’s an ethical conflict, and you know it. We have doctors here that are more than capable of tending to her—”

“Robby, I—” Jack inhales sharply through his nose, eyes fluttering shut as a red-hot frustration swells within him. Through gritted teeth, he murmurs. “I love you, man. And I— I owe both my girls’ lives to you, but… Please don’t make me beat your ass on my daughter’s birthday. I really don’t think that’d be a great first start to fatherhood.”

Jack turns slowly to face the man beside him, his eyes glassy with the unshed tears he can’t seem to blink away. There’s less of a bite to his glare now, but it’s no less serious.

Robby knows this, so he nods in response and claps him on the shoulder. “Yeah. Fair enough…”

You wake forty-five minutes after Robby has left for the E.D. Jack knows this because he’s been taking your blood pressure every thirty minutes, and was nearing his hourly check of your IV line. He feels your fingers twitch in his hand first, right before you grumble an unceremonious “ow...” in the back of your gravelly throat.

Jack’s chair scrapes hard against the tile as he rises abruptly, reaching for you before you’ve even managed to open your eyes. He keeps your cold hand clutched in his left one, while his right hand cradles the top of your head — his thumb smooths over your temple without thinking, ‘cause he’s so used to massaging you there during your migraine spells.

“Easy, honey…” he coos, voice rough and frayed around the edges, when you shift on the thin mattress below — as if you’re momentarily confused as to why the bed you’re on now feels unlike your own.

Your lashes flutter when your eyes open. Even the dim lighting feels a little too bright. Your throat feels dry when you try to swallow, and your tongue feels a little heavy in your mouth. There’s a dull ache, too, that spans from your forehead to your ankles — and a burning sensation from your collarbones to your bellybutton. 

You remember the headache that sent you in, and the chaos that followed, but nothing after Jack burst into the room.

“Hurts…” you manage weakly.

“I know, honey. I know,” Jack hums sympathetically, and clears his throat when his voice breaks.

“My chest…” you choke out, features twisting in a quiet agony.

“Yeah, you’ve got some burn marks from the defib pads, baby— They should go away in a few days. I’ll put some more medicine on your bandages, okay?”

You don’t say anything in return, and Jack doesn’t totally expect you to. There’s a long beat where neither of you says a word. You just breathe, in slow and even inhale-exhales, and Jack just watches you. He almost thinks you’ve fallen asleep again until you shift once more on the mattress.

A hollow feeling has started to settle in your stomach. It feels empty, wrong, and creeps gradually up on you until it starts to feel like something has been carved out of you entirely. Your brows knit slowly together.

“Where…?” you start, though the whispered question trails before you can finish it.

“She’s in the NICU getting checked out,” Jack tells you, voice trembling as he blinks back burning tears. 

It doesn’t truly hit him until then — that he’s a dad now, that he’s got a family with you, the only girl he ever dreamed of having one with. He couldn’t let the thought truly settle until he was sure that you were okay.

“She’s perfect,” he adds, because he knows you need to hear that most of all. “She’s doing real well—”

“She?” you echo, voice small and disbelieving.

You find the strength to open your eyes then. They’re a little swollen from hours of induced sleep, but sparkling with newfound life all the same. Jack feels the look right in his chest, a sparkling red-hot feeling that makes him feel like crying.

“Yeah…” he says on an exhaled breath that’s supposed to be a laugh, though it comes out a little unsteady. “She. Three pounds, seven ounces, fifteen inches… Robby’s been trying to convince me that Robin is a perfectly good girl name ever since she got here.”

Your lip twitches faintly upward. A ghost of a smile breaks through the haze as your thumb smooths over the rough edges of Jack’s knuckles. 

“Can I hold her now?” you ask in a fragile voice.

Jack’s expression softens. Something warm and aching floods into his eyes.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Soon. You just… You gotta get your strength back first, alright? She’s a little early, so… They wanna keep an eye on her for a bit.” 

You nod against the pillow, head heavy and tired. You blink slowly as you try to piece together what happened to you through the fog still clouding your mind.

“Was it bad?” is the first thing you think to ask.

Jack’s jaw stiffens slightly. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“It wasn’t good…” he answers honestly, greying brows bouncing. He nods to himself and blinks away the unshed tears that burn the backs of his eyes. “But you’re okay now— Both of you. That’s what matters…”

You stare at him for a long moment, blinking slowly, as the words settle heavily upon you.

“Holy shit…” you whisper on barely a breath.

Jack’s chest stings. He exhales through his nose and bends at the waist to press a soft, careful kiss to your temple. “I know, honey—” he murmurs there, mistaking your tone, and preparing to soothe you through whatever wave of panic comes next.

But then you shake your head, just barely, as your brows furrow in an incredulous look.

“We’re parents now…” you murmur to yourself, voice still coated with leftover sleep. “We’re responsible for a whole human…”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh as he stands to full height again. He swipes an eyelash from the apple of your warm cheek and nods. “Yeah. That’s… That’s pretty terrifying, huh?”

“A lot terrifying,” you correct.

“Well…” he starts. “I’ve kept you alive this long, haven’t I?”

You flash him a look, weighed down with fatigue but still obviously playful. “Jury’s still out,” you quip drily.

Jack scoffs a laugh. “So she’s got a fighting chance, at least.”

Your chapped lips curl slowly into a tired, barely-there grin. Your heavy eyes flutter shut as something short of sleep threatens to drag you back under. “You’re gonna be such a good dad…”

“Based on what?” the older man quips. “My stellar bedside manner?”

Your head shakes weakly against the pillow as your fingers just barely tighten around his hand. “Based on the fact that the first thing you ever did for her was fight to keep her here…”

Jack feels his heart swell up into his throat. It makes him feel like crying. He shrugs a lazy shoulder in response, if only to deflect. “That’s kinda the job, honey,” he jokes with a sad sort of laugh.

“That was you…” you argue in sleepy slurs. “She’s lucky… Both of us are…”

Jack’s teary gaze falls to your entwined hands. He nods slowly with his lips pursed to the side of his mouth, until he’s sure he can speak again without his voice shaking. His words come out a little taut, even still.

“No, I’m the lucky one here, honey,” he tells you in a strangled, gravelly voice. “I promise.”

“you’re supposed to stay still, sweetheart” robby chuckles against your neck as you wiggle your ass against his lap, desperately trying to chase any kind of friction.

when you had agreed to cockwarm robby whilst watching your favourite movie tonight he had made it sound so enticing, said it would feel good, it would be relaxing—you obviously forgot about how needy you get feeling him inside of you when you said yes, and he wasn’t budging.

“but it feels tooo good” you whine, relentlessly trying to roll your hips but with robby’s large hands holding you still it was impossible.

“i know baby, that’s the point, tell you what if you’re good and sit still for the rest of the movie i’ll do that thing that you like later” you can feel his smirk against your skin before he kisses down the side of your neck down to your shoulder.

“really!?” you perk up immediately and cease your movements, after he’s finished tickling your neck with the soft hair of his beard, of course. “even though it hurts your old man knees?”

“yes, really, you going to be good and sit still on my cock, sweetheart?” his deep, gravelly voice rumbles in your ear and you’re absolutely sure he can feel your arousal dripping down the length of his cock, seeping out around it, coating his balls.

“mhmm, yes mikey” you turn your attention back to the tv and try and forget about what’s happening under the blanket, it’s difficult but you persevere through every little movement robby makes that has his flushed tip brush right against your cervix.

every single slight movement is torture. when he laughs at something in the movie you can feel the drag of his cock inside of you, or when he reaches over to the side table to grab his drink he’s pulled out of you slightly until he returns to his position and he’s all the way back in, pushed deep inside you.

though it’s no easier for him either, when you laugh your walls tighten around him, squeezing his already leaking cock, he grabs hold of your arm to ground himself, to make sure he doesn’t cum prematurely.

you noticed the affect it was having on him and periodically you would laugh on purpose, just to try and get him to fold—but he caught on pretty quick.

“ah-ah-ah” he taps your thigh under the blanket and for some reason you stop moving straight away, it wasn’t even something you thought about, you just did.

he has you whipped.

“no funny business, sweetheart, or i won’t do that thing you like” he warns, though obviously he was lying, robby never could deny you anything and he always ended up doing it anyway—despite it fucking his old man knees up for days after the fact.

“mikeyyy” you mewl, leaning back into his chest, opening up your hips for him to sink further into you.

“i can’t, i need you to fuck me, pleaseee” you beg, your voice is lathered in honey and for a moment he’s about to give in, to carry you to bed and give you what you desperately want—how could he say no to his precious girl?

but then the sound of a key turning in the door captures both of your attention, you scramble to get out of his lap but robby’s hands catch your hips again holding you down on top of him as you squirm.

“stay” he orders, his voice a low whisper and despite knowing that someone was about to walk in on you two in such a compromising position you do as your told and settle back down, your eyes glued to the door.

“hey brother, heard about your little movie night, where was my invite?” jack throws his keys onto the console table by the door, the keys that were given to him for ‘emergency’s only’—which were never just used for emergencies.

“hey man, thought i told you those keys were for emergencies only” robby laughs, his cock pushes in and out of you with every contraction of his stomach. you throw your head back hiding your face in the crook of his neck as your cheeks flush red, deep red.

“this is an emergency, i’m bored” he sighs as he flops down on the couch, dangerously close.

“I really don’t think that constitutes as an emergency, brother” robby’s hand strokes your thigh under the blanket, trying to soothe your obvious embarrassment.

“who are you? chief of emergencies?” jack laughs, sliding off his prosthetic and the socks underneath it before massaging his aching limb.

“very funny, jack” robby rolls his eyes, his hand creeps further between your legs and your eyes widen as he brushes his fingertips against your sensitive outer lips.

“what’s up with you princess? you’re being unusually quiet tonight” jack looks over at you. he always called you princess because that’s how robby treats you, he caters your every whim and is on call for you 24/7—which jack loves to bully him for, though robby doesn’t care.

he’s the one with the hot young girlfriend, he already won.

“nothing”

“she’s tired”

you and robby answer at the same time and jack’s eyebrow quirks up at your joint strange behaviour, “righttt, so which one of you gonna fetch your good friend jack a drink, huh?”

jack settles down into the couch and you face robby, your eyes flickering between him and jack, pleading with him to get his friend to leave.

“your crutches are behind the couch, you know where the fridge is” robby points to the kitchen with the hand that wasn’t busy under the blanket stroking between your soaked folds, the feeling of which you were trying not to focus on—but ultimately failing as a soft moan falls from your lips which you try to mask as a giggle.

“you’re really gonna make me get it myself?” jack looks between the two of you, confused as usually when jacks over you always get his beers for him, knowing he’s probably had a long night and his leg is hurting.

he looks down at the blanket and then back up at the both of you, and for a second you think he’s caught on to what’s happening but he doesn’t say anything.

instead he reaches behind the couch for his crutches before sliding to the edge of the sofa, he gets up with a groan and mumbles under his breath, “on veterans day no less”

“that was 3 months ago, brother, nice try though” robby laughs as jack hobbles into the kitchen, before his attention is turned back on you. his lips crash against yours in a heated kiss that catches you off guard, his fingers rub hard against your clit making you moan into his mouth, which you can only hope jack doesn’t hear.

“god, this is so hot” robby groans against your lips, biting softly at the bottom one pulling it, your eyes roll back as hot pressure builds in your stomach from robby’s efforts between your legs.

“what if he catches us?” you pull away, your eyes big and pupils wide.

“he won’t, just keep quiet, can you be quiet for me baby?” he asks, kissing down your jaw and neck, his fingers don’t let up, rubbing up and down the length your wet cunt, catching your pulsing clit on every stroke.

“i don’t know, i’m already so close” you rest your head against his, kissing the tip of his nose as your eyes flutter closed, you roll your hips against his and he lets you, using his free hand to guide your movements. his cock twitches inside of you, you can feel he’s just as close to snapping as you.

“i know, sweetheart, me too, just hold on a little longer okay and i’ll tell him to go when the movies over” you nod in response, and robby holds your hips still as the click of jack’s crutches against the kitchen tile gets closer.

“good girl” robby whispers, his fingers slow down to rubbing light circles that barely ghost over clit, but even that’s too much with how overstimulated you are from having him inside of you with very little movement for so long.

jack sits back down on the couch, discarding his crutches on the floor beside him and you swear you can see a faint smirk tug at his lips as he briefly looks over at the two of you before settling his attentions to the tv—though you think you must’ve imagined it, you’re paranoid, he surely doesn’t know what’s going on…right?

the thought that he might know, that he might catch you does more for you than you thought it would, and your eyes are glued on him as you slyly try and wiggle your hips against robby, trying to catch any expression that indicates that he knows, but he doesn’t give you anything other than a kind smile when he catches you staring.

and that’s when you decide to turn up the heat, raise the stakes.

you slip your own hand under the blanket when you’re sure jack’s not looking and slide it down between your legs. robby furrows his eyebrows as he feels your hand pass his, “what are you doing, sweetheart?” he whispers into your ear, but looking straight ahead at the tv as to not arouse suspicion.

you don’t answer him, instead you stop your hand when you reach his balls, gently massaging them between your fingers. robby tenses up immediately and drops his head against your shoulder, you know having his balls played with is his weakness and you can’t help but smirk as you feel his cock pulsing inside of you, he’s so close he won’t be able to last much longer.

his fingers stop their movement and he grabs hold of your thigh, squeezing it hard, nails digging into your skin as he grapples with his control, which he’s losing fast.

and just to up the ante even more, you lean forward, propping your elbows up on your knees to switch up your angle before rolling your hips back and forth, dragging your velvet walls up and down his cock.

he’s holding onto you with both hands now, but not stopping you, he can’t, it feels too good and he’s too lost in pleasure to even try. thankfully all the lights are off in the room, only lit by the faint light from the kitchen so you’re sure jack can’t see your very obvious movements. though at this point you wouldn’t even care if he could, it felt too good for you too.

robby’s head is resting against your back, kissing at the skin exposed by your delicate camisole, you can hear his ragged breathing and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“ffffff” he grunts, too loud and jack hears. you stop your movement as soon as jacks eyes are on you.

“you okay, brother?” he asks, as if he was holding back a laugh.

“y-yeah, fine, this old couch just hurts my back s’all” robby lies, and jack responds with a quiet ‘mhm’ before laughing at something happening on screen.

you’re rolling your hips again, faster this time, pushing down harder into his lap, your own orgasm wasn’t far behind but you were determined to get robby to lose it first. this whole cockwarming thing was his idea—play stupid games, win stupid prizes robinavitch.

“you f-fucking..sssshhh” robby grits his teeth to suppress his pleasured groans as the band finally snaps, you still your body pushing your ass right up against his lap, deep, and your eyes screw shut as you feel thick and seemingly endless ropes of his release fill you up, so deep you can feel it in your belly.

satisfied with your win, you settle back down into his chest, cuddling up against him and he wraps his arms around you. you’re not even watching the movie anymore, all you can focus on is the rapid beating of his heart against your ear, and a pleased, contented smile crosses your face.

“you’re gonna get it later, darling” robby whispers for only you to hear and you reply, “oh i’m counting on it robinavitch”

about 30 minutes later the movie finally ends and jack works on getting his prosthetic back on, “it’s getting late, i should let you guys get to bed” he gets up off the couch and makes his way to the door, you both say your goodnight’s to him and he kisses you on the cheek, a polite gesture he always grants you, being the gentleman that he is.

he shrugs on his coat and picks up his keys off the table and opens the door to leave, but not before dropping a quick “enjoy round two, you freaks” with a deep chuckle.

oh.

he knew the entire time.

had to write this immediately as it hit my ask box!! hope u enjoy 🤍

The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway. 

The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.

“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”

You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.

Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.

“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”

“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.

Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”

You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.

“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta—  buy him some time till we get him a room.”

“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”

Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.

You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”

“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”

Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him. 

So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.

Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.

“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”

You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.

“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.

“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”

You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”

Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”

You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”

“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”

“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”

“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”

“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”

Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.

“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”

“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”

“On?”

“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”

“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.

“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”

“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”

“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”

“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”

You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”

“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.

“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”

His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”

“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.

“And what happens if I pass?”

You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.

A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”

The glass door across the room swings open without warning. 

Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.

His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.

“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”

“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.

Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.

Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”

The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.

The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.

You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender. 

His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant. 

“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”

The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room. 

Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.

“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”

Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”

“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”

“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.

You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.

“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”

“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”

“Then let me do something about it—”

Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.

“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”

“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”

The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.

A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”

“I said— tell her— to stop!”

His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click. 

“I can’t!” you hear yourself whimper. “I can’t stop, Jack— He’ll die.”

“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”

“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”

Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”

The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.

“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”

“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief. 

“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”

The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood. 

Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.

“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”

Another step forward.

“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”

Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.

The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop. 

“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”

The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.

Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.

“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?” 

Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.

Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.

Two shots ring out.

You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.

The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.

Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.

It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.

And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.

The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!” 

None of it feels all the way real. 

It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.

Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.

“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.

Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”

Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room. 

You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.

You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.

The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.

“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.

“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.

“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”

“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.

“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”

The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.

He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.

Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.

“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”

He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.

He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”

You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”

“That I’d make a good case…” 

Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”

“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps. 

His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”

You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder. 

You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you. 

The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness. 

“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”

“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”

“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”

Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”

Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.

“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”

“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”

“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”

You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”

“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”

Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.

The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment. 

“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.

Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.

“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”

The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.

Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”

Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.

The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.

Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.

You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling. 

You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.

The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.

You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.

“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.

Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.

You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.

Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR. 

His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.

“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”

You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time. 

“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist. 

Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.

“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”

“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.

“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”

You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.

“You sure?” he presses.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”

He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him. 

“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”

You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors. 

You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.

Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.

Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”

“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”

“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”

You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”

“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”

You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.

Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”

You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”

“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”

“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.” 

Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.

“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”

“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…” 

Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.

His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.

Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.

“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”

“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”

“Want me to go grab her for you?”

He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”

“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”

The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip. 

The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.

The door creaks softly open.

Something tightens in his chest.

You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief. 

The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.

Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.

“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.

“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”

You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.

“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.

You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”

“Fair point…” he nods.

“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”

Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”

That almost gets a real laugh out of you. 

“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”

You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. 

Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.

He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.

“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.

“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”

His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.

“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”

Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.

“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”

“No.”

His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.

“I guess I was just thinking about you…”

The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall. 

Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.

“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”

“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”

Your breath hitches.

Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.

“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”

His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”

“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”

Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?” 

You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”

That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.

You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.  

“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”

Your features screw, hardly convinced.

“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”

You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.

“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”

Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”

“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.

“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."

Dating had always felt like a chore—a time consuming, anxiety riddled, unsatisfying chore. Most of the men you matched with on dating apps made it abundantly clear that they were only interested in casual, no strings attached fun. It was never fun for you—maybe in the beginning, when you would exchange a handful of flirty texts that had butterflies flapping in your stomach and a giddy smile blooming across your face. But then, once they had you where they wanted—laid out on their questionable smelling sheets, straddling them on their lumpy, faded couch—all the promises they had made over the phone suddenly vanished.

Nine times out of ten they didn't even bother with foreplay, hitting you with "does that feel good?" before spilling in a condom within two minutes of sporadically thrusting into you. You never lied, never bothered with faking a moan—let alone an orgasm—just to satisfy their ego. They were shit at taking care of a woman's needs, and you weren't going to spare their feelings just because it was polite.

So, why you were on a date on your rare Friday night off from working in the ED was fucking beyond you.

You wanted to blame Santos, she was the one who had set the date up after all. She claimed she was sick of hearing you bitch and moan about your dry spell, saying that if you weren't going to get back on the apps then she would find someone for you. And honestly, after working at PTMC for a few years—getting increasingly frustrated after every twelve hour shift you spent with Dr. Abbot—you owed it to yourself to give dating one more try. Maybe this would be the guy that would finally touch you right, finally make you feel something more, scratch that itch that you couldn't reach yourself.

He was your type, just as Santos had raved. Well, your new type. At some point, maybe around month two of swapping to the night shift, your thumb had slipped and the dating apps started showing you men at least fifteen years your senior. Men with fine lines crinkling their eyes, salt and pepper scruff lining their jaws, their terribly posed selfies accentuating their age.

But, surely, these men would be experienced enough to care for a woman's pleasure, right?

Wrong.

God, you were so wrong.

You gave up after two failed dates—one ending shortly after the appetisers because he was still married, the other ending when he got aggravated because his dick was staying semi-hard and had an ego too big to take viagra. Oh, and he refused to make you feel good if he wasn't getting anything in return.

You deleted the apps in the uber on your way home. You tried to convince yourself that it was these men that you kept picking and not you. You sure as hell weren't the problem. Comparing them to your extremely off-limits attending had nothing to do with it, either.

Santos said he was a regular at her gym, no mark on his left hand where a wedding band may have been, with an enticing smile and deep eyes that promised a good time. If only she had spoken to him for more than a couple of sentences.

You internally cheered when your phone vibrated on the table in front of you with an incoming call. You didn’t even bother checking caller ID, you would gladly take a call from a scammer if it meant it got you out of one of the top five worst dates you’ve been on in your life. 

“Excuse me,” you muttered to the man sitting across from you before lifting the phone to your ear. He rolled his eyes and gave you a dismissive wave, sipping on the ridiculously expensive whiskey he’d ordered for himself.

“Hey, hon,” Dana’s urgent voice came through the line. “Sorry to interrupt your night off, but we need you in the ER. Ellis has come down with a nasty stomach bug, and the place is about to overflow with patients from a multiple MVC. Night shift needs you, kid.”

You couldn’t resist the sigh of relief you let out. Being elbows deep in traumas sounded a lot better than continuing your date with the misogynistic asshole in front of you. 

“I’m on my way,” you replied to Dana, ending the call and gathering your clutch. You offered a fake apologetic smile to your date as you stood up from your chair.

“I’m really sorry,” you weren’t, “but I’ve been called into work. Life of being an ED doctor.” You offered an awkward chuckle. 

He let out a sigh, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “So you’re not coming home with me, then?” Your eye twitched. “Least you can do is pay for your half of the bill.” 

And there it was. The disgusting norm that comes with modern dating—the man only footing the bill if he knows he’s getting his dick wet.

You pulled a twenty dollar note out of your wallet, slapping it onto the table with more force than necessary. You shot him a sickly sweet smile before turning on your heel.

“Have a nice life, dick.” You muttered to yourself, pushing open the door to the restaurant. You pulled out your phone, ordering an uber straight to PTMC.

“Holy fuckin' smokes!” Dana exclaimed, her eyes locked on the sliding doors to the ambulance bay. 

Despite the chaos engulfing the Pitt, her outburst caught the attention of the nurses and doctors hanging around the hub. Half of the day shift had their bags hanging off their shoulder, midway through saying their goodbyes.

It was almost cartoonish, the way they slowly spun, their eyes following the path of Dana's. A couple pairs of eyes bulged, a med student's jaw slightly dropped, and a smug smirk curved Santos' lips.

"Oh damn," Princess whispered, McKay and Mateo humming and nodding their agreement.

They had seen you plenty of times before—right before the start of a long shift when you were bright-eyed and eager, at the end of a double when you were sunken and hollow, stumbling into an uber after one too many at the local bar. But, they had never seen you like this.

There was a shift in the air, one that you seemed completely oblivious to. You were walking the path from the ambulance bay to the staff lockers, mind focused on getting into your spare pair of scrubs and out of your stupidly uncomfortable shoes. You briefly wondered how long into your shift it would take for your knee to start twinging, for the muscles around it to start straining because you decided to wear nice shoes instead of practical ones.

They were shoes you had bought to match the dress that had been hanging sadly in your closet for the past four months. It was a nice dress, one that you had been eager to wear and finally you had a reason to. Now you were regretting wasting it on that douchebag.

It wasn't just the dress that everyone was taking notice of, wasn't the only thing that had the room momentarily holding its breath. You looked…different. Still like yourself, but with your best features highlighted—making you stand out in a crowd. Not that you even noticed the attention on you.

Dr. Jack Abbot was leaning his elbows on a desk in the Hub, his back turned in your direction. Dana's abrupt—but not unusual—outburst had him looking over his shoulder, doing a double take when he realised it was you that had Dana swearing. He straightened his posture instinctively, turning and folding his hands behind his back like a soldier standing to attention. His eyes followed you as you kept walking towards the group of fleetingly stunned medical professionals.

He always noticed you, more than he cared to admit. He gravitated towards you from the second he saw you on your first day shift years ago, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You were intelligent, quick-witted, determined but you were also kind, compassionate, empathetic—all important attributes for a doctor to have. You were his best resident. And you were beautiful.

It was a matter of fact to him, that you were pretty in a way that had his pulse tumbling and breath hitching. He knew it was dangerous for him to be attracted to you—his resident that was way too young and had way too much of her life ahead of her. So, he never did anything about it. He kept things strictly professional, pretending like he didn't have a file cabinet tucked away in his brain where he stored every little detail about you.

He convinced himself that every detail he knew served a purpose, that it made him a better attending and in turn made you a better resident. It was to help you, which then meant you could help patients.

Knowing the exact way you liked your coffee? That was so you were well caffeinated and less grumpy towards patients when the four am low hit.

Noticing when you took more frequent deep sighs, accompanied with rubbing your temples? That's when he knew you needed fresh air to ward off an incoming headache, and then you would be fine to treat more patients.

Carefully watching the way your face lit up when he bought your favourite snacks? Just confirmation that you were getting sustenance, so you would have the energy to continue your hard work as an ED doctor.

It was habit for him to catalogue everything about you, and now you were giving him details to store that had nothing to do with improving your work as a doctor. The way the light reflected off your lip gloss, how you filled out your dress and made it look like it was designed just for you, the sway of your hips thanks to the shoes you were wearing.

He couldn't control the drag of his eyes down your body even if he wanted to. And that's when he saw it—the three faint scars on your left knee. The fluorescent lights above made them stand out more, and his eyes were glued to them. Two were barely an inch long, laying in horizontal slits either side of your kneecap—keyhole scars. The third one was more noticeable, running in a clean vertical line along the very top of your shin. He recognised the surgical scars immediately.

“I feel sorry for the poor bastard we dragged you away from.” Dana's raised voice knocked him out of his trance, the sounds from the ED around him rushing back into his ears.

He turned back to the desk, back to his charting before anyone could see how he had been looking at you—before you could see. His eyes still flicked back to you over his shoulder, observing how your pretty glossy lips were pulled in an out of place pout and your brows were furrowed in what looked like annoyance.

You sighed at Dana's comment, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He wasn't a poor bastard at all, he deserved being walked out on. Before you could reply to the day charge nurse, Santos let out a long low whistle from her spot leaning against the Hub, right next to Dr. Abbot.

Whatever pleasantries you always had loaded for your coworkers disappeared in an instant, anger and irritation flaring hot in your chest. Your jaw clenched and your eyes narrowed in a glare, a single finger raising to point accusingly at your fellow resident and friend.

"Don't you fucking dare, Trinity." You seethed, pulling more attention towards you.

Whitaker froze in his spot, his hand's pausing on the keyboard where he had been finishing up his charting for the day.

"Oh, shit," he whispered, worried. "You never call her Trinity."

It was true. She was only ever Santos or Trin to you, Trinity was saved for the extremely rare occasion that you were mad at her.

Perlah and Princess stopped in their tracks, exchanging knowing looks with growing grins on their faces. They could wait a few more minutes before heading home.

Santos' eyes widened briefly, surprise flooding through her—she wasn't the one who had called you in and ended your date early.

"What did I do? Not my fault there's a ten car pile up." She raised her hands in mock defense.

"You're the one who set me up with a misogynistic prick!" You couldn't help but exclaim, your hands starting to shake with the unleashed anger you had been feeling since the second you sat down at dinner.

The group gathered around the Hub went still, eyes darting towards each other as they watched the rare scene of you losing your temper. The women around you shared a collective wince, immediately understanding your situation. They didn't even need you to explain what happened, they already knew how awful men could be—especially in your line of work.

Jack couldn't stop the protectiveness that ran deep through his bones at your statement, couldn't stop the jealousy souring his gut at the fact you were out with another man. A man that apparently did not deserve your time, did not deserve how beautiful you looked. He didn't think any man deserved you, even himself.

He wanted to know what happened, wanted to know who deserved a beating for treating you poorly. The possessive rage bleeding in his veins was new and incredibly dangerous.

The doors to the ambulance bay split open, a handful of paramedics rushing in with gurneys carrying bloodied victims from the MVC Dana called you in to help with.

Robby emerged from Trauma one, glancing around at his staff loitering while chaos rushed around them.

"Hey! What are you all doing standing around? Get to work!"

Everyone shifted into gear at his yell, splitting off to assess the new patients and to prepare rooms for their treatment. The day shifts with one foot out the door already slowly inched towards the exits.

You passed Dana as you rushed towards the staff lockers to quickly change, her hand briefly squeezing your shoulder.

"I'll be here if you need to vent, hon." She threw you her signature mother bear smile. "God knows I've dealt with my fair share of misogynistic pricks." And she had the battle scars to prove it, too.

The frustration from your awful date lingered, only being subdued during the frantic hours you treated the patients from the car crash. You focused on what you knew best, on providing the utmost medical care you could.

Even after the influx of injured and critical patients from the crash, you had to handle the day patients that had been waiting for hours. The last of the day shift went home by ten pm, looking like zombies and talking about a goodnight drink at the park before they split ways. Just after midnight, multiple dirt ridden trucks pulled up into the ambulance bay—dumping off a load of drunks that had ruined their faces and fists by starting a bar fight.

Your frustration rose back up to the surface as you tried your best to treat the belligerent drunks, their acrid breath hurling derogatory insults at you despite how you were helping. Some nights this behaviour was easy enough brush off, to file away for you to scream about later. Not this night though, you were already feeling torn down by a date's outdated and chauvinistic views and now it was just more fuel to the fire.

Dr. Abbot was standing next to you, observing as you examined a drunk's head lac, asking questions to determine the best plan of action.

He was standing next to you when the drunk grumbled out loud, his glazed eyes glued on your scrub covered chest. "Don't think you belong here with those."

Jack watched as your hand faltered, a grimace flexing your jaw at the crude comment. He opened his mouth, whether to tell the asshole off or to reassure you he wasn't sure, but you met him with a sharp look and shake of your head.

He was next to you again, letting you take the lead on a hip dislocation. Unfortunately, it was another one of the bar fight idiots—an old man who slipped from standing on the bar. You treated him how you would any other patient—your hands in the exact same position.

"Bit further up, sweet cheeks. That's where I need your hands most." He leered with a sleazy grin.

Your hands slipped, a flare of disgust and rage tearing up your chest. Your breathing grew heavy, coming out in quick audible bursts. Angry tears started to fill your waterline.

Why were men so fucking awful?

Dr. Abbot stepped in from behind you, adjusting his stance to block you from the drunks invasive eyes. He gripped the man harder than necessary, leaning down with an authoritative, deadly glare.

"Shut your fucking mouth," he simmered, pushing the man's hip into place with more force than required.

After exiting the room you leaned against the wall to take a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose as you willed yourself to calm down.

"Hey," Dr. Abbot's low voice mumbled in front of you. You lifted your head to find him peering down at you, worry softening his hard features.

"You doing okay?"

He watched you visibly collect yourself, pulling in a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. The faint tremble in your jaw gave you away, though.

"I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle," you muttered, crossing your arms across your chest. You couldn't break down over a couple brass comments, not when you've witnessed much worse happen to your fellow female colleagues.

He lowered his chin towards you, his shoulders dropping. He spoke in a soft, private tone. "Doesn't mean it's okay, kid."

He sighed and took half a step closer, careful not to invade your personal space. "You've had a long few hours of dealing with pricks tonight." He paused, a faint smile gracing his lips. "I promise we're not all bad."

You rolled your eyes with an amused scoff. "Yeah, that's what they all say."

Still, you couldn't help but feel hope at his words—because you knew they weren't all bad, you were reminded of that every time you worked with him. And the other men who worked in the Pitt alongside you. But, you always noticed the good qualities in him more than anyone else.

You noticed how he never flaunted his money, yet was always the first to pull his phone out to call an uber for a struggling patient. How he often door-dashed dinner for the ED staff, careful to make sure everyone's dietary requirements were catered for. You noticed the way he positioned himself between an aggressive patient and female staff, becoming an immovable shield. And you sure as hell noticed how gentle he was with the younger patients, how his voice softened as he put them at ease.

You hated how much you noticed about him. Hated how hours, days, weeks later a warmth still curled in the pit of your gut. You hated how much you wanted him, hated how his soft hazel eyes and hardened lines threw your world off its axis.

What you hated most was that you knew you would never find a man like him. You were stuck dating assholes because the one man you wanted was the last man you were allowed to have.

He kept his eyes on you as you pushed away from the wall, heading towards one of the day shift patients in the West rooms. His eyes tracked the subtle hitch in your step, the way you shifted more weight onto your right leg. It was something he had noticed before, when the sun would breach across the horizon signaling the end of the night shift. He never focused on it too much, filing it away as tightness after being on your feet for twelve hours straight. But now, after seeing the scars your scrub pants kept hidden he knew it was more than that, and you were only halfway through your shift. It was obvious your knee was bothering you. He felt his own knee twinge in sympathy.

"So," Mateo started, leaning back in one of the swivel chairs at Central. "What happened on your awful date?"

You didn't have to look up from your charting to see the cheeky grin on his face, you could hear it bleeding through his voice.

"You've spent too much time with Princess," you muttered in reply.

Shen peered up from his spot in the Hub, his ears perking at the mention of a date—the man loved to gossip, especially with a dunkin coffee in his hand. He grabbed the tablet he was working on, his lips pursed around his straw as he walked over to you two. You felt his presence before you heard him.

"What's this I hear about a date?" He leaned his hip on the desk next to you, raising his eyebrows in interest and slurping his coffee.

You sighed, bringing a hand to your left thigh to rub a twitching muscle—you were really paying for those stupid shoes you wore earlier.

"Why is it that I'm always surrounded by men?"

"Hey!" Lena exclaimed as her and Bridget walked past you three. "We're still here—and we want to hear the date story too!"

You didn't even remember them being near you when you first got to work, seething at Santos about her awful blind date set up—gossip traveled fast at the Pitt, especially at shift change when the nurses overlapped.

After taking a look at the relatively calm board, the two women came back to Central with matching curious grins. It was nearing the end of the three am witching hour, when the influx of crazies quietened down and the exhaustion started to creep into your bones. You had just over three hours of your shift left and you figured venting about the thing that had been simmering in your chest wouldn't do you any more harm.

You didn't notice Dr. Abbot hovering in the doorway to Central nine, midway through removing his gloves when the unmistakable sound of gossip reached his ears.

He was curious, he couldn't help the way he shifted closer—focusing on your voice over the other sounds filling the ER.

"Where do I even start," you muttered, lifting your head to meet the intrigued eyes of Mateo sitting across from you.

"Firstly, he didn't hold the door open for me as we entered the restaurant—just let it swing into my face." You chuckled bitterly, "should've taken that as the first red flag."

Lena and Bridget nodded along sympathetically, knowing the worst was still yet to come.

"He then proceeded to order for me—both my drink and food when we had barely spoken a word to each other."

Shen shrugged next to you, and you focused a glare on him. "He ordered me clams. I fucking hate seafood." That made the man wince.

Jack drifted closer to the conversation, standing a few feet behind you. You were too caught up in the annoyance that lingered from your date to notice his quietly commanding presence.

"When I told him what I do for work, he went on a five minute monologue about how the ED is no place for a woman."

That gained a collective eye roll and groan from everyone gathered, even pulling silent wince and twitch of the mouth from Jack.

"You stayed after that?" Lena questioned, her face showing how incredulous she found the situation.

You groaned in response, lowering your head into your hands. "I know, don't remind me." Your voice was muffled by your palms.

You took a breath and lowered your hands, loosely crossing your arms over your chest to ground yourself. "That wasn't even the worst part…" you trailed off.

"After bragging about his job as some finance hotshot, he said that because it takes him all over the world—by that, he meant he goes to Canada sometimes—he needs to have romantic partners in every city he travels to."

"Yikes," Mateo blurted with a wince.

"Said that it's his right as a man to have multiple partners, but that the women he's seeing can only exclusively date him."

Jack couldn't stay quiet any longer. There was a deep burning in his chest the more he listened to you.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered with a humourless chuckle. "Where the hell did you find this guy?"

You whipped around quickly, shocked and flustered that your attending had heard all about your terrible date. You expected him to be annoyed at you all for sitting around gossiping, but you could only find disgust and another unreadable emotion clenching his jaw.

"I didn't find him," you mumbled with a shrug. "Santos set it up. Said he's a regular at her gym."

"I'm surprised you weren't more mad at her earlier."

"I was actually relieved when I got Dana's call asking me to come in." You let out a small laugh, feeling ridiculous that you preferred the night shift chaos over a date with an attractive man—well, he was attractive until he opened his mouth.

Jack felt a misplaced sense of pride blooming in his chest at your admission. He took it personally when you said you would rather be with him—the night shift—than on a date.

"To top it all off, he made me pay for my half of the bill when he realised—"

The rest of your vent was cut off by one of the medical assistants wheeling in a patient from chairs.

"This is Mr. Wilson, mid sixties, he's been erect for the last eight hours."

The irony of the situation didn't get lost on you, a small snort slipping from you. Shen patted your shoulder before straightening up.

"I got this." He had the decency to leave his dunkin coffee behind as he walked over to the patient.

"So, Mr. Wilson. Did you take anything that might have lead to this condition?"

Five minutes later you were sat alone at Central, some of the lingering frustration now eased from your shoulders. A freckled arm appeared in front of you, placing a cup of coffee and your favourite protein bar next to the keyboard you were typing on.

You looked up in time to see Dr. Abbot's face tilted towards you, a soft smile smoothing his features.

"Thanks, Doc." You breathed with your own faint smile.

He responded with a smooth wink, one side of his mouth quirking up before he turned and headed towards South.

You watched as he left, noting how his gait shifted to accommodate his prosthetic leg. Your eyes trailed up his back, watching the subtle shift of his muscles beneath his scrub top, lingering on the freckles sprinkling his neck before landing on his silver curls. God, how you wanted to tug on those curls. A rush of warmth flooded your body as images flashed through your mind unprompted, unwanted. Images of you running your fingers through the curls while his head was between your thighs, hazel eyes dark with his own desire.

You spun back around before anyone caught you staring, quickly chugging your coffee and burning the roof of your mouth in the process. You took it as a much needed distraction to the heat gathering in your core. All he did was give you a goddamn coffee and snack.

It was just after five am when your knee buckled, straining from the long night and making you audibly wince. You were back at the Hub, hands clenching the counter as you tilted your foot against the half wall trying to stretch the tight muscles pulling on your knee.

It offered you temporary relief, one of the knots on your lower calf slightly easing. But it wasn't enough—the hard to get knots clustered on your upper calf were too deep, too close to the joint to get any relief from a quick stretch. You sighed as you felt the joint start to throb, a clear indication that the inflammation was flaring up.

That steady presence you quickly came to admire fell next to you once again, a veiny hand placing a tablet on the counter. You tried resisting following the lines of veins up his forearm, but you knew it was a losing battle so early in the morning. The fluorescent lights were still bright above you, but the early hour made everything feel soft—like the calm before the day shift storm.

"ACL reconstruction?" Dr. Abbot's voice grumbled low next to you.

"Huh?" You questioned, your brows scrunched in confusion. The patient you had just seen was a young teen with a fever that wouldn't break, possible meningitis.

Dr. Abbot tilted his head towards your leg that was still in a half stretch position.

"Your knee, I saw the scars when you came in earlier. Is it giving you trouble?" A line appeared between his brows, his cute mouth curving downward in a concerned frown.

He knew it was giving you trouble, he didn't need to ask. He had observed you the whole shift, feeling concerned when you stilled with a huff and changed your stance to accommodate the pain. He knew the pain of an injured joint all too well, could feel his own leg starting to scream at him after ignoring the tenderness for over ten hours. His fingers itched to help you, to offer you some comfort and take away your pain. He told himself it was because you were his resident—he couldn't have you hurting and disrupting your job as a doctor.

You straightened under his watchful gaze, distributing your weight evenly on both legs—a jolt of pain had you shifting to your right with a subtle wince.

"Reconstruction and a meniscal repair, too." You answered his first question. "Nothing I can't handle," you repeated your earlier statement, trying to brush off the obvious discomfort you were feeling.

He shot you a deadpan look, not buying your bullshit. He crossed his arms across his chest, leveling you with his quiet, intense authority that had fire tingling under your skin.

"What happened?" He asked gruffly.

You sighed out of habit—it really wasn't that big a deal.

"A not-so-friendly soccer match in high school." You shrugged, looking away from his unwavering stare. "Hurt like a bitch, but it's been over ten years. I've learnt to deal with it."

He grasped your elbow gently, leading you away from the Hub despite your complaints. He lead you to an empty patient room in North.

"Dr. Abbot, what are you—my patients—"

"Shen and Crus have it covered, you're allowed to take a break." He let go of your elbow, turning to close the curtain halfway—giving a slight semblance of privacy.

You stood awkwardly near the patient bed, feeling flustered from his attention and stubborn to prove you were fine.

He shot you another look, something between amused and impatient.

"You're in pain. Sit."

Again with that goddamn commanding tone, the one that always had you shutting your mouth and obeying.

You sat down on the edge tentatively, not missing the faint smirk twitching his cheek.

He was enjoying this.

You couldn't focus on the thought for long—your attention being seized by him grabbing stool and rolling it in front of you.

"What are you doing?" You asked with a single brow raised, watching as he sat down on the stool and patted his leg.

"I'm helping my resident," he said nonchalantly, like this was something he did all the time. "Now lift your leg. Doctor's orders."

You huffed with an eye roll, succumbing to his authoritative charm. You placed your ankle in his lap, careful to not rest the full weight on him. You weren't sure whether this was crossing a professional line—it felt just shy of being intimate, of being more than just your attending helping you with an old injury.

You could feel the strength of his thighs beneath your leg, how they were pure hard muscle. It was something a resident shouldn't notice about her attending—something she definitely shouldn't store away for later, when she was home alone with her hands between her thighs.

His hands gently grabbed the bottom of your scrub pants, slowly pushing the fabric up your leg. It felt way too intimate for such a simple act—his bare hands brushing against your skin, eliciting a path of fire and goosebumps in their wake. You no longer had control over your eyes as they dropped to watch his hands, catching sight of the wedding ring he still wore. He rolled the pant leg above your knee, his eyes darting up to yours for consent—moving his hands down at your small nod.

His hands gently pressed around your inflamed joint, the heat radiating up to his skin before he even touched you.

He gave a disappointing shake of his head. "You need to ice this, kid."

"I will when I get home, promise." Your voice was low, quiet. "It's not usually this bad—it's, just…it's been a long night." You don't know why you were explaining more than necessary, maybe you didn't like feeling like you had disappointed him.

Even with the door wide open, the noises of the ED fell away around you—fading into a faint hum as you looked into his hazel eyes.

"Why is tonight any different? I don't think I saw you limp once on the Fourth of July."

Your breath hitched without your permission—he was paying enough attention to you to make note of that?

His hands traveled down from your knee, fingertips lingering briefly on your scars before wrapping around your lower calf. His calloused fingers pressed into your skin, feeling around for the tight knots.

A steady stream of shocks ran up your leg from his touch, gathering in a simmering warmth in the pit of your belly. His hands on you felt way too good, you started to regret accepting his help. You would not be forgetting his hands on you any time soon.

Jack was doing his best to keep his head clear—repeating to himself that this was to relieve your pain. But, god, your soft skin and the smell of your lotion cutting through the usual antiseptic was making it hard to focus on anything else. Add in the way you were looking at him with big, trusting eyes and he was a goner.

His mind betrayed him further, thoughts of how you prepared for your date earlier clouding his mind. Was your smooth, tempting smelling skin just a coincidence, or were you planning for more? He remembered the dress you wore—how could he ever forget it?—and his thoughts strayed to what you might've been wearing under it, what you may be wearing under your scrubs. It was a seriously dangerous train of thought to have, especially with your leg in his lap.

He watched your face carefully, looking for the slightest wince to indicate you were in pain. He pressed harder, rolling a knot and catching the way your body tensed in response.

"I didn't wear the most sensible shoes earlier," you mumbled. There was something about the two of you alone in here, with his hands carefully tending to you that made you more…vulnerable. Open. "Wasn't expecting to work a twelve hour shift—I went with shoes that matched the dress." You finished with a small shrug, looking away from his piercing eyes.

"Ah. The date that keeps on giving," he grumbled bitterly.

His hands pressed further up, reaching your mid calf. You felt the cool band of his wedding ring press into your skin, and it made this feel even more personal and intimate.

"What were you saying earlier? When he made you pay half the bill…" Dr. Abbot's voice trailed off, eyeing you expectantly with raised brows.

You scoffed, the disgust you felt almost twelve hours before still sitting on your tongue.

"Yeah, that. He said the least I could do was pay my half since I wasn't going home with him."

Jack's brain short-circuited for a brief second, his grip on your calf tightening a fraction.

"That's…awful. I'm sorry."

You looked away from his intense gaze again, your heart doing something stupid in your chest. It was hard to miss the mix of anger and concern swimming in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and shoulders tensed.

"That's modern dating for you." You let out a humourless chuckle, "some assholes even try to claim it's for the sake of feminism." You rolled your eyes with a sigh. "It's part of the reason I gave up on dating, I was hoping the guy today was going to be different." You couldn't help the self deprecating chuckle that slipped out.

"God, I didn't realise how bad it was out there."

Jack didn't know what else to say, couldn't think of much past the rage boiling his blood. A man had really said that to you? He wanted to show you that there were some redeemable men in the world, but by the sounds of it this wasn't this first time a man had said something like this to you.

His thumb swept across your shin soothingly, a motion he wasn't even aware of. But you were. It was all your body could focus on, every nerve ending rushing to the spot his rough skin was rubbing tenderly against yours.

"You reckon there'll be new gossip for people to focus on by my next shift?" It was your attempt at deflecting the conversation, talking to Dr. Abbot about your lackluster dating life wasn't exactly on your list of favourite things to do.

Jack jokingly checked his watch. "You're next shift is in what, fourteen hours?" He shot you a cheeky smile. "I'll make sure there's something else to talk about by then," he finished with a smooth wink.

It's something you've seen countless times—Dr Abbot's inherently flirty nature. You've seen it in the way he smiles at Samira, how he easily asked Dr. Al-Hashimi out for drinks when he first met her. You knew not to take it personally, he handed flirtatious comments out like they were as necessary as breathing.

Still didn't stop the hoards of butterflies wrecking havoc in your stomach.

"Thanks," you muttered, suddenly self-conscious from his gaze. It felt like he could see right through you, and you added it to the long list of things you hated about Dr. Jack Abbot.

"Don't mention it."

You both fell quiet as he continued his massage, the conversation coming to a natural end. His fingers reached the most sensitive part of your calf, right behind your knee where the muscles pulled on the joint. He pressed down on a knot, your hand shooting to his shoulder for stability as pain flashed from the tender muscle. He focused on the spot more, watching your face as a small whimper slipped through your lips. Your leg spasmed in his hold from the pain.

"That's the spot," he muttered absentmindedly.

He continued his ministrations, finding a handful of small knots just below your knee that provoked similar responses. Your hand didn't leave his shoulder, clutching his shirt tighter when he pressed on an extra sensitive spot. He started to file away new details that had nothing to do with your jobs or the hospital. The faint pained whimpers you let loose, the pinch in your brow when he worked on a sore spot, the way your breathing had shallowed. Those were all things that were making his scrub pants sit a bit too tight. Gradually, your leg relaxed in his hold and the pain evaporated from your facial expressions.

He rolled your scrub pant down your leg, the act feeling just as heightened as before. He gave your clothed shin an affectionate pat before lowering your leg to the ground. He stood from the stool and walked to the curtain, pulling it fully open. He needed to get back to work, needed to do something with his hands so he could get rid of the itch to touch you again.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot." You said as you stood up, relief washing over you as the throbbing in your knee eased to manageable. You almost forgot what it felt like when it wasn't in pain.

"No problem, sweetheart."

Your head shot up to him at the term of endearment, another dangerous burst of heat rushing through your body—the feeling of sweet serotonin flooding your system. Your eyes bulged as you noticed the dusting of red climbing up his neck and cheeks. He cleared his throat and made his way to the open door, stopping with one foot out in the ED. He looked at you over his shoulder, still frozen next to the bed.

"Come find me next time it flares up, alright?"

You briefly nodded, feeling slightly light-headed from the whole ordeal.

"Yes, sir."

His shoulders tensed at your choice of words, a primal part deep down in his gut rearing it's head. He felt his cock twitch in interest and he knew he was fucked. You really shouldn't have said that to him.

He took a breath and rolled his shoulders back, a small limp to his step as he made his way back to the Hub.

You watched him as he left, a heavy feeling of dread and hopelessness washing over you. This was now past the point of an innocent crush on your attending. This was something you had to cautiously keep in check or else it could derail your whole career, ruin your reputation as an upstanding resident at this hospital.

Why the fuck did he have to be so hot, and be a decent guy on top of that. It wasn't fucking fair.

soooo...smutty part 2 anyone ?

So you'll give that massive bully the time of day, but not the fun-loving nightshift dad? He doesn't mean to think poorly of Brendon, but the man has a mean streak a mile wide which can be seen from an entire state away.

So what the fuck gives?

You've difficulty meeting his eyes, and always act so damn nervous when he's speaking to you, as if you're afraid that he bites. The one time he tried making that joke—that he would only nibble a little if you let him—you merely chuckled before wandering away and attaching yourself to the side of the dayshift attending instead.

Jack considered tossing a scanning machine at Robby's head for it.

It's difficult for him to admit that his frustration stems from an unrequited attraction to you: his subordinate. It's unethical and unprofessional, as well as a litany of other words which he's sure also start with the prefix 'un'.

His ego can take the blow of you not desiring him back. But not so much as giving him the time of day as your coworker? That stings, because he's always made time for you. The few and far between times you've bothered coming to him for help, that is. Times where he had been all too happy to drop everything so he could grant you his full, undivided attention, followed by showering you in praise for being so bright.

A gesture which was once again met with a smile of timidity before you returned his teaching efforts with a simple, quiet thanks and walked off.

Suffice to say that he's frustrated.

So, might as well try and put things to the test, right?

"Evenin', sweetheart," Jack drawls while coming to stand beside you.

Each time you so much as hear his voice you want nothing more than to toss yourself on the floor before kicking your feet and giggling like an excited schoolgirl... But you figure your career is safer if you refrain from going viral on TikTok for being a documented freak.

"Oh, hello," you reply shyly while flitting through printouts of a patient's recent blood test.

"What do we got here?" he asks lowly while planting one hand on the counter in front of you and the other slides up your back before coming to tenderly squeeze your shoulder.

You swear you'd be like putty in his hands if only he'd give you the chance.

"It's...um..." Oh, now you can't think. "Maybe I should take them to Robby—"

"Already got an old man who knows how to read 'em right here, honey," he rumbles before plucking the stapled documents from your grip, followed by him slipping his glasses from his front pocket and sliding them onto the bridge of his nose.

You remain silent as his hand works at your shoulder before drifting to the crown of it.

"You see his A1C?" Dr. Abbot questions while pointing to a small bar on the page.

"Uh huh," you say with a feeble nod.

"It's high. He a diabetic?" He slides his hand back to resting atop your shoulder

You swallow thickly. "I think so."

He raises a brow while leaning in close. "You think?"

You try gently pulling away, but he holds firm. He's not letting you run off to Robby that easily.

He wants a damn reaction.

"He is," you say with a curt nod.

Sliding his finger easily between the pages, he flips it over. "You having a hard time concentrating tonight, sweetheart?"

You shake your head. Some people already struggle to take you seriously because of your soft disposition. You don't need to give an attending reason to do the same. "No, I'm fine."

Repositioning his hand, Jack clasps it over the back of your neck before massaging the sides with his fingertips. "You getting enough sleep?"

Could pass out right now if you find me an empty hospital bed and let me curl up against your chest. "Yes."

"Hope so," he states before finally releasing you, but only once your skin is covered with goosebumps and he can see that your nipples have pebbled beneath your shirt.

You can try and play coy, but your body tells him all he needs to know.

"Come find me if you need any help," he says with a wink.

"Yes, sir," you mumble before walking away, ignoring how slick you've grown between your thighs.

You dislike bothering Dr. Abbot. For one, because it makes you feel like a child each time you come to him with a dozen questions because your thirst for knowledge knows no bounds (not to mention that you always enjoy having his attention). But also...because you find him to be intimidating.

He's an Army combat vet who lost a limb because of his willing sacrifice to protect others and his country. And then he proceeds to come home and not just find employment in an emergency department at a hospital which is strictly a trauma center, but he also works with SWAT!

Meanwhile, you like to knit and bake in your spare time and have a calendar in your kitchen with puppies, kittens, and ducklings as the monthly centerfolds.

You've never done anything exciting. Working at PTMC has to be the first instance you can think of where you've bothered stepping out of your precious little box of comfort in aspiration of something greater than yourself. And what's the first thing you do?

Develop a crush on your teacher.

Pathetic.

You tell yourself that if you just keep your distance and do what you can on your own, then perhaps it'll dissipate. He probably has someone at home already, anyway. He doesn't think about you, so you best never humor yourself by believing anything to the contrary.

But that plan is quickly foiled when PittFest happens. Rather, when the entire room is abuzz and running amuck with injured, bleeding patients, only to be brought to a standstill when someone shouts 'Gun!'.

You feel him before you see him. One moment, you're standing upright and applying a pressure dressing to a patient's abdomen. The next, you're staring up at Jack because he's tackled you to the floor to shield you with his body.

"Stay down," he rumbles lowly while sliding a protective hand over the top of your head.

Clutching at his Kevlar vest, you swallow thickly while burrowing as far into his chest as you can—terrified that shots are going to be fired and—

"All clear!"

You breathe a sigh of relief.

No more has Abbot pulled you up, and you're back to flitting from patient to patient like a butterfly searching for nectar. He watches you only for a moment before getting back to work himself.

Later on, when you get a glimpse of a most unexpected sight, your hopes of ever catching Dr. Abbot's eye are well and truly crushed once and for all. So you vow from that moment forward to be near him as little as possible. You need to throw yourself fully into your work.

Daydreaming is dangerous, especially here.

Sat shirtless atop an exam table is Dr. Abbot, and at his side stands Samira, who is tending to a gunshot wound you'd not been aware he even had.

He chose her to take care of him for a reason, you think.

Jack only looks up in time to catch the sight of you walking away with your head down, which causes a frown to tug at his lips.

He'd gone looking for you earlier—had wanted foolishly to show off his bravado while also giving you a chance to play nursemaid to him—but when he found you and Robby standing nearly chest-to-chest while the other man gazed down at you before cupping the back of your head and pressing a long and tender kiss to the crown of it, he turned silently in the other direction.

He's not the only one thankful for your well-being today, apparently.

With a huff, Jack tries to bury his simmering irritation over how aloof you are toward him, but knows that jealousy is an ugly thing which can admittedly be rather difficult to temper.

You feel like dead weight when you leave the hospital after all the commotion that a mass shooting wrought. When you spot Robby, Abbot, and a handful of new residents drinking and shooting the breeze on a couple nearby benches, you keep your head down and head straight for the parking lot, praying they don't invite you to—

"Hey, sweetheart!" Dr. Abbot calls from a distance. "Come and take a load off for a bit."

Turning reluctantly on your heel with a defeated sigh, you walk over to them. Abbot extends a beer can toward you, which you softly shake your head at. "I don't drink if I have to drive after. But...thank you."

Maybe you'd consider it if his lips had touched it first, but...

Withdrawing, he shrugs. He opens his mouth to invite you to stay awhile, until Robby cuts him off. "C'mon, honey. After today, I'd say you earned it. Just a few sips," he says while tipping his own can toward you with a grin.

If you decline a second time, the newbies will think you have a giant stick up your rear.

You sigh, then accept his offer.

Jack frowns.

So you won't take a drink from him, but suddenly if it's coming from Robby, you can't get your hands on it fast enough?

You pad over, then pause when you see that Jack's prosthetic is resting between them. You think to stand, until he picks it up and leans it back against the cooler beside him with a grunt.

"Thank you," you say quietly while seating yourself between them.

You've never seen him with it off before. Never seen him so...laid back. Heat blooms between your legs from the fact.

Is it odd if you find his amputation attractive? Merely because it serves as a reminder of his brave sacrifice?

You wonder what he'd think of that.

Leaning back, you take a small sip from the chilled can you hold, deigning that you won't finish it, but it's nevertheless nice to not have to end the day all alone, you suppose.

Jack debates for a moment, wondering just how many times he needs to be shot down before he gets the hint. Never one to give up, he slides an arm over your shoulders before tugging you against his side.

Quickly, you press your thighs together, ignoring the way that previous warmth has now morphed into pleasant pulsations instead.

Robby makes to do the same as Jack, until he glances over to see you already claimed by him.

Undeterred, he stretches his arm across the bench's back before sliding his fingers along your scalp and gently massaging the soft skin he finds there.

Your eyes quickly begin to droop and you sigh in contentment.

Making sure to hold tightly to the can so you don't spill it, you lean into Robby's touch while smiling softly.

Abbot debates breaking his best friend's hand just to get it off of you.

Until Robby stands and slings his bag over his shoulder before turning back to you. "C'mon, I'll walk you to your car," he offers with an outstretched hand.

Your beer can forgotten beside you, you take it and stand as well after wishing everyone a goodnight, including Jack.

Tugging his leg back on, it's with a slight shake of his head, as he believes he's finally coming to realize why he isn't the one for you: because of the very thing he's missing.

"No, the ten gauge!" Jack shouts. "Not the nine! Are you even listening to me, or is it only Robby's voice you obey the sound of?" he barks.

In a panic, you dig through the crash cart's drawers before finally grabbing the demanded item and marching it over to Dr. Abbot.

He yanks it so quickly from your hand that it tears a hole in your rubber glove.

Jack hesitates for a moment—staring down at your now exposed palm—before returning to the coding patient in front of him.

You feel bad about your mistake somehow. It was something small, which you immediately corrected in a matter of seconds, yes, but Dr. Abbot still seems displeased with you. You've been keeping a healthy distance, just like you intended, but with guilt niggling away at your conscious, you want to right your wrong.

You still fail to understand why he brought Robby up in the moment, but perhaps the two of them are on the outs as well? You want to ask Robby about it, but are also well-aware that it's not your business to be sticking your nose in.

So, you try doing something sweet instead.

Very wholesome, in fact.

For the next few days, you leave little surprise gift bags dangling from his locker. Ones that're maybe a tad bigger than your hand, but hold within them gifts intended for your nightshift attending.

One day, it's frosted sugar cookies which you baked yourself. Included was a hand written note telling him to 'have a good day!', complete with shimmering heart stickers.

The next, fancy roast coffee and an interesting butter cream you stumbled across in your local pharmacy that's meant for calloused hands.

In the middle of the week, you gift him a salve intended to aid with chafing due to wearing a prosthetic.

Not wanting to overwhelm him, you leave it at that. And since by Thursday he seems to be in a better mood, you deem your work complete.

"Sure wish I had a secret admirer," Santos pouts. "They could always give me a Subaru if they're looking to be really generous."

You raise a brow. "Why a Subaru?"

She snorts. "You wouldn't get it."

"Who do you think is doing it?" Whitaker questions.

"Somebody who's down bad for Baddy Daddy Abbot, apparently," Trin replies.

That's a new one...

"They didn't leave a note?" he asks.

"Guess not," Santos quips.

Picking up a stack of paperwork, Mohan shakes her head. "Maybe if you all weren't a bunch of gossips, it wouldn't be such a big deal to leave each other gifts without the assumption of there being an ulterior motive behind it."

Santos wrinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue when Samira walks away.

You just roll your eyes at her antics.

Jack wants to believe that it was all from you, but with you still trailing after Robby before his shift ends each evening, he doubts it. And after his realization with the prosthetic, you never would've gone out of your way to supply him with something that aids with the discomfort it sometimes inflicts.

That, coupled with the way he snapped at you a handful of days ago, and Jack is sure that he's to be your least favorite person right now.

You don't seem to handle harsh treatment very well, in truth. He raises his voice one time, and now you've drifted even farther away. But he's tried babying you and it didn't seem to get him any further along.

It had been petty bringing Robby into things, he knows, but it's like unless you're strapped to his side like Velcro, you're as timid as a newborn fawn.

It's only when his shift drags into that of a double that he lets his anger get the better of him

"I told you to run a CBC!"

Your eyes flit between Jack's in panic.

You wish Robby were here.

"I-I'm sorry. I thought I did—"

"Well, you didn't!" Jack yells while slamming the paperwork down. He's making such a scene that half the department has stopped what they're doing to bear witness to the unfolding drama. "You need to correct your mistake. Put the order in again, but with a rush on it this time. Go up to the lab and stay there until it's done. I'm not waiting around for them to send it over the damn email!"

Your eyes brim with tears. "I'm so sorry, Dr. Abbot. I'll—"

Somehow, you calling him that—never Jack—only makes it worse. With the vein in the middle of his forehead now throbbing, he leans in close. "I have no interest in apologies or excuses. Pay attention to what the hell you're doing, or I'll find someone who will."

That would be all too fine with you—he can have Samira, and you can switch with her to have Robby as your attending.

She's much brighter than you, anyway. Better with patients, even.

She flourishes wherever she goes, while you otherwise clearly flounder uselessly.

Turning on your heel, you hold in your tears until the elevator doors shut closed behind you.

"Sweetheart, why won't you talk to me?" Robby asks while gently settling his palm atop the back of your hand.

You brush off Robby's concern before heading for Trauma 3 to drop off some sterile bandages. "I'm fine," you say quietly.

"Honey—" Robby sighs in defeat when you turn and walk away from him.

You've been like this for the last week toward everyone: silent, distant, detached.

You come into work, interact solely with patients unless a coworker has a question or request for you, and then you go home. Even the likes of Park the Shark attempted to dredge a smile out of you—people have been likely to crack one just because they think it's expected, they're that afraid of him—only to be met with wide eyes full of sadness before you walked off.

When Robby caught word of how Abbot tore into you, safe to say he did the same to him, asking what the hell his problem was to think it was acceptable to treat you like that.

And instead of being remorseful, Jack actually seemed justified in his anger when he turned it back on Robby. "Just because you're infatuated with my resident doesn't mean it is my job to continue letting her off easy when she makes a mistake. It is sink or swim around here, and she's never going to learn that if we let her continually take the beaten path time and again. She needs to be able to act in a crisis, which this place is always in!"

He nearly adds in a derogatory statement about how privileged he truly has it with two fucking legs to walk on, but shuts his mouth before he goes a step too far and puts everything out in the open.

Robby had shot back with a few choice words himself before finally stalking off, knowing there was no getting through Jack's thick skull if he believed himself in the right with this one.

Now both of you aren't speaking to him. Which leads Jack to wonder if he isn't the problem this time.

Alright, yes, of course he is. And he's trying to work his shit out, but seeing the way you two are together is downright insufferable.

And after that night on the bench...

He's heading for the nurses station, and only just catches Dana's eye when she calls out to him. "Hey, soldier boy!"

Walking over with arms tucked behind him and his head held in shame, Jack assumes that he can already predict what this is going to be about.

"Really did a number on 'er, huh?" she asks between smacks of chewing gum.

He raises his head while standing at attention and swaying from side to side as he continually shifts his weight. "You gonna chew me out, too?"

She shrugs with a small grin. "You know they were from her, right?"

He raises a brow.

"All your little gift baggies. Think it was her way of tryin' to say sorry after the first time you got up in arms because she wasn't able to keep up with the Li'l Miss Perfect act for five seconds."

His eyes roll toward the ceiling and he sighs.

He knew. Of course he did.

God damn him.

"Where is she?" he asks quietly.

Dana half turns away from him. "Think she went up to get some air."

Jack watches from a distance as you stare up at the stars. How was he able to stomach mistreating you for so long?

The first time he was cruel to you, you blamed yourself, then proceeded to bring him gift after gift in apology when he was the one at fault.

He can't blame Robby for pining after you, as if he hasn't been doing the exact same thing for months.

It's just that when you came along, you knocked his world off-kilter. He was used to his day-to-day, until his day-to-day started to revolve around you like the Sun does the Earth. He supposes you're that which he's begun to center his life around, even if you aren't his to have.

Ambling forward, Jack halts once he's standing beside you. "Dana told me I might find you up here."

The silence suddenly interrupted, you jump in surprise. "Oh. I was just leaving, Dr. Abbot."

Before you can step away, he takes hold of your hand. "I'd like for you to stay."

Looking down to where he's twined his fingers between your own, your brows furrow.

"I'm sorry," he says while turning to face you. "I've been an ass to you, all because I was jealous."

You tilt your head back to look at him. "Jealous?"

He sighs while running his opposite hand down your other arm. "All my cards on the table? Of you and Robby."

Your brows knit together in confusion. "I don't understand."

His lip twitches. Always so damn innocent, even now.

"'Dr. Abbot'. 'Sir'. Trailing after Robby's every step. Barely giving me the time of day. Being unable to look me in the eye." He brushes a thumb along the apple of your cheek. "Need me to keep going?"

"Did you think I was ignoring you?" you question.

"Yes and no. Maybe I did something. Something that caused you to dislike, or feel distrustful toward me. Or even afraid."

You shake your head.

He shifts his weight, then drops his hands before nervously sliding them into his pockets. "Or maybe..." He shrugs. "Maybe it had something to do with my leg."

You take a step forward on instinct. "You think I'm ableist?" you ask—your tone pained.

No, this is all wrong.

Reaching up, you take his face between your palms. "Jack, I... I think it's attractive." Your eyes flit down to his leg before meeting with his own again. "Because it's a reminder of your time overseas. All you went through. All you survived."

He slides a hand over the curve of your hip. "That's the first time you've ever called me by my name."

Your chin wobbles. "You thought it disturbed me? That... That's what I've made you think of me?"

He lets out a quiet curse before pulling you into his chest. "I should've just told you from the beginning. I'm sorry," he mumbles against your cheek. "And then Dana told me about the gifts. That they were from you. Could've told me who they were coming from, y'know?"

You wind your arms around his middle. There is so, so much you want to tell him—that you wish for him to hear. "I didn't want you to feel obligated to return the favor. I just wanted you to forgive me for my mistakes. I wanted to do better." You nuzzle against his neck. "I've worshipped you from the first day we met. But...you wouldn't feel the same. I... I told myself that."

He cups the back of your head. How much time did he waste with insecurity? How much time did you both?

Caressing your cheek, he smiles down at you. "Sweetheart, you're constantly on my mind." He brushes his thumb along the hollow of your throat. "When I'm in the shower."

You swallow.

"In bed," he rasps while trailing it to the swell of your breast. "On my way to work because all I can think about is seeing you again."

You seize the moment before it passes; it's all you've wanted for so long.

Standing on tiptoes, you throw your arms around his neck and press your lips to his.

He nearly stumbles back before righting himself and holding you steady while pouring every ounce of passion he's been retaining for you into the heated gesture before you each lose this chance.

When you whimper against his mouth, he parts his lips and you sigh in contentment.

If he were younger, God would that sound have caused something more to stir to life just below his belt.

"I've wanted this for so long," you whine.

"Yeah?" he rasps while flicking his tongue against your bottom lip.

You nod fervently while moaning.

He gently grips the hair at the back of your head and watches with satisfaction as you pant eagerly for more. "I don't share," he says sternly.

You grin. "All yours, all yours," you quietly cheer while rocking excitedly from your toes to your heels and back again—in utter disbelief that this is finally happening to you.

He smirks. "You are, even if you didn't know it."

You dragged the sleeve of your scrub across your forehead, wiping away a layer of sweat. The ED had been a war zone today, one brutal trauma after another, codes and families collapsing in the hallway. Six hours in and it still felt like the shift was nowhere near over. Your stomach let out a loud, embarrassing growl, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten since before dawn. With a tired sigh, you slipped into the staff lounge, desperate for five minutes of peace and the slightly squashed turkey sandwich waiting at the bottom of your bag. The moment you dropped into one of the chairs, the door swung open behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around. The scent hit you first, unmistakably masculine, the cologne he always wore. Then came the familiar rhythm of his stride. Your body recognized him instantly, a traitorous flutter blooming in your stomach despite your best efforts to ignore it.

“Caught you,” Robby said. You glanced over your shoulder and found him leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His eyes flicked to the half-eaten sandwich in your hand. “Eating on the run again?”

You swallowed quickly, offering him a sheepish smile. “Gotta fuel up somehow, Dr. Robby.”

He chuckled, stepping fully into the room. The lines on his face were deeper today, and you wondered if it had anything to do with his sabbatical and how much he needed to rest after years without taking any real time off. Three months away from the Pitt still felt surreal. He’d been your teacher ever since you began your residency two years ago, and with Robby not being here felt like the ED was losing its spine.

He watched you for a beat, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen… I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

You raise an eyebrow, setting the wrapper from your sandwich down. “Shoot.”

“As you already know, I’m heading out for my sabbatical soon. House is just gonna sit empty. Thought maybe you’d want to house-sit for me while I’m gone.”

The words hung there. You blinked, caught off guard. “Me? I thought you’d have someone else in mind. Abbot, maybe?”

Robby shook his head, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “I was gonna tell Abbot, yeah. But then I thought about you. You’ve been crashing with Santos, right? This could be a good way to save on rent for a few months. And you’re responsible. I trust you not to burn the place down or throw ragers.”

You let out a laugh. The offer felt too good, a quiet space, no Santos blasting music at 2 a.m, or worse, hearing her and García going at it for hours when you were trying to rest. You’d have actual privacy, at least for three months. But the offer also felt intimate in a way that made your pulse tick up. 

House-sitting for Robby felt like crossing a line you could never uncross. He wasn’t just your boss or the attending who had mentored you through the worst shifts of your life, the patients you lost, the nights you thought you wouldn’t make it through. He was the man you’d been quietly, desperately in love with for the last two years. The man you had watched from a careful distance, with your heart aching in silence, convinced nothing would ever happen. You’d told yourself a thousand times that your feelings were one-sided, that your late-night fantasies would stay exactly that… fantasies.

“So… you want me to live there?” you asked, clarifying the offer. “Not just go there and water the plants and grab the mail?”

He shrugged casually, but his eyes met yours. “You can do what you want. Crash in the guest room, use the kitchen. I’ll give you the keys later and show you around after shift. Just a few rules: No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies. And if I don’t come back, you’ll have a swinging bachelor pad all for yourself. Deal?”

You froze mid-breath, “If I don’t come back.” Robby had said it so casually, the same way someone might say if it rains tomorrow or if the coffee’s cold. But you heard the weight behind it, like he’d already flirted with the ides more times than you wanted to count. Like part of him had already started rehearsing the absence. Your stomach twisted, you knew that tone, you’d heard it before. You were no stranger to Robby’s shadows, anyone who paid attention could see them if they looked close enough, but you… you studied him. Maybe too closely. The way his smiles never quite reached his eyes anymore, the way he rubbed at the back of his neck when the weight of the department felt like too much to hold.

All the classic signs were there, PTSD, burnout, the creeping depression he tried to outrun, but he hid them so well behind camouflaged jokes and not-so-innocent comments, that most people missed it. You never had, because you couldn’t stop noticing, couldn’t stop caring. 

The question slipped out before you could stop it. “But you’re coming back, right?”

Robby paused, looked at the floor, and then he laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll find you after shift to hand over the keys and show you around. Sound good?”

You nodded. He didn’t bother answering your question, just pretended it never happened. But you didn’t push, you cared about him, deeply so, but you still didn’t know him enough to make him talk about something he clearly didn’t want to address. “Sounds good, Dr. Robby.”

He gave you one last look, almost fond, before heading back out into the chaos of the ED. The door swung shut behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Three months in his house. Just you, in his space, with whatever he was leaving behind.

You couldn’t help feeling special, it was almost embarrassing. Robby had thought of you. Not Abbot, the man who was basically his brother, not Dana, who he’d known for years, not any of the senior residents who’d been here longer. Not even Noelle, the case manager nurse you heard from whispers he’d been seeing for at least over a month. He thought of you. 

By the time the shift finally ended, Robby found you in the parking lot like he’d promised, shrugging into his jacket. “Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, grabbing your bag. “Yeah. Lead the way, Dr. Robby.”

You trailed Robby through the quiet streets, your hands steady on the wheel as your headlights stayed steady on the taillight of his bike. You kept a careful distance, your heart beating a little faster every time he leaned into a turn. He never looked back, but you knew he was aware of you.

He signaled a turn onto a tree-lined avenue in a nicer part of the city. A few more blocks and he slowed, pulling into a private drive beside a modern building. You parked behind him, the condo complex rose three stories in glass and dark brick. It wasn’t flashy, but it was clearly well-appointed. 

He swung a leg over the bike and pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his hair. He glanced over at you as you stepped out of the car. 

“Home sweet home,” he said dryly. “For the next three months, anyway. It’s yours.”

You followed him inside. He held the door open for you without a word. The lobby was warm, with polished floors that gleamed under the light, and a long leather bench that sat against one wall. You followed him to the elevator, and the two of you stepped inside. As it rose to the third floor, the small space felt even smaller with him in it. The elevator opened onto a wide, carpeted hallway with only four doors. His was at the end, unit 302. 

He unlocked the front door and held it open for you. You stepped inside, straight into a wide living room with high ceilings and hardwood floors. A big sectional couch faced a fireplace, bookshelves lining one wall crammed with books and framed photos you didn’t let yourself stare at too long, but you could catch a glimpse of a younger Robby in them.

“Kitchen’s through here,” he said, flipping on lights as he walked. The kitchen consisted of granite counters and stainless steel appliances that looked barely used. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge before it goes bad.”

Upstairs, he showed you the guest room, simple, with a queen bed, a dresser, and a window overlooking the city skyline. “This is yours if you want to stay here. Sheets are clean. You have a set of towels in the bathroom.”

The master bedroom was at the end of the hall, with a king bed, dark wood furniture, and a small balcony door leading out to a view of the street. You lingered in the doorway while he pointed out the thermostat, the tricky window locks, and the frequency with which you needed to water the plants.

Back downstairs, he dropped a set of keys into your palm. “Garage code is 1971. Wi-Fi password’s on the router. If anything breaks, text me. I might not answer right away… but I’ll leave you the building’s manager number too just in case.” 

You closed your fingers around the keys. He was really leaving. This was goodbye. Three months on the road, on that stupid motorcycle, chasing whatever peace he thought he could find away from the Pitt. He headed for the door, grabbing a duffel bag he’d left by the entryway.

You follow him out to the building hallway. “Robby,” you said quietly as he called the elevator. 

He paused, turning back to you. Those eyes, tired, carrying the weight of every person he’d lost, met yours. “Please drive safe,” you told him. “And wear the helmet. I mean it. I’ve seen what happens when people don’t.”

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. He nodded once. “I will.”

You swallowed hard, then added the rest before he could turn away again. “I’ll be here waiting until you return. The house will still be standing, promise.”

He stood there a moment longer, studying you like he was memorizing the scene, then he gave you a small, crooked smile. “Take care of the place,” he said. “And yourself.”

With that, he stepped into the elevator, the doors closing behind him. You stood in the hallway long after he disappeared, the big empty apartment waiting behind you. Yours for three months, until he came back again.

The first night without Robby felt strangely monumental. You locked the door behind you, and for a long moment, you stood in the entryway, just breathing in the scent of his personal space. You chose the guest room because it felt like the respectful thing to do. You unpacked a few things and showered in the bathroom before crawling under the sheets. Sleep came eventually, but every unfamiliar creak of the house made you think of him, out there on the road, hopefully with his helmet on like you asked, chasing whatever demons he needed to outrun.

By the second night, curiosity won. You told yourself it was harmless. You were just… getting to know the space better. Making sure everything was in order. That was what a responsible house-sitter did, right? After another long shift, you stood at the threshold of the master bedroom, the door already ajar from when he showed you around. You pushed it open fully and flipped on the bedside lamp instead of the overhead light. The room felt more intimate in the warm glow, and it still smelled just like him. The king bed was neatly made, and you hesitated only a moment before sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

Your crush on him had been simmering for months, maybe longer. Maybe from the first time he corrected your technique during a procedure, maybe because of the way he looked at you when you were presenting a case, like he was really listening. He was handsome in that lived-in, capable way. And what you loved the most was how brilliant he was, steady when the whole world was falling apart, like he was the one holding all the pieces together. 

You stood up and started exploring. The dresser drawers were mostly organized, with socks, pants, and t-shirts folded neatly. In the top drawer, you found a small envelope of old photos: Robby much younger, laughing with friends, with a little kid and a woman, you supposed Jake and Janey. You put them back exactly as you found them.

The closet held a couple of dress shirts, a suit that looked rarely worn, and a leather jacket. You ran your fingers along the sleeve for just a second. Then you moved to the nightstand, the drawer slid open and revealed a couple of books, a spare pair of reading glasses, a small bottle of melatonin, and, tucked toward the back, a box of condoms. An opened box of condoms.

Your face heated instantly. You stared at them longer than you should, imagining things you immediately tried to push away. Robby, capable in every way, apparently. 

The thought sent a guilty thrill through you,he’d trusted you with his place, and here you were, snooping through his personal items. 

You sat back down on his bed, then lay back against his pillows. The mattress dipped under your weight in a way that felt welcoming, like you belonged there in his bed. You pulled the comforter over yourself, still fully clothed, and just breathed. It was just you, in Robby’s space, surrounded by pieces of the man you’d quietly wanted for so long.

That night, you slept in his bed for the first time. It became a habit faster than you expected. By the end of the first week, you’d moved most of your clothes into the guest room closet, but you were spending every night in the master. You told yourself it was because the bed was better, the room quieter, and the balcony door let in nice morning light. But the truth was undeniable, being here felt like being closer to him. 

You woke slowly in Robby’s bed, stretching, your arms reaching across the wide empty space beside you, brushing cool fabric where another body should be. Where his body could be. Your mind, still hazy with sleep, slipped easily into the daydream that’d been growing stronger every night you’d spent here. It started innocent enough, but it never stayed that way for long. Not when it was about Robby.

You imagined him waking up first, he’d roll toward you, sliding one arm across your waist, pulling you back against his chest before you were fully awake. His beard would tickle the back of your neck as he pressed a lazy kiss there. “Morning,” he’d murmur softly, just for you. 

You’d feel the solid heat of him all along your back, his hand splayed wide over your stomach, tracing idle circles. Tangled together like that, just the two of you in this big. You turned onto your side, hugging his pillow tighter, letting the fantasy unfold in vivid detail. In the daydream, you’d stay like that for long minutes, your bodies warm, your legs intertwined. Eventually, he’d kiss your shoulder, then your jaw, then your mouth, slow at first, then deeper, the kind of kiss that said he’d been thinking about you all night too. He’d slip his hand under the hem of whatever shirt you’d stolen from his drawer, and you’d arch into him, whispering his name, Michael, because in this version of your life, you got to call him that.

Then came the moment where you two would shower together. In your mind, steam filled the bathroom as he guided you under the spray. He’d wash your hair first, massaging your scalp with surprising gentleness. You’d return the favor, soaping his broad chest, tracing the lines of his soft muscles. His hands would wander down your back, over your hips, pulling you close so you could feel exactly how much he wanted you. The kiss under the water would turn heated as he lifted you just enough to press you against the cool tile, his mouth on your throat, your collarbone, and then lower.

Breakfast would come after, because Robby was the kind of man who made sure you ate. You imagined the two of you in his fancy kitchen, still damp from the shower, wearing nothing but robes. He’d stand at the stove flipping eggs or pancakes, competent here too. You’d lean against the island, stealing bites from his plate, and he’d pretend to be annoyed before pulling you in for another kiss. He’d ask about your patients from the day before, really listen when you vent about a difficult one or a missed diagnosis, offering advice without ever making you feel small. “You’re good at this,” he’d say, the same way he did in the pitt, but here it would mean something deeper. “I see how hard you work.”

The fantasy deepened as the day progressed in your mind. You pictured coming home together after a long shift. Both of you exhausted, walking through the front door at the same time. He’d drop his backpack in the foyer, pull you into a hug right there against the door, murmuring, “You did good today.” Then the two of you would unwind, maybe a glass of wine on the balcony if the weather was nice, or just collapsing on that big couch with takeout and whatever was on the TV. 

He’d rub your feet without being asked, those clever hands working out the knots from hours on the floor. Conversation would flow easily, and he’d open up to you in ways he didn’t with anyone else, because you were the one he chose, the one he trusted. And at night… Your breath caught as the daydream turned explicitly intimate. You imagined him fucking you right here, in this very bed. In the fantasy, the room was dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp. Robby would be above you, shirtless, his body moving, kissing down your neck, your breasts, your stomach, murmuring praise against your skin. “That’s it… just like that.” His hands would grip your hips with strength, guiding you exactly where he wanted you. When he finally pushed inside, it would be deep, locking his eyes on yours so you could see every flicker of pleasure cross his face. 

He’d talk you through it, telling you how good you felt, how long he’d wanted this, how perfect you were for him. The rhythm would build slowly, then faster, the headboard knocking softly against the wall as you both chased release. He’d make sure you came first, always, because that was who Robby was, attentive, making sure everyone in his care is taken care of. Afterward, he’d pull you against his chest, both of you sweaty and sated, stroking patterns down your spine with his fingers while he kissed your temple and whispered that he loved you.

You lay there in the quiet house, with your heart racing and your thighs pressed together as the fantasy lingered. It felt so real you could almost hear his laugh, almost feel the scrape of his beard against your inner thigh, almost taste the salt on his skin after a long day. In this imagined life, the pitt still existed, but it was not the only thing. There was balance. There was him waiting at home, there was someone who saw how hard you tried, who respected your mind and wanted your body, and chose you every single day.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, a secret smile tugging at your lips. You know it was just a daydream. Robby was somewhere on the road, and he had his own complications: Noelle, the weight he carried from work, the reasons why he needed to leave. But God, it felt good to imagine. To pretend the capable, handsome man who taught you everything might one day love you back the way you already loved him.

As the days passed, they blurred together in Robby’s house. Mornings started with coffee in his kitchen, you watered the plants on the windowsill, collected the mail, and kept the place neat, exactly as a house-sitter should. And every few days, you texted him.

You: Plants are thriving. They all have new leaves out.

You: Got your mail sorted. It was mostly junk anyway

You: Shift was brutal today. I hope you’re having a better time than we are, lol

You: I stocked your fridge this morning. Took the liberty of throwing out your expired milk.

No replies, not a single one. The silence gnawed at you more than you wanted to admit. Every unanswered message tightened the knot in your chest. You started keeping your phone volume up at work, checking it obsessively between patients, but the screen stayed dark. By the end of week three, the worry had settled into something heavier, you needed to talk to someone before it ate you alive.

You texted Trinity on a rare mutual off-day: Hey, want to come over for dinner? Robby’s kitchen is actually decent. No ramen for you tonight.

Her reply came fast: Hell yes. Address?

She showed up at seven sharp, carrying a six-pack of beer and a suspicious look on her face.“Damn,” she whistled as she stepped inside, scanning the open living room and kitchen. “Robby’s got taste. This place is way nicer than our shoebox. You’re basically living the dream.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s temporary. Come on, I made pasta, Robby had this really expensive spaghetti.”

You both ate at the kitchen island while Trinity tore into the food like she hadn’t seen a meal that wasn’t cheap ramen in days. Between bites, she teased you mercilessly about the setup. “So,” she said, smirking as she twirled pasta on her fork, “how’s it feel sleeping in Robby’s bed every night? Bet you’ve got a little shrine to him in there. A picture of his face on the nightstand?”

Your face heated instantly. “I’m not… It’s just a better mattress.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned forward. “You’ve had a crush on Robby since like, week two. And now you’re living in his house, sleeping in his sheets… Have you gone through his drawers yet? Found anything interesting?”

You thought about the condoms in the nightstand and quickly shoved the image away. “Shut up.”

“Oh, I’m just starting.” Her grin turned wicked. “Be honest. Are you writing little fanfictions in your head every night? Chapter one: Dr. Robinavitch comes home early and finds you in his bed, wearing nothing but his scrubs. Chapter two: He teaches you a very hands-on lesson in anatomy.”

You laughed despite the heat flooding your face. “Shut up. It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh. So no wet dreams in the sacred chief bed? No imagining him coming back all rugged from the road, pulling you close and—”

“Trinity!” You threw a dish towel at her, which she caught one-handed with a cackle. “We are not doing this.” The teasing faded as you pushed your plate away and finally voiced what’d been weighing on you. “I’ve been texting him updates about the house,” you admitted quietly. “Little stuff. How the plants are doing, mail, and how work is. He hasn’t replied once. Not in three weeks. I’m starting to get worried. What if something happened?”

She waved a hand dismissively, cracking open another beer. “He’s on his magical self-discovery motorcycle trip, right? Riding across the country, finding inner peace, growing a long beard, all that crap. Guy probably hasn’t charged his phone in days. Or he’s in some dead zone in head-smashed-in-buffalo-whatever.”

You fidgeted with the label on your bottle. “Yeah, but… what if he crashed? Or worse? I keep thinking about how tired he looked before he left. He… he didn’t look like himself.”

Trinity leveled you with a steady gaze. “If something happened to him, we would’ve found out by now. Someone from the pitt would know. Abbot, or the hospital admin, someone would’ve called. Relax. He’s coming back. It’s only three months, remember?”

You nodded, but the knot in your chest didn’t fully loosen. Trinity watched you for a beat, then kicked your foot lightly under the island. “Hey. He trusts you enough to give you his keys. That’s not nothing. Just keep the place nice, water the damn plants, and stop spiraling. When he gets back, you can hand over the keys and go back to staring at him longingly like normal.”

You managed a small laugh. “Thanks for the reality check.”

“Anytime.” She clinked her bottle against yours. “Remember, he asked you because you’re reliable as hell and not a total disaster. Not because he wants daily check-ins. Give the man space. He’ll come back when he’s ready, probably with a new tattoo and some profound life lesson about not letting the pitt eat your soul.”

The conversation drifted back to work, to hospital gossip, to Garcia cancelling her last “date”. For a few hours, the big empty place felt less lonely. But later, after she left and you locked the door behind her, you climbed the stairs and slipped into Robby’s bed again. You pulled out your phone one last time.

You: Santos came over for dinner. No crazy parties, just pasta and a few beers. Miss having you around to keep us all in line.

You: Text me back when you see this. Just wanna know you’re safe.

Another week passed. It’d been a month now since you started living in Robby’s place. Every night you slid into his king bed, wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts you “borrowed” from the closet and a pair of simple panties. The shirt was huge on you, soft from many washes, and you told yourself you wore them because it was just practical. Tonight was no different, you showered, pulled on his shirt, and crawled under the duvet.

Sleep came fast, deep, and dreamless for once. Until it didn’t. A soft sound pulled you out, floorboards creaking in the hallway, the click of the bedroom door opening wider. You snapped your eyes open in the darkness, your heart slamming into your ribs before your brain could catch up. A tall shadow moved near the doorway, someone was in the room.

You screamed instinctively and bolted upright in bed, clutching the duvet to your chest. The shadow froze, and a familiar voice cut through the dark. 

“Shit—hey, it’s me. It’s Robby.” The scream died in your throat. He flicked the bedside lamp on a second later, bathing the room in a warm light. And there he was, standing just inside the doorway, his duffel bag dropped at his feet, his motorcycle jacket still zipped halfway, his dark hair tousled like he’d been riding for hours. His beard was a little longer and scruffier than when he left.

Your heart was still hammering inside your chest. “Robby?”

He raised both hands slowly with his palms out. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you’d be staying in the guest room. I was just going to drop my bag and crash.”

You stared at him, your brain scrambling to catch up with all this new information. He was here. He was here early. The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, and it’d barely been one. “What are you doing here? It’s only been a month.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, looking a little uncertain. “I know. I just… decided to come back early. The road was good for a while, but it turned out I missed the noise more than I thought I would.” He flicked his eyes around the room, taking in the book still on the nightstand where he left it, the slight disarray of clothes you’d left draped over the chair, the way the bed was clearly occupied. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.”

You were suddenly painfully aware of how you looked. Sitting up in his bed, your hair messy from sleep, wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt and a pair of black panties underneath. The hem of the shirt had ridden up your thighs. Heat flooded your face as you tug the duvet higher, clutching it like a shield. “I’m so sorry… I just… I liked this mattress better. The guest room one is fine, but this one is softer, and I sleep better after bad shifts and—I swear I was obviously gonna wash the sheets before you came back. I’m really sorry, I know I should’ve stuck to the guest room, I crossed a line—”

“Relax,” Robby said gently. He took a small step closer, then stopped, like he was giving you space. “It’s fine. It’s not such a big deal. You’ve been taking care of the place. The plants look good. It’s still standing. I appreciate it.” He glanced toward the hallway. “I’ll go stay in the guest room tonight. Give you some privacy to… go back to sleep.”

He started to turn, reaching for his duffel. “Wait,” you blurted out, the word tumbling out before you could stop it. The relief crashed over you so hard it stole your breath, because he was here, and he was safe. No wrecked motorcycle on some remote highway, no disappearing into the darkness he was carrying when he left. Just Robby, standing in his own bedroom, looking tired but whole. “I’m so glad you’re back. And you’re safe. I was really worried… You didn’t answer any of my texts. Not once. I thought maybe something happened, or the sabbatical was… I don’t know. I missed having you at the pitt. Everything felt a little off without you there.”

You pushed the duvet aside and climbed out of bed before your brain could talk you out of it. The shirt fell to mid-thigh, but it was obvious what you were wearing underneath. You crossed the room in three quick steps and wrapped your arms around him in a hug. It was awkward. God, it was so awkward. You’d never had any kind of physical interaction with Robby before, not beyond the occasional shoulder brush during a resuscitation or the professional pat on the back after a good save. He was your chief, your mentor, and also the man you’d been secretly fantasizing about while sleeping in his bed. 

Your arms went around his waist, pressing your cheek against his chest through the leather jacket, and you held on tighter than you probably should. His body was solid and warm under your hands, broader than you even imagined in all those daydreams. Robby stiffened for half a second with surprise. You felt his hands hovering uncertainly at your sides, not quite returning the hug but not pushing you away either. His breath caught just slightly when he registered exactly what you were wearing: his shirt, and the bare skin of your thighs brushing against his jeans. 

He tried very hard not to react, you could tell his jaw was tight, his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. But you didn’t let go. The relief of seeing him alive was too big, too overwhelming. He was back, safe and sound, with you. You buried your face a little deeper against his chest. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

You stayed wrapped around him in that awkward, desperate hug. This was it. The only real opportunity you’d ever had to be this close to Robby. Before you could talk yourself out of it, before the rational part of your brain could intervene, you tilted your head up, rose onto your toes, and kissed him.

Your lips met his softly at first, tentative but determined. Robby didn’t react immediately. His body stayed tense under your hands, his shoulders rigid and his arms still hovering uncertainly. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t exactly kiss you back either. His mouth remained still against yours, unresponsive, like he was processing the sudden shift to this unexpected intimacy. 

You didn’t stop, this might be your only chance, so you pressed closer, sliding one hand up to the back of his neck, threading your fingers gently into his brown, slightly overgrown hair. Your lips moved against his with soft and slow kisses that begged him to respond. 

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then full on again, pouring every unspoken “I’ve wanted this” into the contact. You could feel the internal war in the way his breath hitched, but he finally settled his hands lightly on your waist, resting there as if he was deciding what the hell to do with his resident currently kissing him in his own bedroom while wearing his clothes.

The silence between kisses felt deafening, broken only by the soft sound of your mouths meeting and your own quickened breathing. But you kept going, kissing him deeper, tilting your head, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips in a plea. Another kiss, slower this time, molding your body against his taller frame. The hug had dissolved into something else entirely, your chest was pressed to his, one of your legs shifting slightly between his as you tried to get even closer. The fantasy versions of this moment flooded your mind: his big and strong hands on you, his voice murmuring praises, the weight of him in this very bed. You wanted it so badly it ached.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Robby reacted. A rough sound escaped his throat, and his mouth finally moved against yours. He started kissing you back. Tentatively at first, then with growing certainty. He parted his lips, meeting your rhythm, the scrape of his beard intensifying as he angled his head to deepen the kiss. It wasn’t gentle anymore, it felt like pure hunger.

Robby tightened his hands on your waist, then slid them lower, one of them cupping your ass over the fabric of your panties, digging his fingers in with just enough pressure to make your breath catch. He massaged the soft flesh slowly, kneading it in circles that pulled you harder against him. The other hand joined soon after, both palms gripping and squeezing, lifting you slightly onto your toes as he explored the curve with appreciation.

His touch was confident, brushing the edge of your underwear, spreading your buttcheeks to claim more of you. Each squeeze sent heat straight between your legs, your body was responding instantly to the contrast between his rough hands and your soft skin. Robby kissed you harder now, sliding his tongue against yours in a stroke that made your knees weak. The kiss turned messy, heated, as he tilted your head back, taking control of your entire body. 

Flushed against his body, you felt the growing hardness pressing through his jeans, and it made you moan softly into his mouth, the sound swallowed by another deep kiss. You tugged his hair with your fingers, hard enough to draw another groan from him.

With surprising strength, he walked you backward a few steps toward the bed. The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you tumbled down onto the rumpled sheets. Robby followed immediately, climbing over you with grace, his taller frame caging you in without crushing you. The weight of him above you was everything you’d fantasized about and more, it felt solid and warm, but most importantly, it was finally real.

He didn’t say a word, but his mouth found yours again in a deep, consuming kiss as he settled his hips between your parted thighs. The denim of his jeans pressed against your bare skin, and you arched up into him instinctively, sliding your hands under his jacket to grip the back of his shirt, but Robby was already moving, breaking the kiss only long enough to grip the hem of the t-shirt you’re wearing, and tugged it upward. You lifted your arms willingly as the fabric slid up your body and over your head. 

The cool air hit your bare breasts, and he found your nipples already tight from how aroused his kisses had gotten you. Robby tossed the shirt aside without looking, dropping his now dark eyes to your chest with hunger. Still silent, he lowered his head, closing his mouth over one breast, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak before he sucked it deeply. The sensation made your back bow off the bed, a moan escaping you as he worked your nipple with pulls. 

His free hand came up to the other side, cupping and massaging your flesh with his large palm, brushing his thumb back and forth over the hardened nipple, rolling it gently before pinching just enough to make you gasp. The contrast was overwhelming, on one side the wet heat of his mouth sucking and licking one breast, while on the other side, his rough hand working the peak in firm strokes.

Your hands flew to his hair, threading through the strands, holding him to you as waves of pleasure rolled through your body. This was Robby, your Robby, not the one from your perfect fantasies, but the real one, the one you’d been in love with for two long years, the one who’d taught you everything you knew, now devouring your tits with hunger.

He switched sides without pause, latching his mouth onto the neglected breast while he continued massaging the first, slick with his saliva. The suction was perfect, deep pulls that made your toes curl, then flicking his tongue rapidly over the bud before he sucking it again, harder. You were panting, soft cries falling from your lips as the ecstasy kept building. This was really happening. The man you’d fantasized about while sleeping in his bed, was finally touching you.

Robby’s free hand began a slow, inevitable descent. It trailed down your side, over the curve of your hip, hooking his fingers briefly under the waistband of your black panties before sliding lower. He cupped your pussy with his palm, over the fabric first, applying enough pressure that made you jerk your hips up into his touch. He rubbed you there in broad circles, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit while his fingers stroked along your covered folds. The fabric quickly grew more and more damp under his touch, and the friction became maddening, teasing, but never quite enough.

It was better than every daydream, every stolen fantasy while you wore his shirts and pretended to be his woman while lying in his sheets. Tears of pure overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes as you moaned his name softly “Robby…” but he still didn’t speak.

He finally slipped his hand inside your panties. Two fingers gliding through your slick folds, parting them with care. He gathered the wetness there, spreading it upward to circle your swollen clit in strokes that got your thighs trembling. The pleasure was sharp, and it made you chase the contact right away, bucking your hips against his hand. Robby responded by pressing harder, rubbing tight circles around your clit before sliding lower again. 

One finger teased your entrance, circling it once, then twice, then slowly pushing inside you, stretching you open with a smooth thrust. You cried out in response, arching your entire body as his finger filled your hole. He curled it expertly, stroking that spot inside while his thumb continued working your clit in a steady rhythm. He added a second finger after a moment, stretching you further. Suddenly, the wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of your soaked pussy were filling the quiet bedroom.

His fingers were thrusting faster now, he was curling and scissoring them gently enough not to hurt you, but deep so you could feel every inch of them. You fisted your hands in his hair, rolling your hips desperately against his hand as moans spilled freely from your lips. You were so wet it was embarrassing, shaking, gasping, whimpering, completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure of finally having the man you loved touching you so intimately, so expertly. Tears slipped down your temples from the sheer intensity of it all. 

“Oh my God, Robby…” you gasped before your voice broke as the pleasure coiled tighter in your core. “It feels so good… your fingers… fuck, they’re so deep. I’ve wanted this for so long… wanted you for so long…”

He didn’t answer with words, but his response was immediate. He curled his fingers deeper against that spongy spot inside you, stroking it with precision while he pressed the heel of his hand harder on your clit. His mouth switched to your other breast, sucking deeply, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks shooting down your spine.

“I want you so much,” you moaned, tightening your fingers in his brown hair. “You’re so good… so fucking good at this. Please don’t stop… I’ve dreamed about you touching me like this… God, Robby, I’m so close—”

The pressure built until the point of unbearably, until it finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity. A broken cry tore from your throat as waves of ecstasy ripped through your body. Your pussy clenched rhythmically around his fingers, pulsing and fluttering as he kept stroking you through it, drawing out every last shudder out of your climaxing body. Your thighs were shaking violently around his hips, your toes curling, your vision whiting out for a few blissful seconds. It was this intense, and overwhelming bliss taking over you because it was Robby making you cum, it was finally him.

He didn’t stop until the last aftershocks faded, only then did he gradually slow his fingers, gentling their movements as your breathing evened out. Robby eased his hand from your panties, leaving you slick, pulsing, and utterly spent in the best way.

You watched him sitting back on his heels for a moment, looking down at you, flushed, bare-chested, panties askew, legs still trembling. Without a word, he reached for the zipper of his jacket and shrugged it off, tossing it toward the chair in the corner of his room. His shirt followed quickly, revealing the broad chest and arms you’ve only ever glimpsed under scrubs. His chest was dusted with a perfect scattering of silvery-gray hair that looked impossibly soft against his skin. Not too much, not too little, just enough to scream man in the most intoxicating way. Your fingers itched to touch it, to feel the texture of it beneath your palms, to press your face against the heat of him and breathe him in.

Your gaze drifted lower, and heat flooded your entire body. A soft, rounded belly curved gently over the waistband of his pants. God, the sight of it made your mouth go dry with want. You’d imagined this so many times, running your hands over that giving flesh, digging your fingers in just to feel how real he was, pulling him closer until that belly pressed flush against you, skin to skin. A dark, tempting happy trail started just below his navel and disappeared beneath his waistband, leading exactly where your mind had already gone. 

Then his hands moved to his belt. He pushed his jeans and boxers down in one smooth motion, kicking them off the edge of the bed. His cock sprang free, looking thick and heavy, and already fully hard. It was huge, both in length and girth, the head flushed dark and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. The shaft was veined and perfectly proportioned, curving slightly upward in a way that made your mouth water and your freshly-orgasmed pussy clench with need. It was gorgeous. Intimidating and beautiful at the same time, exactly like the rest of him.

Your breath got caught at the sight, the heat flooded your face and core all over again as you stared, unable to look away. This was Robby’s cock, big, hard, and ready for you after all those lonely nights imagining it. He leaned toward the nightstand, the same one where you’d once nervously discovered the box of condoms, and opened the drawer. He pulled out a foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth in a quick motion. You almost wanted to beg him to skip it, to fuck you raw, to feel every inch of him skin-to-skin, filling you completely without any barrier. 

The words hovered on your tongue, “Please, Robby, I want you bare… I want to feel all of you,” but they stayed trapped behind your lips as he rolled the condom down his impressive length with steady hands, sheathing himself completely. Once the condom was securely in place, Robby settled back between your thighs, one hand bracing beside your head while the other gripped the base of his cock. The thick head nudged against your slick entrance, teasing your folds with shallow strokes that made you twitch with anticipation.

He finally broke his silence, his voice gravelly from arousal. Robby locked his brown eyes onto yours. “Are you sure?”

You nodded quickly. “Yes… I’m sure. Please, Robby.”

That was all he needed. Robby pushed forward slowly, only the head of his cock parting your slick folds and sinking into you inch by inch. The stretch was intense, his girth filling you so completely that your mouth fell open in a silent gasp. He was huge, and even with the latex barrier you felt every ridge and vein as he pressed deeper, until his hips were flush against your ass and he was buried to the hilt inside your pussy.

A rough groan escaped his throat, the first real sound he’d made since he started kissing you back. He dropped his eyes immediately to your breasts, watching them rise and fall with your quick breaths, the flesh still glistening from his mouth. He stayed there for a long moment, buried deep, letting you adjust to his size while his gaze stayed fixed on the way your tits moved every time you inhaled.

Then he started to move, his thrusts began slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with force. The wet sound of your pussy taking his thick cock filled the room as each stroke dragged against that perfect spot inside you, making moans spill from your lips. 

His grip tightened on your hips, his thrusts growing just a fraction harder. “It feels so good,” you whimpered, breathy and broken. “You’re so deep… so big… God, Robby, I’ve wanted you inside me for so long… You don’t know how many times I imagined this.”

He answered with another groan and a particularly deep thrust that made your toes curl. His pace stayed steady, with strong strokes that rocked the bed beneath you, making the headboard tap against the wall in time with his movements. 

You craved his eyes on yours. In this raw, breathless moment, more than anything, you wanted Robby to see you. Not just your body, but the way he was unraveling you, the overwhelming pleasure flooding your veins, the terrifying depth of what this meant to you. You wanted to lock gazes with him while he moved inside you, to share this perfect, fragile second and know he felt even a fraction of what you did. But he wouldn’t give it to you. His eyes stayed glued to your chest, mesmerized by the way your breasts bounced and jiggled with every deep thrust. 

His jaw was tight, lips slightly parted, breath coming in grunts each time your bodies slammed together. Every so often, he dropped his gaze lower, fixated on the filthy sight of his thick cock sliding in and out of you, your slick, swollen lips stretching obscenely around his shaft, glistening with your arousal. The visual seemed to rip a primal sound from his throat almost involuntary.

The lack of eye contact stung even as it turned you on. It felt like he was hiding. Protecting himself. Keeping this physical, safe, compartmentalized, the same way he kept everything else. Without thinking, your hands flew up to his face. You cupped his bearded cheeks, your palms warm against his flushed skin, and you gently but firmly tilted his head up. For one devastating heartbeat, his eyes met yours. The connection hit like a spark, you saw the storm in him. Your own eyes were glassy, brimming with tears of overwhelming pleasure and emotion. In that single second, everything felt exposed. 

Then his lashes fluttered, Robby squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face down again, breaking the connection. His hips never faltered, if anything, they drove into you harder, deeper, as if he could fuck away whatever had just passed between you. He dropped his forehead to rest against your shoulder, while locking his gaze once more onto the hypnotic bounce of your breasts and the joining of your bodies.

Robby suddenly pulled out, making you whine at the sudden emptiness you felt without his cock filling your insides, but before you could complain any more, he was already moving you. He used his strong hands to flip you onto your stomach, then gripped your hips and pulled your ass up so you were on your knees now, with your chest still pressed to the mattress. This new position left you completely exposed, with your ass raised, your back arched, and your used pussy dripping and ready for him.

He didn’t hesitate, just lined himself up and thrusted back in with one powerful stroke, burying himself even deeper than before. Like this, Robby could hit spots inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A moan ripped from your throat as he bottomed out, pressing his hips flush against your ass, his cock was so deep it felt like he was reaching the deepest parts of you.

“Fuuuck—” he groaned. From behind, the fucking became even deeper. “Goddamn it,” the words were barely leaving his mouth as he drove into you harder.

Robby was gripping your hips tightly, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust, until his pelvis met your ass in a punishing rhythm. Each stroke felt long and powerful, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making the tip of his cock drag perfectly against your g-spot over and over.

You were crying out with every thrust. “Robby—oh God, it’s so deep… you’re so deep like this… don’t stop—”

He groaned again, louder this time, and quickened his pace, snapping forward with more urgency. Robby pressd one hand between your shoulder blades to keep your chest down while he kept the other clamped on your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you. He stayed mostly quiet, other than for his broken groans, and occasional curses

“Shit.” He let out when your pussy clenched around him particularly tightly. “Fuck.” The words escaped his lips, almost as if he didn’t mean to let them out.

His breathing grew ragged, the slap of his hips against your ass growing louder and faster. Robby kept staring down, at the way your tits were squished against the mattress and jiggling with every thrust, at the sight of his cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy, your ass rippling every time he bottomed out.

“I’m yours… I’ve always been yours,” you whispered breathlessly as he pounded into you. “Cum for me, please… I need to feel it. Cum inside me.”

“Fuck me…” He cursed under his breath as he lost his rhythm for a moment. This angle allowed the head of his cock to grind against that spot inside you until you were shaking.

The way you shook, the way your pussy fluttered and pulsed around him, it made his rhythm falter more and more, his thrusts were  becoming shorter, harder, more desperate. Robby tightened his grip on your hips almost painfully as he drove into you again and again. With a final, deep groan, he finally came.

His hips stuttered and he pressed them flush against your ass, spilling inside the condom. His release was warm, and you could feel the pulses even through the latex. His cock throbbed deep inside you, shuddering as he rode out his orgasm with several shallow and grinding thrusts. Low sounds escaped his throat, groans and curses, while he kept you pinned in place, holding you tight as he emptied himself.

He stayed buried inside you for several long seconds afterward, breathing hard against your back. When he pulled out, the loss of him made you whimper softly, you felt empty once again. You heard the snap of latex as he pulled the used condom off, tying it quickly and tossing it into the trash bin beside the nightstand. 

The mattress shifted as he climbed off the bed. His bare feet pad across the floor toward the master bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, but you still didn’t move. You stayed lying there on your stomach, with your cheek against his pillow. From the bathroom, you heard the steady stream as he peed. The faucet running. The rustle of paper towels or a cloth. The toilet flushing. He was cleaning himself up, wiping away the evidence of what you two had done, washing his hands, probably splashing water on his face. 

You closed your eyes and let the reality settle over you. This had really happened. Robby came back, he kissed you back, and you two slept together.

The bathroom door opening again snapped you back into reality. Robby walked back into the bedroom completely naked, he didn’t look at you directly, his expression was unreadable… tired, maybe a little distant. He didn’t say anything, simply lifted the edge of the duvet on his side of the bed, and climbed in. 

As he settled onto his back, Robbby rested one arm across his stomach, the other by his side. He stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds, there was no reaching for you, no pulling you against his chest, no soft kiss to your shoulder or murmured “come here.” The space between your bodies stayed empty, with several inches of sheet separating you.

You stayed on your stomach, turned slightly toward him, watching him from the corner of your eye. Part of you wanted to scoot closer, to curl into his side, to feel his arm wrapped around you the way it did in all your daydreams. But you didn’t.

Robby’s voice finally broke the quiet, barely above a murmur. “You need anything? Water?”

You swallowed, feeling your throat dry from all the moaning and gasping earlier. “No… I’m okay. Thanks.”

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. That was it. No further conversation, no questions about what this meant, no acknowledgment of the fact that you were sleeping in his bed, or that you just had intense sex in the middle of the night. 

Robby exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting shut. Within minutes, his breathing evened out completely, and he fell asleep fast, just like that. One moment, he was awake beside you, the next his face had softened into sleep. 

You lay there watching him for a long time. The king bed felt enormous with the two of you in it, but not touching, no cuddling, no spooning. Just the two of you sharing the same space after something that felt life-altering to you and… something else entirely to him. The fantasy had been so vivid: waking up tangled together, his arms around you, soft morning kisses. Reality was quieter, messier, more distant. 

You woke the next morning, and for a disoriented second, the events of last night felt like one of your daydreams. The pleasant ache between your thighs and the faint soreness in your hips confirmed it was real. Very real. But the bed beside you was empty. The sheets on Robby’s side were rumpled but cool, no warm body, no arm draped anywhere near you.

Your clothes from last night were scattered. You found the black panties twisted near the foot of the bed and pulled them on, then located the t-shirt you’d been wearing and slipped it over your head. After running your fingers through your messy hair and splashing water on your face in the bathroom, you headed downstairs. Robby was standing at the island, back to you, dressed in jeans and a plain dark t-shirt, his hair still damp from a shower, and his beard looking a little neater than it did when he arrived last night. 

He turned when he heard your footsteps. There was no awkward smile, no heated glance over your body in his shirt. Just a small nod of acknowledgment. “Morning,” he said. “House looks good. You took real good care of the place. Thanks for that. Appreciate it.”

The words were simple, professional, the same tone he used when you two were at the pitt. You stepped into the kitchen, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “You’re welcome. It was… nice, getting a little break from Trin… don’t tell her I said that.”

He nodded again, taking a sip of his coffee, leaning back against the counter. You gathered your courage. “Why did you come back so soon? Wasn’t your sabbatical supposed to be three months?”

Robby drifted his gaze to the window, overlooking the backyard for a long moment. He set the mug down, tapping his fingers once against the granite. “Just…  wanted to end it.”

You blinked, processing his words. “You mean… the trip to end?” 

He stayed quiet for a while, longer than felt natural. You watched the way his jaw clenched, like he was chewing on the words before deciding how much to give you. Finally, he said, simply, “Yeah.” The vagueness sat between you two. 

The sabbatical was supposed to help with that heaviness you knew he was carrying, but he never named it outright. Coming back after only a month didn’t feel like success. You leaned against the opposite side of the island, trying to keep your voice light, but you sounded concerned anyway. “Are you gonna start working again? Back at the pitt?”

“Probably,” he answered, still not elaborating. 

You nodded, pushing a little more. “Did you… find what you were looking for out there? On the road?”

Robby flicked his eyes to yours briefly, then away. He shrugged one shoulder, the movement tight. “Found some quiet. Some miles. That’s about it.”

The answers were so vague they felt like deflections. You could see the exhaustion lingering in the wrinkles around his eyes, the way his shoulders carried so much tension even in his own kitchen. The worry you’d been holding since his unanswered texts bubbled up. 

You softened your voice. “Are you okay, Robby?”

He looked at you then, really looked, with those warm brown eyes that could undo you in just a second. A small, tired half-smile touches his mouth, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m here, right?”

You shook your head gently, not letting him off that easy. “That doesn’t really answer my question.” 

For a second, something flickered across his face, maybe acknowledgment, maybe irritation at being pushed, but it smoothed out quickly. He picked up his mug again, taking a slow sip before setting it in the sink. “You should get going. You’re gonna be late for shift.”

The dismissal was polite, but clear. He didn’t want to have no deeper conversation, no processing last night. The distance he was putting between you two this morning, and his careful vagueness made everything feel unsteady. “Yeah… okay.” You paused, then added quietly, “I’ll pick up my stuff when I get back from shift.”

“Thank you again for taking such good care of the place. I appreciate it more than you know.” Robby paused, like he was remembering something. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small object, a simple metal keychain with a little buffalo charm attached. “Wait,” he said, holding it out to you. “Got you something.”

You took the keychain, turning it over in your palm. It was surprisingly thoughtful, it meant Robby thought of you enough to pick this up somewhere along the road and bring it back. He brought you a gift. You felt special once again, the way you did the night he first asked you to stay here. “Thank you,” you said softly, closing your fingers around it. “I really like it.”

He gave you a small shrug, almost dismissive, but there was a faint softening around his eyes. “Least I could do.”

You clutched the keychain a little tighter, gathering the courage to say more. “I’m really glad you’re back, Robby. The pitt needed you. It felt… different without you there. We all missed having you around.”

Robby leaned against the island. “I’m sure the place still stood. It’s bigger than just me. You all did fine.”

“Maybe,” you replied, stepping a little closer. “But we still missed you. The place feels steadier when you’re there. I missed you. I was worried when you didn’t answer any of my texts.. I thought maybe something happened on the road. I kept checking my phone like an idiot.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Yeah… sorry about that. Wasn’t really in the headspace for replying. Didn’t mean to make you worry.”

You nodded, accepting the half-apology even though it didn’t fully ease the knot in your chest. “Well… I should leave for work,” you said finally, gesturing toward the door. “Give you the house back. Let you settle in.”

Robby straightened, nodding once. “Yep. Thanks again.”

You slipped the keychain onto your own keys, the little buffalo charm dangling beside your apartment key. It felt special, proof that he thought of you while he was gone, but the lack of any reference to the intimacy you shared last night left an empty ache in its place. “Take care of yourself, Robby. If you need anything… I’m around.”

He gave you another small nod. The house felt both familiar after a month living there, but suddenly foreign again. You turned and headed back upstairs to change into your clothes for the day. Last night had felt like a crack in the wall he kept so carefully maintained, but this morning, that wall was back in place.

A week had passed since you’d slept with Robby, and your mind still wouldn’t let you rest. Every quiet moment replayed it like a fever dream you couldn’t shake. The weight of his body pressing you into the mattress. The rough hunger in his hands as they roamed over your skin, like a man who’d been starving for a month on the road and finally found relief. You could still feel the scrape of his beard, the heat of his breath, the way his fingers had dug into your hips hard enough to leave faint bruises you’d traced alone in the shower the next morning. But the memory that hurt the most was the way he’d refused to look at you. Even buried deep inside you, moving with that rhythm that had you crying out his name, Robby never once met your gaze. And when you’d forced him to, just for that fleeting second… he’d shut down. Closed his eyes, and turned you away. 

Then came the cold shoulder afterward. The way he’d rolled off you, cleaned up in silence, and acted the very next morning like nothing had happened. Polite but distant. As if the night had been nothing more than a physical release. Now seven days had gone by with no sign of him at work. No one seemed to know he was even back in town, only you and Trinity. The absence gnawed at you constantly, an anxious hum beneath your ribs that made it hard to breathe. 

You’d picked up your phone at least a dozen times, your thumb hovering over his contact. What could you even say? “Hey Robby, how are you? You coming back to work anytime soon? Do you still remember the way you fucked me until I cried… because I can’t stop replaying every second of it?”

Every draft felt wrong. Pushy, pathetic, and desperate. If he wanted to talk about that night, about anything, he would have reached out already. You knew him too well. The same man who deflected every question about his month away, who shrugged and changed the subject the moment you tried to ask how he was really doing… that man didn’t want to be reached. He was avoiding you the same way he avoided everything else that mattered.

You arrived early for your shift today, swiping your badge and pushing through the glass doors. You’d barely slept, Robby had invaded your thoughts all night long. You told yourself to focus, you were a second-year, you had patients to see, people whose lives depended on you. You could do this. But the moment you stepped into the ED, you felt the change.. Robby was already there.

He was back in his element like he’d never left, standing at the nurse station, reviewing a chart on one of the computers, giving instructions about an incoming transfer. You kept your distance at first, throwing yourself into your assigned cases, but every time you glanced over your shoulder, Robby was there. It should’ve felt good to finally have him back, to know he was okay. Instead, the memories of your night together twisted something painful in your chest.

Around mid-morning, during a brief lull between patients, you were charting when you heard their voices. Robby and Noelle. They were standing just outside the glass doors of the trauma room, partially hidden from the main floor but close enough that you could hear their conversation if you paid attention. 

Noelle was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, a playful smile on her face as she talked to him. “I knew you weren’t gonna last the full three months,” she said teasingly. “Motorcycle, open road, ‘finding yourself’, please. You made it what, five weeks? I should’ve put money on it.”

Robby let out a low chuckle, leaning one shoulder against the wall opposite her, his arms crossed in a mirror of her posture. “What can I say? Figured the pitt would fall apart without me.”

Noelle lauged softly, reaching out to lightly play with the collar of his scrubs. The gesture was casual, intimate in its smallness. She looked comfortable around him, familiarized, like two people who shared history. So different from the way you acted around him. “You should’ve told me you were back. I would’ve brought over dinner or something. Saved you from whatever sad frozen meals you’ve been eating.”

The flirting was effortless, and Robby didn’t pull away from the touch. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Dinner sounds better than the leftovers I found in the freezer. But I’m still catching up after a month away. I haven’t finished unpacking, needed a while to get settled.”

Your heart squeezed painfully. You remembered the way his hands felt on your bare skin, the way he touched you while kissing you, the deep thrusts that had you moaning into his pillow. And now he was standing here joking and flirting with Noelle like none of it happened.

Her smile widened. “Well, if you’re free tonight… my place? I’ve got that bottle of red you like. We can catch up properly.”

Robby paused for half a second, then shook his head with a small and regretful smile. “Can’t tonight. Still need to get settled at home. But Saturday… Saturday I’m free.”

Noelle’s eyes lighted up, clearly pleased. “Saturday it is. My place. I’ll text you the time.”

“Sounds good,” Robby replied, lingering his gaze on her a moment longer than necessary. They shared one more quiet laugh before Noelle pushed off the wall and headed back upstairs. 

He waas going back to her. The sex between you meant nothing to him. Not enough to mention, not enough to change anything. He’d fucked you, and then he went right back to his comfortable situationship with Noelle like it was the most natural thing in the world. No awkward conversation, no “we should talk”, no acknowledgment that he’d had his cock buried inside you less than a week ago. He gave you a silly little keychain as thanks for house-sitting, and now he was making Saturday plans with the woman everyone knows he’d been seeing.

The sadness hit you like a wave, suffocating. Your eyes burned, making you blink hard to force the tears back before anyone could see. This is what you got for letting the fantasy run wild while you slept in his bed. For believing, even for a moment, that the way he kissed you back, the way he touched you, the way he fucked you meant something more than a momentary lapse after a long, lonely ride home. 

Hours later, you stepped through the door of the cramped apartment you shared with Trinity. You’d kept your head down, done your job, and somehow made it through without breaking in front of anyone. But the moment you pulled into the parking lot outside your building, the tears you’d been swallowing all day started leaking out again. You kicked off your shoes in the tiny entryway and dropped your backpack with a thud. 

Trinity was sprawled on the couch in the living room, where she had been since you left, enjoying her day off from work with shitty reality shows in the TV she claimed to hate. She glanced up when she heard you, narrowing her eyes immediately. “Whoa. What the hell happened to you?” she asked, sitting up a little. “You look like you’ve been crying. You killed someone today or what?”

You hesitated in the doorway. Trinity was the closest you had to a friend, and right now, you needed someone to vent. “If I tell you,” you said quietly, “you can’t tell anyone. Not a single soul. Promise me.”

Trinity raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting from concern to skepticism. “Look, if you’re gonna be all dramatic and make me swear on my future fellowship or whatever, then maybe just don’t tell me. I don’t do secrets that come with conditions. Either spill or don’t. I’m not a priest.”

You stood there for a long moment, part of you wanted to retreat to your room and cry into your pillow alone. The other part, the part that’d been carrying this alone since last week, needed to say it out loud to someone. You walked over and sank onto the opposite end of the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest. 

“I slept with Robby.”

Trinity stared at you. Then she let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, right. Funny. Try again.”

“I’m serious,” you insisted, meeting her eyes. “I slept with Robby. For real.”

She studied your face, her smirk slowly fading as she registered how wrecked you look. “Wait… you’re actually serious? Like, with Robby? Our Robby?”

You nodded, swallowing past the lump in your throat. The words started spilling out slowly, the pace of the night replaying in your mind as you spoke. “The night he came back… I was already asleep in his bed. He walked in late, scared the shit out of me. I screamed, he apologized, we talked for a minute. Then I hugged him because I was so relieved he was safe. And… I don’t know what came over me. I kissed him. He didn’t kiss me back at first. He just stood there, but then he started kissing me and… we… we did it.”

You left out the explicit details, you didn’t need to paint the full picture. Her eyes were wide now, finally catching up on what you were telling her. “Holy shit. You actually slept with Robby.”

You nodded again, feeling the tears threatening to spill again. “Yeah. And the next morning he acted like nothing happened. He thanked me for taking care of the house, gave me this stupid little keychain he picked up on his trip as a thank-you gift, and that was it. No mention of the sex. Not a word. Then today at work… I saw him talking to Noelle.” Your voice cracked on the last part. “They were flirting… laughing, made plans together for this weekend. He’s going back to her,” you whispered, wiping at your eyes. “Like what happened between us meant absolutely nothing. He pretended it never happened, and now he’s making plans with Noelle like everything’s normal.”

Trinity was quiet for a long beat, then she leaned back against the couch, letting out a slow breath. Her tone was blunt, the way it always was when she was being brutally honest, no matter how much it might hurt you. “Okay. Real talk? He obviously regrets sleeping with you.”

The words landed on you like a slap. You flinched visibly, but she continued, not softening the truth behind her words. “Think about it. He comes back from a month on the road, probably horny as hell after being alone with his motorcycle in the middle of Canada. You’re there, in his house, in his literal bed. You basically offered him your pussy on a silver plate. Men are weak. They can’t say no to that, especially not when they’ve been away for weeks. It was a moment of weakness. He took it. And then in the morning he realized it was a mistake. That’s why he didn’t mention it. That’s why he’s acting like it never happened. He’s going back to Noelle because she’s the safe, familiar option.”

You stared at her, fresh tears spilling over. The sarcastic edge slipped out before you could stop it. “Wow. You’re a great friend, Trinity. Really uplifting.”

She shrugged, completely unfazed. “I’m honest. You know it’s true. I’m not gonna sit here and feed you some romantic bullshit just because you’re crying. You wanted the truth.”

You pulled your knees tighter to your chest, your voice breaking. “I thought it had been amazing. I felt… great. I thought he did too. The way he kissed me back, the way he touched me… it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt real.” 

Trinity gave you a long, almost pitying look. “He has a penis, of course it felt good for him. Men are simple creatures, you put a warm hole in front of them and they’ll take it every single time. That doesn’t mean it meant anything deep. It was just an easy fuck. He’s an older guy, been around the block dozens of times. He’s probably had plenty of good fucks in his life. This one happened to be convenient because you were literally living in his house. Doesn’t make it special.”

The tears came faster now, and you found yourself incapable of holding them back anymore. They rolled down your cheeks as the weight of her words sank in, mixing with your own exhaustion and the ache in your chest that’d been growing since that night.

“I really love him,” you whispered. “I’ve loved him for so long. Not just the sex. Him. The way he teaches, the way he looks out for everyone, how steady he is even when everything’s falling apart…”

Trinity groaned softly, running a hand over her face. “Are you seriously crying over Robby? Come on. He’s our boss. He’s emotionally unavailable, and clearly still tangled up with Noelle. You slept with him once, and now you’re devastated because he didn’t suddenly fall in love with you? That’s not how this works.” 

She didn’t move to hug you, she just sat there, watching you cry. You buried your face in your knees, your shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Trinity sighed after a long minute, softening her voice just a fraction. “Look… you’re gonna be okay. It sucks right now. But crying over Robby isn’t going to change the fact that he went right back to Noelle. You need to decide if you’re going to keep pining after him or if you’re going to pull it together and focus on not tanking your residency because your feelings got hurt.” 

You shook your head slowly. “I can’t just let it go now. We slept together, Trinity. It wasn’t some random thing. It was… it was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. The way he touched me, the way he looked at me… I felt like he saw me. Really saw me. Robby’s it for me. I’ve been in love with him for over a year, and now that it actually happened, I can’t pretend it didn’t.”

Trinity stared at you for a long beat, her expression unchanging. She let the silence stretch,  and when she finally spoke, it was as if she was explaining a difficult diagnosis to a patient who didn’t want to hear it. “Robby’s just a guy,” she said. “That’s the part you’re forgetting. He’s not some tortured romantic lead in whatever fanfic you’ve been writing in your head. Your brain is doing that thing where it confuses really intense emotions with really good sex. You built this whole fantasy while you were living in his house, sleeping in his bed, sniffing his cologne or whatever. Reality was just a quick fuck. Your hormones are lying to you right now.”

You felt the sting of her words like a slow burn spreading across your chest. “It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t convenient. It felt… real. I thought he felt it too.”

Trinity gave you a small, almost pitying shrug. “That’s the crush talking. You’re romanticizing it because you’ve wanted him for so long. But it was just a convenient nut for him. You really thought sleeping with him once after you basically ambushed him with a kiss was gonna change anything?”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. “So… he wants nothing to do with me?”

She snorted. “Obviously not. If he did, he would’ve said something that morning instead of handing you a touristy keychain. Let’s be real, he’s probably relieved you didn’t make it weird at work. And it’s kind of a miracle he’s lasted this long with Noelle anyway. The man has the emotional availability of a brick wall. You’re better off pretending it never happened and moving on before you make it awkward for both of you.”

You stared at the floor, tears slipping down your cheeks again, slower now but steady. After a long minute, you lifted your head again. “What does Noelle have that I don’t?”

Trinity let out a dry laugh. “Where should I start?” She shifted on the couch, turning more toward you, clearly settling in for the full list, like she was ticking off boxes one by one. “First off, she’s insanely pretty, put-together in a way we’re not. Noelle shows up at work in actual suits and high heels. She does her makeup, and she has that stupid ponytail with every single little hair in place. We roll in all sweaty and looking like we just ran a marathon and haven’t had a good night of sleep in ages.” 

You swallowed hard, wiping at your face again, but you didn’t interrupt. Trinity kept going, her tone matter-of-fact. “She has a good job. She’s closer in age to him, too. He wouldn’t want to deal with the drama of dating someone way younger who’s also his resident. Noelle gives him what he wants without any of the emotional baggage, that’s why he keeps coming back to her. She doesn’t look at him with puppy-dog eyes; meanwhile, you text him worried little updates about his house plants.” Trinity paused before she delivered the final blow. “You? You’re a complication. A big one. You’re emotionally involved. Like, deeply. Noelle is safe. You’re not. He’s not going to choose the complication. He’s going back to easy.”

The words hang in the air between you, each one landing heavier than the last. Your eyes burned again, but this time the tears fell silently, tracking down your cheeks without the full sobs from earlier. Part of you wanted to argue… to insist that the sex was more than that, that the way Robby gripped you and kissed you back meant something, but the exhaustion and the heartbreak made it hard to find the words. So you stayed quiet.

She reached over and patted your knee, a half-comfort gesture, the closest of comfort you could get. “That’s the truth,” she said simply. “Whether you want to hear it or not.”

You felt suddenly exposed and foolish. Robby was back at the pitt. He was making plans with Noelle. And you… You were just the stupid resident who thought one night could change everything.

The next day at the pitt feels like walking through a minefield. Your eyes were still a little puffy from last night’s conversation with Trinity, but you’d done your best with concealer and cold water. You kept repeating her words in your head like a mantra: focus on residency, stop the stupid crush, he’s just a guy. It didn’t help much. Every time you blinked, you still saw flashes of his body over yours.

Robby glanced up as you approached, offering you a small, professional nod. Nothing more. He stood there completely unaffected, while you were quietly falling apart, knowing the sex meant nothing to him. 

After working on a patient together, you and Robby were left alone for a moment while the trauma room cleared. You couldn’t stop the words from slipping out, trying to sound normal even though your chest ached with every heartbeat. “How have you been settling back in? It’s… really good to have you back here. The pitt feels different when you’re around.”

“It’s been okay. Still catching up on meetings. It feels weird… being back after a month away.” He offered you a polite smile before turning away, ready to leave the room.

Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you were sure he could feel it. This was it, now or never. Robby was standing right there in front of you, close enough to touch, if you didn’t speak now, you knew you never would. The words would rot inside you, unspoken, until they poisoned everything.

“I was meaning to ask you… Do you have a minute to talk? In private?” 

He stopped, turning to face you. His expression was calm, for a split second, you thought you saw something flicker there, recognition, maybe wariness, but it was gone before you could be sure. “Is it about work?” he asked. You hesitated, then shook your head. “Not really.”

Robby exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m really busy right now. If it’s not work-related, it’s going to have to wait. We’ve got three pending admits and a full board. Only work stuff today, okay?”

The dismissal was polite but firm, it landed like a door closing in your face. You felt the sting spread through your chest, he wouldn’t even give you five minutes. Not after everything. You nodded once, forcing your expression to stay neutral even as your throat tightened. “Yeah. Okay.”

You made it through the first half of the shift on autopilot, but that was before the worst part hit. A six-year-old boy, MVC passenger, ejected from the back seat. He came in unresponsive, CPR already in progress from EMS. You threw everything at him, intubated him yourself, pushed epi, called every medication, every intervention. For forty-three minutes, you fought alongside the team. But he didn’t make it. 

When Robby finally called time of death, the room went quiet except for the flatline tone that seemed to go on forever. You stood there frozen for a second before you ripped your gloves off and walked outside of the trauma room. You made your way behind the ambulance bay, leaning against the cold brick wall. Your breathing came in short, ugly gasps. Tears streaming down your face, no matter how hard you tried to wipe them away. You just needed a minute. One minute to fall apart before you had to go back inside and pretend you were fine. 

You were crying for the boy you couldn’t save, for the innocent life that had slipped through your fingers, no matter how fast you moved, how hard you pressed, how desperately you begged him to stay. But you were also crying for yourself, because everything in your life felt like it was crumbling at the seams. You couldn’t fix the boy. You couldn’t fix the growing distance with Robby. You couldn’t fix the ache in your chest that had only gotten worse since the night he’d touched you like you mattered and then pretended you didn’t. No matter what you did, no matter how much you cared, some things simply refused to be saved. And right now, it felt like you were one of them.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind you. Once again, you didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. “Leave me alone,” you choked out before he could speak.

Robby stopped a few feet away. “It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could. I watched the whole code. You ran it clean.”

“I said leave me alone.” The words came out sharper this time. You kept your back to him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself like you could hold all the pieces together. “Don’t talk to me. Just go.”

He didn’t leave. “You did good in there,” he said quietly. “Kid had injuries we couldn’t fix. Massive head bleed, internal bleeding… you kept him alive longer than most residents could have. That matters.”

The kindness in his voice, that low tone he used when he was teaching or comforting a family, only made it worse. You spun around suddenly, tears running down your face. “I don’t want you here!” you shouted, your voice breaking on the last words. “Just leave me alone! Don’t talk to me, don’t comfort me, don’t do anything! Go back inside!”

Robby furrowed his brows. He took one careful step closer, searching for your face. “What’s wrong with you? What happened? This isn’t just about the kid.”

You laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that turned into a sob halfway through. “You happened!” The words exploded out of you, it was a mix of two years of longing and the last few days of humiliation pouring out all at once. “You came back early. You walked into your own bedroom and I kissed you and you let me and then we had sex and it was the best night of my fucking life and I thought, I actually thought, it meant something to you. Because why else would you ask me to house-sit instead of Abbot or Noelle or anyone else? I took care of your house, I slept in your bed, I watered your stupid plants, and then you fucked me and the next morning you acted like nothing happened. You gave me a keychain and ignored me after it!”

You were crying harder now, your chest heaving as the words tumbled over each other. “I saw you with Noelle the other day. You two looked fine. Like nothing had changed. You don’t care. You never cared. I was just convenient. I was there, in your bed, throwing myself at you, and you took what was easy. And now I can’t even look at you without remembering how good it felt and how little it meant to you.” Your voice cracked completely on the last sentence. You were shaking, tears dripping off your chin.

Robby stood there, completely still. He opened his mouth once, then closed it. For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant wail of another ambulance approaching. Finally, he rubbed the back of his neck, the familiar gesture you’d seen a thousand times. “Look… I gotta go back in there. They need me on the floor. We’ve got another incoming.”   

He took one step back, then another, his eyes still on you like he was not sure whether to stay or leave. You didn’t say anything else, just turned your face away, pressing your forehead against the cold brick as your shoulders shook with silent sobs. Robby lingered for another few seconds, then he turned and walked back toward the sliding doors, leaving you alone with the sound of your own broken heart, somehow still beating.

Three hours later, the shift finally ended. You clocked out mechanically, and headed toward the locker room to change. You were almost at the doors when a familiar voice stopped you.

“Hey. Wait a second.” Robby said. After everything you screamed at him outside earlier, you expected him to avoid you. Instead, here he was, blocking your path to the parking lot. “Look,” he started saying, like he was delivering bad news to a family. “I’m sorry if I was confusing. Or if you misinterpreted anything that happened that night.”

You stared at him. The apology sounded practiced, he was being gentle, but it still landed like a punch. He continued, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. “I was tired. Really tired. That’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth. I should’ve said no when you kissed me. I didn’t. That happened, and I’m sorry if it gave you the wrong idea. Or if asking you to house-sit made you think there was more to it. You’re an extraordinary physician. You’re smart, you’re capable, you care deeply. But that’s all there is. I’m not looking for anything right now. I couldn’t even mentally handle anything resembling a relationship.”

The words hang between you, sounding final. You felt your eyes sting again. The grief from the lost patient mixed with the humiliation you were feeling until it was hard to breathe. “Except for Noelle,” you said quietly, the bitterness slipping out before you could stop it. “You seem to handle that just fine.”

Robby let out a surprised laugh. He shook his head. “Noelle and I are not together. At all. We never were. It’s… casual. Very casual. She understands exactly what it is and she’s okay with that.”

“But you still see each other on the daily. You slept with me and didn’t even address it the next morning. You gave me a keychain and talked about the plants like nothing happened. Why is it one way with her and another with me? Why does she get the easy understanding and I get… this? I get nothing.”

He exhaled slowly, looking older than his years. “Look… Noelle knows how this works. She’s not looking for more, and neither am I. What we have is simple. I’m sorry I let things get too far with you. That was my bad. I should’ve stopped it before it started. You’re a resident. I’m your attending. It was a mistake on my part to let it go that far. I take responsibility for that.” 

His tone was steady, almost kind, but every word felt like another layer of distance between the two of you. You stood there, watching the man who had you pinned to his mattress, who made you come so hard you cried, now apologizing for “letting things get too far” like it was a procedural error.

Tears pricked at your eyes again, but you blinked them back fiercely. “So that’s it?” Your voice was small. “I was just a mistake because I was convenient?”

Robby’s expression softened just a fraction, but he didn’t reach for you, he kept his hands in his coat pockets. “I’m not saying you’re a mistake. You’re not. But I’m in no place to give anyone what they deserve right now. My head’s not right. Hasn’t been for a while. The sabbatical didn’t fix it the way I hoped. I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of that. You’re a great girl. You are. You’re smart, you’re responsible, you work hard… you’re going to find someone. But that person isn’t me.”

“Yeah,” you said, above a whisper, the hurt turning into something bitter. “I was just convenient. I was there, in your house, threw myself at you, and you took it. That’s all it was.”

Robby looked away for a long moment, then back at you. “It wasn’t… look, I’m barely keeping my head above water right now. The pitt, the department, everything that sent me on that sabbatical in the first place… I’m drowning. I came back early because the quiet out there was worse than the noise here. I can’t deal with this shit on top of everything else. I can’t.” The silence that followed was long and painful. He glanced toward his bike, then back at you. “I gotta head out. Try to get some rest. And… if you need to talk about the kid from today, my door’s open. As your attending.” 

The professional offer felt like throwing salt in the wound, but you nodded once, unable to trust your voice. Robby gave you one last look, tired, a little regretful, but final, and then turned and walked away.

Trinity appeared at your side almost immediately, as if she’d been just a few feet away, quietly waiting for the conversation between Robby and you to end. She was unusually quiet for once. “You okay?” she asked, surprisingly soft.

You shook your head, your eyes burning as you watched Robby disappear on his bike around the corner. “No,” you whispered. “Not even a little.”

A/N: Your support genuinely means so much to me. Nothing makes me happier than reading your comments and thoughts about my fics, and if you don’t feel like writing anything, just know that a reblog takes one second and helps writers so much🩷

I’ve had this idea sitting in my brain for such a long time. I thought about it a lot and had so many scenes already fully pictured in my head, and I finally managed to put it into words.

I know the ending might feel a little underwhelming. I’m not really used to writing endings that aren’t happy😭 I honestly don’t know if I’ll write a second part or not, but just know that even when I don’t write sequels, my stories always get a happy ending in my head… because if you’re not happy, then it’s not really the end. I hope you enjoyed the angst, it’s been a while since I last wrote something like this.

I know all of you love unprotected sex and creampies, and trust me, I do too. I don’t think I’ve ever written a fic where the characters use a condom (sue me lol). But in this case, it felt necessary. I wanted the sex between them to feel colder, more distant, more emotionally detached. Using a literal barrier that prevented full skin-to-skin contact just felt perfect for what I was trying to convey. I wanted people to feel some of the same frustration reader was feeling, wanting to feel Robby fully, wanting that closeness, but not being able to have it.