Trouble Across the Hall | Part Two
Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader
MDNI 18+
wc: 11.1k
summary: You and Robby have a rhythm that feels unshakable: best friends, across-the-hall neighbors, and partners in every small routine from days off to the walk into the Pitt. But one night, a simple misunderstanding about a dinner date with an old friend tilts your world on its axis. The comfortable safety of "just friends" finally shatters for both of you, leading to an honest confession that changes the gravity of your entire world. It turns out, when you’ve already spent years building a life together, the only thing left to do is finally admit it.
c/w: (covers the entire fic, smut in part two) age gap, jealousy, pining, two idiots in love, p i v sex, oral fem receiving, best friends to lovers, medical inaccuracies, not beta read.
a/n: if I keep rereading this, I'll just continue to make changes and edits. hope you all enjoy part two. <3
Part One
Robby’s been nursing the same beer for an hour. The TV is blaring some reality show he doesn't care about, but his ears are focused on one thing: the hallway. He’s waiting for the soft sound of her heels, the jingle of her keys, the door closing. He takes a drink, but it doesn't help. He’s completely wired to her frequency.
"Get it together," he mutters to the empty room. He looks at the ceiling as if it’s going to give him a play-by-play. She’s out. She’s with a guy. She’s having a life. It’s normal. Except it feels like the opposite of normal. It feels like he’s holding his breath.
He shifts on the cushions, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. He checks his phone, taps the screen, locks it again. No texts. No "home soon." He swallows against the lump in his throat and tries the beer again. It’s flat.
Time is a blur. He’s just a guy on a couch, trapped in his own head, waiting for the only person who makes the noise stop.
And then, he hears it. The hallway. Her door. The soft click and thud of the door closing sounds like a thunderclap in the quiet apartment. Robby’s breath hitches. His heart starts hammering against his ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. It’s like his soul recognizes her presence and finally exhales. He stays on the couch for a split second, eyes glued to the TV, his mind a total blank.
Let her be, he commands himself. Don't be a stalker. But his hand is already tight around his beer, knuckles pale. He sets the bottle down like it’s made of glass and might explode. He’s up. He snatches his keys off the counter, needing the familiar weight of them to keep from shaking. The hallway feels different now. Charged. Expectant.
He covers the distance between their doors in three strides. He’s got his key out, ready to slide it into the lock like he has a thousand times before. It’s second nature.
What if she’s not alone? What if he opens the door and she’s there with him? Laughing. Comfortable. Robby’s stomach turns hard. He can walk into her apartment and recover from a lot of things… But that? No, he can’t recover from that. His hand drops slowly. He exhales once, rough and controlled, like he’s bracing for something painful. So he does something he hasn’t done in almost four years.
You’re halfway through pouring a glass of wine when the knock hits. It’s not the scuff of keys or the familiar click of Robby letting himself in. It’s a knock. A real one. You pause, bottle tilted, your brows knitting together. Who is at your door this late? You’ve only been home long enough to ditch the green dress for a hoodie and leggings, the "official" uniform of being done with the world.
You set the bottle down, leave the wine glass on the counter, and head for the door with a faint frown, feeling a bit guarded. But then you open it.
There he is. Seeing him makes your heart do a weird, traitorous little skip, the kind Ethan literally just warned you about. “Robinavitch?” you ask, tone laced with amusement, because when does this man knock like a Jehovah’s witness? You open the door wider automatically, already stepping back to let him in. Not waiting for an answer you turn and walk back to the kitchen, calling over your shoulder, “You never knock. Is your dementia acting up again? Couldn’t find your keys?” Behind you, the door shuts.
Robby doesn’t follow you in like he usually does. He lingers in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder braced against the wall like he needs the support. It looks wrong on him; he’s too still, too awkward. A little prick of unease hits your chest.
“You okay?” you start to ask, but he beats you to it.
“How was your... date?” he asks. It’s not an accusation. It’s just careful, like the word might cut him if he says it too loudly.
You hum, still feeling that post-dinner glow, and reach for a second glass. You pour him one and cross the kitchen, pressing it into his hand. “It was great,” you say, taking a sip of yours. “Really nice, actually.”
Robby’s fingers close around the glass, but he doesn't drink. He just watches you.
You lean back against the counter, staying in the ‘safe’ zone. “Ethan’s in town for a wedding. He texted weeks ago, and we finally made it work. We just caught up. Like old times.” You keep the conversation on the surface, terrified that if you go any deeper, you’ll spill every truth Ethan just dragged out of you.
You leave out the heavy stuff. You don't mention the way your heart did a backflip when Ethan called Robby your boyfriend. You don't mention the way your voice went soft, or how Ethan thinks Robby has been waiting for you for years.
Robby’s looking at you, but it’s like he’s watching a movie he knows has a sad ending.
“He was my absolute best friend in med school,” you say, forcing a smile. “He got me through everything. All the nights I thought I’d end up working at an urgent care in the middle of nowhere.”
Robby’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay dark.
“We caught up on everything,” you continue, carefully walking the line. “Work, life, his cardiology fellowship. He’s... happy. It was just really good to see him.”
You take a sip of wine, trying to find your footing, and then you really look at him. Your heart sinks. He looks wrecked. Not mad, just... undone. Like he’s watched something he loved float out of reach, and he’s just waiting for the impact.
Your smile fades, replaced by a pull of concern. You set your wine glass down, the clink echoing too loudly. Robby still hasn’t touched his. You step closer, your voice dropping into that soft, instinctive register you only use for him. “Robby? You okay?”
His throat works as he swallows, his eyes flickering to yours. He looks like he’s fighting a war he already lost. Your heart gives a small, uneven thump, Ethan's voice ringing in your ears: I think he already does.
You clear your throat, desperately trying to steer the ship back to shore. “Oh,” you add, casual as an afterthought. “He also showed me a picture of Jamie. His boyfriend.”
Robby’s entire posture shifts. It’s subtle, a tightening of his shoulders, a sharpening of his gaze. Attention snapping back into the room.
“They’ve been together almost a year,” you continue, picking your wine glass back up. “Apparently, they’re looking at buying a place together.”
Robby just stares for a second, and then it’s like someone finally cut the tension wire. His shoulders drop, that hard set of his jaw just vanishes, and he lets out this long, shaky breath he’s clearly been holding since you left. The relief is so obvious it’s almost funny. You stand there, wine in hand, suddenly realizing exactly what you just did. You didn't just give him a name; you gave him his peace of mind back.
“Jamie,” he repeats, his voice a little rough.
“Yeah,” you nod, trying to act like you don't see him literally transforming back into himself. “Jamie. He’s gorgeous, and Ethan is basically obsessed with him.”
Robby’s mouth twitches, a real smile finally trying to break through the gloom. “Good,” he says, and he actually sounds like he means it.
You watch him, your own heart doing a weird little dance. You’d run a test, and the results were loud and clear: the idea of you being "taken" had been sitting on his chest all night. He finally moves away from the door, reclaiming the kitchen like he owns the place again. You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips.
“You know,” you say, keeping your voice light, “you’re acting like I just came home engaged.”
Robby blinks, looking genuinely offended. “I am not.”
You hum, totally unconvinced, and take another sip of your wine. “Mhm. Sure.”
Robby clears his throat, suddenly finding the kitchen tile very interesting. “I was just... checking. Making sure everything was good.”
“Checking,” you repeat, the amusement bubbling up in your chest.
He looks up, his defensive walls going up fast. “It’s a reasonable question to ask a friend!”
“Sure,” you say, your mouth twitching into a grin. “An honest-to-God date. That’s really what you thought was happening tonight.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “I did not think that.”
“You absolutely did. You were practically vibrating.”
“I asked one question,” he says, as if that solves everything.
You laugh, warm and quiet, and the sound finally seems to loosen the tension in the room. “Okay. Fine. One question.”
Robby takes a small, cautious sip of his wine, looking a bit unsure of himself. You watch him for a second, then lean your hip against the counter. You decide to just go for it before you lose your nerve.
“Ethan asked me about my love life,” you say, keeping it as casual as possible.
Robby’s eyes flick to yours. He’s completely still now. Attentive.
You roll your eyes. “He didn’t even ease into it. Just, boom. Tell me everything.”
Robby makes a quiet sound, maybe sympathy, maybe just an acknowledgment.
“So, I told him I don’t have one,” you continue. “Because I don’t. I told him that between the hospital and you, I don't really have the time or energy to date anyone else.”
Robby goes absolutely still.
“Which is true,” you add quickly, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “We’re always together. Work, dinner, coffee, errands... It’s just us. All the time. And then Ethan did the whole interrogation thing,” you say, leaning back against the counter. “He actually asked if you were preventing me from dating.”
Robby’s brows knit together. “Preventing?”
“I know, right?” You laugh, though your heart is beating like you’re running a marathon. “I told him you don't prevent anything. Then he asked what we even do in our spare time. So I told him the truth. That we basically live in each other's pockets. We trade off making coffee, we get takeout, we spend every day off together because it’s easy. Because you're my favorite person.”
The words hit the air before you can pull them back. Robby’s throat works, and he takes a significantly larger gulp of wine this time.
“And when I was done,” you say, your voice dropping, “Ethan just looked at me and said, ‘I can see how already having a boyfriend would make you not want to look for a new one.’”
The silence that follows is heavy. You watch him brace himself, his face going neutral, or trying to. Then, he clears his throat and blurts out, “I’m not your boyfriend.”
It’s too fast. Too loud. You blink, then a slow, delighted grin spreads across your face. “Ohhhhh?”
Robby closes his eyes for a second, clearly realizing how that sounded. He exhales through his nose, looking like he wants the floor to swallow him.
"I didn't mean..." he starts, then cuts himself off. He tries again, sounding frustrated. "I mean, I did. But not like that."
You take a slow, deliberate sip of wine, watching him over the rim. "You said it like you were correcting a chart, Robby. Very clinical."
His ears go a deep, unmistakable pink. "Stop it."
"Mikey," you say, your voice turning sweet as sugar.
He points a finger at you, looking completely helpless. "Don't. Don't do the voice."
You grin, feeling the power shift. "So... you're not my boyfriend."
Robby’s jaw moves as he stares at his wine like it’s the only safe thing in the room. After taking a genuine drink, he looks up again, and while the awkwardness remains, it's now more stable. Like he’s finally found his footing. "Ethan said that."
You shrug one shoulder. "He did."
Robby’s gaze pins you to the spot. "And you let him."
You blink, letting out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I don't control what people say. But... no. I didn't argue with him."
Robby’s eyes sharpen. "Yeah. I noticed."
"I'm not stupid," he mutters.
"Trouble," he warns, but his voice has lost its edge.
You smile, the teasing softening. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Continue."
Robby lets out a jagged breath and shifts away from the doorframe, drawing himself up with a vulnerability you’ve never seen. “I came over here to talk to you,” he says, his voice low.
Your stomach flips. You keep your tone light on purpose. “Is that why you knocked like a normal person? I was going to call 911.”
Robby’s mouth twitches. “I was trying to be respectful.”
“Oh,” you say, feigning shock. “Respectful. In my apartment. Crazy.”
He gives you a look that is just him. Dry, fond, and a little tired of your nonsense. “You’re not helping.”
“I am helping,” you argue. “This is my emotional support sarcasm.”
Robby shakes his head, but his eyes don't leave yours. They’re warm, a little wrecked, and completely honest. “I really thought you were on a date,” he says quietly.
The playful air in the kitchen evaporates instantly.
Robby swallows. “I know you said it wasn’t. I know you were catching up, but I still…” He exhales, frustration flashing across his face. “My brain didn’t care.”
Your grip tightens on your glass. “Mikey…”
He looks at you then, and the mask is gone. He’s crossed the line, and there is no going back.
“I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” Robby says.
The world stops spinning. Your breath hitches in your throat. You are frozen, caught in the gravity of him.
“I realized it tonight,” he continues, his voice breaking. “It hit me like a bolt of lightning. I sat in my apartment for hours trying to convince myself to stay put. I was so terrified of losing what we have.”
You stare at him, heart pounding.
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Then I heard your door shut, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t sit there and pretend I was fine.”
You swallow. “So you came over...”
“I came over,” he confirms. “And I knocked because I didn’t know if you came home alone. And I didn’t think I could walk in on you with someone and survive it.”
You let out a breath that sounds like a laugh and a sob’s distant cousin. “God.”
Robby’s gaze flicks to your mouth again, then back to your eyes like he’s trying to keep himself under control.
"I'm not your boyfriend," he repeats, the words landing like a vow. "But I want to be."
Your heart skips a beat. Robby's hands tremble against the glass.
"I want the right to look at you like this," he says, his voice a gravelly whisper. "I want to take you out and have it mean something. I want to stop pretending that we aren't everything to each other." He looks at you with a raw, bare honesty. "But you're my best friend. If you don't want this... I'll step back. I will. I'll find a way to be okay. I just can't keep the lie alive. Not after tonight."
You set your glass on the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You look at him, the teasing curve of your lips clashing with the tears shimmering in your eyes. "Mikey," you whisper. "You're in love with me?"
Robby’s expression is a map of hope and fear. "Yeah."
You take a step closer. "And you thought I was leaving you behind."
He nods, his gaze intense. "Yeah."
You let out a shaky breath. "Okay." You pause, then add, "Okay, I think I'm in deep trouble."
Robby’s brows draw together in a worried line. "What do you mean?"
A small, genuine smile breaks across your face, erasing the last of the teasing. “Because I’m in love with you, too.”
For a long heartbeat, Robby just searches your eyes, as if looking for the catch. Then his breath hitches, escaping in a shaky exhale, and his expression transforms. The protective mask falls away, leaving something so tender it’s almost overwhelming. “Trouble,” he breathes, the nickname sounding like a confession in return.
You swallow against the lump in your throat, your pulse a frantic rhythm in your ears. Your fingers white-knuckle the stem of your wine glass, the only thing keeping you grounded as the years of "just friends" finally dissolve between you.
Robby’s hand lifts, hesitant, hovering near your wrist like he’s asking permission without words. You set your glass down first. He follows, setting his down beside yours, the clink small in the silence. And then he’s there. His hand comes up like he’s still not sure he’s allowed. His palm cups your jaw, warm and steady, and his thumb sweeps your cheek in a slow, gentle pass. Like he’s learning you by touch. Like he’s held himself back for so long, he’s scared he’ll ruin it if he moves too fast.
“Can I…” he starts, voice rough, the words catching.
Your heart is hammering so hard you swear it’s visible. You tip your chin up, breath unsteady. “Yes.”
That’s all it takes. Robby leans down, closing the distance between you. At first it’s just a soft press of his lips to yours, but it still makes your whole body come alive. His lips are warm, soft, achingly gentle, and the contact is so real it steals the air out of your lungs. It isn’t frantic or greedy. It’s reverent.
Your eyes flutter shut. There’s a second where your brain tries to catalogue it like you catalogue everything else, tries to make it clinical, tries to keep you safe. It fails the moment he exhales, and you feel the tremor in his breath, the smallest shake that gives him away.
Because it’s Robby. Because you know the sound of his laugh and the cadence of his voice and the way he says your name like it’s something he’s allowed to keep. And now you know this, too. You officially know the way his lips feel against yours.
Your hands slide up his chest and fist the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, the fabric bunching under your fingers. His body shifts with yours. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you, holding you like he’s anchoring himself.
His lips move again, a little firmer this time. A careful, testing sweep of his tongue against your lips, that makes heat bloom low in your stomach. Your lips part on instinct, you don’t even try to fight, and Robby makes a quiet sound like he’s relieved, like you just answered him in a language he understands.
The kiss deepens. Not rushed or desperate. Just slow and sweet. His lips are so soft against yours in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him, the sharp edges he wears at work. He tastes like beer and something purely Robby beneath it all. When his tongue brushes yours, it makes your stomach flip, and you let out a soft moan.
It hits you, sudden and undeniable, how long you’ve wanted this. Kissing him feels like coming home.
Robby’s thumb strokes your cheek again, softer this time, almost absentmindedly, as if he can’t stop touching you now that he’s started. And the tenderness of it cracks something open in you, something you’ve kept sealed behind jokes and routine and the safety of not asking for more. You kiss him like restraint finally ran out. Not the careful kind, not the polite kind. Your grip locks in. You press your body into him and give him your ‘yes’ in the only language that matters right now.
When you finally break apart, it’s only because your lungs demand it. Robby stays right there, so close you can feel the warmth of his body, the faint brush of his breath against your lips. You let out a soft, breathless laugh that sounds more like disbelief than humor. “We’re idiots.”
Robby answers with a low sound that might be a laugh. “Yeah.” You lean in and kiss him again, a shorter sweeter kiss, the kind of kiss that’s less a question and more a promise. A gentle press and a soft parting that makes his breath hitch hard, causes his fingers to tighten just slightly, as if it is unfair that you get to do that to him now, and then pull away.
A quiet, needy sound rumbles in his chest, and it goes straight through you. “Come here,” you murmur, voice soft and playful, and you catch the front of his hoodie to tug him with you, guiding him toward the living room before your brain can start making lists of consequences. He follows like his body decided before his brain had the chance to catch up with it.
You get him to the couch and stop just long enough to look at him. Robby’s breathing a little harder than normal, eyes on your lips like he forgot the rest of the room exists. You splay your palms against his chest and give him a soft push so that he falls back onto the couch. He looks up at you, quiet, wrecked, like he’s trying to be careful and failing. You look down at him with a soft smile before you straddle his lap. Robby lets out a breath that sounds like defeat and surrender, and you can’t help but let out a soft giggle before leaning in and capturing his lips again.
It’s not careful anymore. It’s deep and hungry and a little laughable, the way you both keep chasing the same inch of space. His hands find your hips, and he holds you firmly against him.
Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag a sound from his mouth, low and involuntary. His grip on your hips tightens, thumbs pressing slow circles like he’s grounding himself, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel.
You shift in his lap without meaning to, and the moment you do, you feel him. Unmistakably hard, and from that one move, you can tell, he’s big. Robby breaks the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed like he’s trying to regain some semblance of control.
“Fuck,” he says roughly. Like a warning. Like a prayer.
You cup his jaw, keeping him close. “I’m right here.”
His eyes open, locked on yours. “Tell me to slow down.”
You gasped playfully. “Don’t you dare.”
That gets him. A soft, helpless laugh, like you always do this to him.
“Okay,” he murmurs, and then he kisses you again, and this time there’s nothing uncertain about his hands.
Robby pulls back just long enough to look at you, eyes dark and wrecked and very, very fond. “This is not how I pictured tonight going.”
You lift a brow. “What, you pictured Ethan sweeping me off my feet and you having to pretend you were fine?”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Smartass.”
You shrug and smile at him. “You love me, despite me being a smartass.”
Robby’s eyes drop to your lips. “Yeah,” he admits, and it sounds like it costs him something.
“Good,” you whisper, and steal another kiss.
Then you’re kissing and laughing and kissing again. It’s dizzying, sweet, and reckless, the kind of making out that belongs to teenagers with nowhere to be and not to two attendings who have a 7 a.m. shift at a hospital that never shuts up.
Your fingers slide into his hair and tug, just a little, and Robby shudders like you hit a nerve. The sound he makes is low and rough, and his hands slide up your back, pulling you closer until your chest presses against his. He’s past pretending he can keep space between you.
His mouth moves against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he’s trying to make up for every moment he didn’t do this. Every time he stood too close in a hallway and didn’t. Every time he looked at you and chose ‘friend’ because it was safer.
You rock your hips, barely, more instinct than intention, and Robby goes still for a heartbeat. “Sweetheart,” he says against your mouth, your name coming out like a warning. Like a plea. You pause just enough to look at him. His eyes are blown wide, focused on you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “And I will.”
Your throat tightens at how careful he’s being, even like this. You shake your head. “Don’t stop.” Something in his face shifts. Relief first. Then heat.
“Okay,” he breathes, and kisses you again.
His hands stay at your waist, guiding you, steadying you as you begin rocking your hips against him slowly, until you’re a little more confident, your body finds the rhythm of it, the friction building until your breath turns shaky and you can’t pretend you’re thinking. Robby’s mouth drops to your jaw, then he trails a line of kisses down your neck. He lifts his head, eyes on yours again. “You okay?”
You nod, lips parted. “I’m more than okay.”
Robby’s stare goes dark with it, and he kisses you again, deep and slow, like he wants you to feel every second. His hips roll once, instinctively, and he drags against you in a way that turns your thoughts to static. The sound that slips out of him is low and helpless, more of a groan than a breath, like his body answered before his brain could stop it. His hands tighten at your sides, fingers digging in for half a second like he’s anchoring himself. Like he needs something solid so he doesn’t lose control completely.
Then he goes still, and then he stops himself. Not because he doesn’t want to. You can feel how much he wants to, see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his breath keeps catching like he’s forcing it back down. Because he’s Robby, and he’s trying so hard to do this right. It’s abrupt enough that you blink at him, breathless, lips tingling, thighs still hooked around him. Robby’s forehead drops to yours. His breathing is heavy, controlled, like he’s wrestling his own body into behaving while you’re still sitting in his lap.
You squint at him, fingers gliding through his hair. “Mikey?”
He lets out one short laugh, low and strained. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
You make a sound that’s too close to a laugh. “Oh my God.”
Robby lifts his head, and for a second, he just looks at you. His eyes move over your face with something reverent and wrecked, like he still can’t believe you’re here, like you’re letting him have this. “I want to take you out,” he says, earnest enough to make your throat tighten. “An actual date. I want to do it right.”
Your chest squeezes, warmth blooming so fast it’s almost unbearable. The tenderness of it hits you right in the sternum.
“An actual date,” you repeat, tipping your chin up with a teasing little hum. “Okay, Grandpa.”
Robby’s eyes narrow, but his mouth twitches. His hands flex on your hips like he has thoughts he’s not saying aloud. “Don’t.”
You grin wider because pushing him has always been your favorite sport. “It’ll have to be on our next day off.”
“Yeah?” he asks, and the way he says it makes it sound like he’s already planning it. Like he’s already planning everything in his head.
“Yeah,” you say, all innocent. Too innocent. You shift in his lap on purpose this time, teasingly grinding yourself against him. “So you’re not up past your bedtime.”
Robby goes still. The shift in him is immediate, like a switch flips. Robby’s expression changes into something dangerous and delightful, the kind of look that makes your stomach dip in a way that has nothing to do with fear. “Oh,” he says softly, voice low enough to raise goosebumps. “You’re dead.”
You gasp, already laughing. “Mikey, don’t you dare.”
He does not hesitate. His hands find your sides, he knows exactly where you’re ticklish, and you squeal as laughter rips out of you. You try to twist away, but you’re still straddling his lap, which means you have nowhere to go. He has every advantage, and he knows it.
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, grabbing at his wrists. “No. No, no, no. Stop.”
“Apologize,” he demands, voice rough with laughter.
“I can’t,” you choke out, breathless and shaking. “You’re ancient.”
Robby makes a sound of pure offended shock. “Ancient?” He doubles down. You squeal again, whole body folding forward, then back, trying to escape and only making it worse. Your legs squeeze around his hips on instinct, like holding on will help. It does not help. It just traps you there while he ruins your life.
“Mikey,” you gasp, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “Please.”
“Not until you take it back.”
“Never,” you manage, and it’s the worst choice you’ve ever made.
Robby’s grin goes sharp. “Okay.”
He shifts, quick and sure, and the change in position happens all at once. One second you’re on his lap, the next he’s hooking an arm around your waist and tipping you sideways onto the couch like you weigh nothing. You hit the cushions with a laugh that turns into a squeak when he follows, body moving on top of yours.
Robby braces one hand beside your head, the other still at your side, and he keeps tickling like he’s committed to the bit. He’s wedged between your thighs as he leans over you, pinning you in place without even trying.
“Michael!” you wheeze, twisting and failing, your hands pushing at his shoulders. “This is abuse.”
“Nope, it’s a consequence,” he says, and he looks so pleased with himself you want to bite him. You squirm hard, trying to get away, and he leans in to keep you pinned long enough to finish his revenge, forgetting to keep all his weight off you. His body settles heavily on top of yours, warm and solid, and your body reacts instinctively by wrapping your legs around him.
Your laughter stutters. Turns breathless. Robby slows, the tickling faltering as his brain catches up to where you’ve ended up. His hand is still on your side. His chest is rising and falling hard against yours, each breath shallow with restraint. For one charged moment, neither of you moves. Then he shifts, a slow roll of his hips that drags his body tight against yours. Just once.
You both make soft moans of appreciation as your whole body lights up. Every nerve feels like a live wire, the weight of him pressing you into the cushions, the heat of him against your core even through layers of clothes. Robby stills again, but it’s not from hesitation. It’s a calculation. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze, and the look there is anything but uncertain.
His smile is slow and curved at the edge. There’s nothing helpless about it now. It’s pure tension and want, tempered only by how much he’s trying to stay gentle. You’re both breathing hard. Cheeks warm. The room is too quiet, like it knows what’s about to happen. He dips closer. His voice is quiet but firm, lips brushing yours. “Hi.”
Your throat tightens. The word barely makes it out. “Hi.”
His gaze drops again, tracking the curve of your lips. “Still okay?”
You nod, sliding your hands up his arms, fingertips gliding over muscle and warmth, keeping him close with purpose. “Yeah.” That’s all he needs. Something in him lets go. He kisses you like he’s done holding back, mouth rougher now, more demanding as his tongue plunges past your lips and sweeps hungrily into your mouth. His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, controlling the angle of the kiss like he’s decided this is his now.
You kiss him back, just as hungrily. Your hands fist into his hoodie and yank him closer, trying to pull him all the way down on top of you. He groans into your mouth, and his hips start rolling once more into the heat of your body. The friction hits you just right, and your breath catches hard in your throat. He feels it. He hears it. “Jesus,” you whisper, voice cracking.
His forehead presses to yours for a beat, like he’s steadying the storm behind his eyes. “God, sweetheart.”
You slide your hands under his hoodie, palms skimming his stomach, his back muscles jumping beneath your fingers. His breath hitches hard. You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Please don’t stop.”
His gaze cuts back to yours. Dark. Intense. Focused. “I’m not stopping,” he says, and there’s no softness in it now. “I just want to make sure you’re still mine.”
Your breath stumbles. “I’ve always been yours.”
His eyes flash. That heat in his expression sharpens. One of his hands moves, slow and certain, sliding down your body to grip your thigh. He pulls it higher around his waist, anchoring you in place, keeping you right where he wants you.
He claims your mouth, open and hot, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your toes curl. There’s nothing tentative about it now. He kisses you deeply, possessively, like he’s trying to brand it into your body. His hands move faster, skimming up under your hoodie, across your ribs, until his thumbs graze your breasts. You make a sound you don’t recognize. He hears it, pauses there, fingers splayed, and looks down at you because he’s just realized there’s nothing underneath; his breath catches hard. His hands go still. His gaze darkens with something molten and heavy, like he’s just been given a gift he wasn’t expecting.
You nod, not trusting your voice. Robby exhales, sharp and uneven, and pulls the hoodie up and over your head. The air hits your skin, and you shiver, but not from the cold. His eyes drop. The hunger that takes over his face is immediate. Fierce. Possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re killing me.” Your throat tightens. You feel exposed in the best possible way. His eyes haven’t left your chest, and the heat in them makes your skin flush everywhere.
But his hands are already moving again, warm and steady, sliding up your bare waist. His palms trace your ribs, fingers curving under your breasts like he needs to learn every inch of you by touch. His thumbs brush over your nipples, teasing, pinching, and the sound that escapes your throat is needy and completely unfiltered.
Robby groans, deep and dark, and lowers his head. He kisses your collarbone first. Then your sternum. His teeth scrape lightly over sensitive skin, and then his mouth closes over one nipple, hot and wet and unrelenting. You cry out, arching into him. His tongue swirls, then sucks, and the drag of his lips makes your entire body tense under him.
He groans again at the way you move, like the way you react turns him on more than he knows what to do with. His hips press down into yours, slow and rough, grinding against you with an urgency that makes your brain stutter.
“Michael,” you gasp, desperate.
His eyes flick up, pupils blown wide. “Still with me?”
You cup his jaw, voice shaky but firm. “Yes.” That’s all it takes. His mouth goes back to your chest, lips sliding over the swell of your breasts, tongue dragging over sensitive skin as he worships you with a kind of focused desperation. It’s messy and hot and completely consuming.
Your legs tighten around his hips. He doesn’t back off, just grinds into you slowly. He presses a kiss to the center of your chest, slow and deliberate, then lifts his head just enough to crash his mouth back onto yours. The kiss is hot and deep, full of teeth and tongue and the sound of him groaning into your mouth like he can’t get enough.
You cry out and clutch his shoulders, nails digging in. His only answer is another groan, rough and broken. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips. He doesn’t back off. He presses a kiss to the center of your chest, right over your heart, then moves back to your mouth like he’s starving for it. The next grind of his hips is harder. Slower. More dangerous.
“God, Robby,” you gasp, barely able to speak.
He stops instantly, breathing hard, forehead to yours. “Tell me,” he says. His voice is low, wrecked. “Tell me what you need.”
You try to pull yourself together. It’s impossible. “Bedroom,” you manage, barely. “Or I’m not going to survive this couch.”
Robby laughs, rough and breathless. “Okay. Yeah. Bed.” He starts to push himself up, like he’s going to give you space. But you grab the hoodie strings and pull him back down. You kiss him again, deep and greedy and shaking with how badly you need more.
His smile flashes. Not soft. Not sweet. Feral. Then he slides his hands under your thighs and lifts. The movement knocks the air out of you, not from force, from surprise, from the sudden reality that he can do that. That he’s doing that. That he’s carrying you like it’s easy, like he’s been wanting to for years. Your arms wrap around his neck as you laugh breathlessly. “You show-off.”
Robby kisses your jaw and walks you toward the bedroom anyway, steps a little unsteady, like he’s barely holding it together. “Can you blame me?” he murmurs.
Robby gets you to the bedroom like he’s chasing something he’s afraid to lose. The door clicks shut behind him, and his mouth is on yours before you can speak. His hands grip your hips, guiding you backward with single-minded purpose until your knees hit the mattress. You drop onto it, the laughter caught in your throat dying the second his body presses you down.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t fumble. He climbs over you, knees nudging your legs apart, bracing one hand beside your head. The other slips under your thigh, pulling you flush to him with practiced ease.
“Look at me,” he says, voice like gravel. You do. His eyes are dark, blown wide, pupils devouring the warm brown until there’s barely anything left. His face is flushed, jaw tight, control hanging by a thread.
“You still want this?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Robby, yes.”
He exhales like the sound of your voice did something to him, then kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s already decided he’s not giving you space to overthink any of it. His mouth is hot, relentless, as he dominates your mouth. There’s nothing polite in it. Nothing soft. Just heat and hunger and the low, broken sound he makes when your body arches into him.
Your hands reach for his hoodie, fingers curling in the fabric, tugging hard. He shifts just enough to help you pull it over his head, both of you fumbling like the thing put up a fight. The shirt underneath follows, peeled away to reveal warm skin and the kind of strength that’s built over years—solid, steady, quietly kept. The kind you only notice when you're this close.
You barely get a second to look before he’s on you again, body pressed tight, mouth at your throat. “Hands,” he says.
He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, pressing them into the mattress with one hand. The other skims down your side, slow and firm, claiming territory like it’s always been his. You gasp, and he smiles against your neck. “There,” he murmurs. “Now you’re listening.”
Your breath catches. “What are you doing?”
“Taking my time,” he says. “So I don’t fuck this up.”
He kisses down your throat, past your collarbone, down to your chest, where you’re already bare for him. His mouth closes over your nipple without warning, tongue flicking once, and the moan that escapes you isn’t something you’ve ever made before. Robby groans against your skin. “That’s it. I want every sound.”
Your hips shift under him, needing friction, but he doesn’t let you get far.
“Stay still,” he murmurs, mouth dragging across to the other breast. “Let me play.” The words send a jolt through you.
You tug at his grip again, breathless. “Robby.”
He lifts his head, eyes burning. “You want more?” You nod, eyes wide. He releases your wrists, but only so his hands can go lower.
“I want these off,” he says, fingers sliding into the waistband of your lounge pants and underwear at once. “Now.” You lift your hips, letting him pull them down in one sharp, fluid motion. The cool air hits you a second before his gaze does. And when he looks at you, spread out on the bed, flushed and breathless and bare for him, his control fractures.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.” He moves down your body without ceremony, dragging his mouth over your stomach, your hips, your inner thigh, until you’re trembling.
“Spread your legs,” he says, low and steady. “I want to see you.” You obey, pulse pounding in your ears. Robby sits back just enough to drink you in, still half-dressed in his jeans like he forgot or doesn’t care. One hand cups your knee, easing it wider, while the other brushes up your inner thigh, teasing, deliberate.
“I’ve thought about this,” he says, voice rough. “So many times. What you’d sound like. How you’d taste…”
You shiver, the words sinking into your skin. But you are who you are and you can’t help teasing him. “You dirty old man.”
His eyes flick up to yours, a small tilt at the corner of his lips. “Tell me you want my mouth, Trouble.”
Your throat tightens. “I want your mouth.”
And then he lowers his head. His mouth brushes your inner thigh, and your hips twitch without permission. Robby doesn’t rush. He kisses the skin there, soft and maddening, then he nips at your skin before sucking hard. You squirm and let out a needy whine. “Robby.”
“Shh.” His voice is low, calm. “Let me take care of you, baby.” He spreads your legs wider with his hands, thumbs pressing into your thighs, firm and possessive. His breath ghosts over where you want him, and you swear you could cry from how good it already feels, and he hasn’t even…
Then his mouth is on you, his tongue dragging slow and flat up your slit, parting your folds with deliberate precision. Your spine arches, and a gasp rips out of you before you can stop it. The heat of his tongue, the pressure, the way he licks you like he’s been starving, it lands like a jolt of electricity under your skin. He groans against you, the sound sending vibrations straight through your core. “That’s it,” he murmurs between strokes. “You taste so fucking good.”
You reach down, threading your fingers into his hair, trying to ground yourself, to pull him closer, to beg without using words. But Robby already knows, he’s locked in like he isn’t going anywhere. One of his hands slides up, fingers splayed across your stomach to hold you down. Every time you try to lift your hips, he pushes you back into the mattress. “Stay still,” he says again, but this time it’s growled against your clit, and it makes you whimper.
He flattens his tongue against you and then drags it slowly up your slit. Then he does it again. Then he switches to circles, soft and maddening against your clit, before sucking hard enough to make your eyes close as you surrender to the overwhelming feeling of having his mouth on you. His tongue continued to swirl, relentless, and when he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, your moan was raw, broken.
“You’re close,” he says, mouth slick and voice full of pride. “I can feel it.”
“I’m gonna…” You gasp, twisting under his hand.
“You’re gonna come,” he agrees smugly as he slides a third finger inside you. “Right now.”
And then he buries his mouth in you again, merciless, focused. His tongue flicks exactly where you need it, pressure building fast and brutal and overwhelming, while his fingers continue to brush against your G-spot.
You try to hold back, you really do, but you fail spectacularly when his teeth graze your clit and he sucks hard. It’s unnerving how quickly he’s gotten you to this point, your back arching off the bed, hands gripping his hair as you writhe against his mouth letting out little moans and whimpers. Robby groans as you come, like it does something to him, too. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t back off. He keeps licking you through it, steady and hungry, like he wants every last second of it.
When the intensity ebbs you collapse back into the mattress, panting, wrecked. Only then does he slow down. He presses one last kiss to your thigh, then sits back on his knees, mouth shiny, eyes dark and blown.
“Jesus,” you whimper as he drags his fingers out.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on you as he sucks your juices off his fingers. The mere sight of him licking his fingers makes you clench around nothing. His hands move to his jeans, but he keeps his eyes on you as he pops the button and slides the zipper down. You’re more than a little mesmerized as he shoves his jeans and boxers down, allowing you to get your first proper look at him.
Your breath hitches; he’s long, thick, the head is flushed an angry red and pre-cum already leaking from the slit. “Holy shit.” Robby laughs once, but it’s not self-conscious. It’s cocky. A man who knows exactly what he’s working with, and what it’s about to do to you.
“Still okay?” he asks, voice quieter now, even with his cock in his hand. You nod fast, unable to take your eyes off his hand as he strokes himself. He climbs back over you, bare now, skin on skin, and you whimper at the contact. He’s warm and solid, the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress just right. Robby kisses you, slower this time, but it still tastes like want. Like hunger. Like you’re his favorite thing, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.
He lines himself up, the head of his cock sliding through the slick between your thighs, teasing. Letting you feel the stretch that’s coming. You shiver. “Robby!”
“Tell me when you’re ready,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Tell me you want it.”
You look at him, cheeks flushed, body still trembling from his mouth.
“I want it,” you whisper. “I want you.” Robby’s eyes close like he’s praying. Then he exhales and pushes in slowly, giving just the tip before pulling back. Then the blunt head slips inside before he retreats. He pushes in, pulls out, feeding your pussy his cock inch by devastating inch. The stretch makes you gasp. He’s big, the pressure is intense, he fills you unbelievably slowly. Your nails are digging into his arms, and as you arch your back, he slips all the way inside. “Fuck,” he groans, his jaw clenched as he finally bottoms out. “You feel unbelievable.”
Your eyes flutter shut. “So do you.”
He doesn’t move at first, just holds himself there, buried deep, letting you adjust to his size. He presses his chest against yours, and his breath is warm against your mouth. His eyes search your face like he’s trying to memorize the way you look underneath him. You shift your hips, chasing friction, and he groans. “Don’t,” he warns, voice wrecked. “I’m already on edge.”
You smile, trying to hold in a laugh. “Thought you said you could take your time.”
“I lied,” he groans, and then he moves.
It starts slowly. Deep rolls of his hips, smooth and controlled, like he wants you to feel every inch of him. Every drag and grind. The friction catches just right, and your breath stutters in your throat. He watches your face, watches how every movement affects you. When you moan, his pace shifts. When your fingers clutch tighter at his back, he thrusts harder. You don’t even have to tell him what you want; he just reads it off your body.
“Look at me,” he says, voice low and firm. You do. You can’t look away. His face is flushed, hair damp, muscles flexing above you, and that look in his eyes, possession, reverence, and need, your heart skips. His hand slides under your thigh and hooks it up around his waist. The angle changes, and he hits something deep that makes you cry out.
“There,” he says, dark and satisfied. “That’s it. That’s what I want.” You’re too gone to respond. You just cling to him, letting him set the rhythm, letting him take you apart.
“Feel good?” he asks, mouth at your ear.
You nod frantically. “So good.”
His pace gets rougher. Less patient. He grits out your name between clenched teeth and drops his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “God dammit, we could have been doing this for years.”
Your stomach flips, and everything inside you tightens. “We’re stupid,” you whisper. “Now fuck me, Robby.” He groans like that broke something in him and thrusts harder, every movement punching a moan from your chest. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together and pressing them into the mattress above your head, locking you in place. His other palm grips your hip, guiding your body into his like he can’t get deep enough. You’re close again. You can feel it. Your body is a live wire of need for him.
“Oh God, oh fuck!” you gasp, desperate.
“I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re gonna come for me again. Let go.”
That slow hum of pleasure just snaps and spreads throughout your entire body, it’s overwhelming in the best way possible. Your thighs lock around his hips as your hands squeeze his. Your whole body clenches around him, and the sound you make is something raw and real.
Robby swears under his breath and keeps moving, hips jerking unevenly now, thrusts losing rhythm as your pussy begins milking his cock. He buries his face in your neck and groans your name as he thrusts once, twice and the third time he buries himself to the hilt and comes. You feel him twitching inside you, sending little aftershocks of pleasure through you making you whimper.
For a long moment, neither of you moves an inch,he’s heavy and warm on top of you, and God, does it feel good. Both of you just slowly catch your breath, hands moving tenderly over each other as the weight of what just happened settled in. Then Robby lifts his head, eyes soft and tender, and kisses you again. Slower. Sweeter. Like a thank you. “That was… amazing,” he murmurs.
You nod, smiling, boneless. “Mmm, that’s one word for it.”
He exhales a laugh and brushes your hair back. “I should’ve done that a long time ago.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “You really should’ve.”
He presses another kiss to your mouth, then your cheek, then your collarbone before he finally pulls out, gentle now, moving slow like he doesn’t want to let you go just yet.
You wince, legs trembling. Robby notices immediately. “Stay there,” he says. “Don’t move.”
He gets up, naked and gorgeous and entirely unbothered, heading for the bathroom. You hear the water run. A few seconds later, he’s back, warm washcloth in hand, and settles between your legs like this is just as intimate. “Let me,” he says quietly.
Robby moves slowly as he cleans you up, careful and focused, like he’s still taking care of you even after everything. His hands are steady, his touch gentle, and he doesn’t speak until he’s done.
“All good,” he murmurs, voice soft.
You hum, content and tired, already half-melted into the bed. “Thank you.”
He leans in and presses a kiss to your knee. “Always.”
You watch him through heavy lashes as he disappears again, the sound of water running briefly before the room quiets. Then he’s back and climbing into bed with you. He slides under the covers and pulls you into him like it’s instinct. One arm wraps around your waist, the other curls under your neck, his chest warm and solid against your back.
You tuck your hand over his, your fingers threading together without thinking. For a moment, there’s nothing but breathing. The steady rhythm of his heart at your back. The occasional brush of his lips against your shoulder, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you, even in sleep.
“You sure you’re good, sweetheart?” he asks again, voice low and quiet now.
You nod, too relaxed to do anything else. “I’m absolutely perfect, Mikey. You’ll stay right?”
Robby lets out a soft breath like the idea he would leave is absurd and nuzzles behind your ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His arm tightens just a little around your waist. Protective. Anchoring. You close your eyes, sleep finds you with his breath on your neck, his body wrapped around yours, and his heartbeat keeping pace with your own. And for the first time in forever, you don’t dream of anything else.
Your alarm goes off, and you flinch awake on instinct, still half-dreaming, and reach for your phone with the practiced precision of someone who has lived by alarms for years. Your fingers fumble across the nightstand, find it, and you push the snooze button until the noise cuts out.
Silence rushes in. For one sweet second, you almost melt back into the pillow. Then a groan rumbles behind you. Low. Rough. Familiar in a way your brain refuses to process at first.
Before you can fully turn your head, a strong arm snakes around your waist and hauls you backward like you weigh nothing. You make a surprised sound as your back hits a solid, very warm body, and Robby buries his face into the back of your neck.
His breath is hot against your skin. His voice, when it comes, is sleep-thick and unreasonably soft. “Five more minutes.”
You freeze for half a heartbeat, and then you laugh, because of course he would. Because, of course, this is happening. Because you can feel his hand splayed over your stomach, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing a slow circle like he’s soothing you back into sleep. “Five?” you repeat, amused.
“Mmhmm,” he murmurs, already nuzzling closer. His nose brushes your hair. His grip tightens just enough to make it clear he’s not letting you go. You tilt your head back a fraction, just enough to catch him with the corner of your eye. He’s got his face half shoved into your pillow, hair a mess, lashes too long for a man who has any right looking that soft.
“Robby,” you warn, but it comes out fond and ruined.
He makes another noise, the kind that says he has no intention of cooperating. “Baby. Please.”
Your chest does something stupid.
You reach over and tap your phone again, mostly to prove you’re in control of something in this room. “Nine minutes,” you tell him, prim as anything. “I hit the snooze button.”
Robby’s arm tightens like he approves of your compromise. “That’s my girl.”
You snort, but you can’t stop smiling. “Oh my God.”
He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder through your shirt, barely there, more warmth than pressure. “Nine,” he repeats, already fading. You let yourself sink back, letting the heat of him seep into you, letting the weight of his arm and the steady rise and fall of his breathing convince your body to stop bracing for impact.
Outside your bedroom, the world can wait. For nine minutes, at least. When those blissful nine minutes are over, you both climb out of bed regretfully. Robby groans like he’s never worked a shift in his life, and you make a noise back that’s definitely not sympathetic. Somehow, you still end up smiling as you shuffle into the bathroom together, shoulder to shoulder. You’re both the sleepy versions of yourselves, trying (and failing) to pretend you aren't absurdly happy.
The weird part is how easy it is. You move around each other without thinking. You reach for your toothbrush, and he shifts out of the way before you even get there. He grabs the mouthwash, and your hand lands on his side to steady yourself like it’s the most natural thing in the world. At one point, you bump hips at the sink, and he mutters, “Excuse you,” like you’re the one invading his space. You roll your eyes as if you haven’t spent years sharing trauma bays and call rooms.
Only now, every brush of skin registers. His fingers skim your lower back as he passes, not a grab, just a quiet touch that says I’m here. As you squeeze by, your shoulder nudges his, and he tips his head down to steal a quick kiss like it’s a habit he’s been allowed to have forever. You stop and blink at him. He gives you a sleepy, wicked little grin. “What?”
“Nothing,” you lie, shoving him lightly with your elbow. He laughs under his breath and kisses your temple before heading back to his place to shower and change.
As you finish getting ready, you realize the very air in your apartment has changed. The world has tilted, and for the first time in years, the floor feels level. You think of all the time wasted being careful, when being brave would have felt this good.
You step into the kitchen and stop. Robby is a vision of casual, domestic chaos. His hair is still wet from the shower, his scrubs rumpled and uneven, as if he’s still dazed from the night before. He looks like a man who has been thoroughly loved, and he isn't even trying to hide the evidence.
Your eyes land on the counter: two thermoses, side by side, steam rising from the coffee he’s already made for you. The simplicity of it is what breaks you. It’s so easy to be cared for by him.
Robby glances over when he hears you. And the look on his face… soft, slow, worshipful, it steals the breath from your lungs. “Beautiful,” he says, like it’s just a fact. Like it’s his first thought every time he sees you.
You cross the kitchen without even thinking. Your hand finds his waist, fingers curling into his shirt, and you tip up to kiss him. It’s quick, but it lands deep. Warm. Certain. It tastes like mouthwash and sleep and everything ahead of you.
Robby hums against your mouth, hand sliding to your hip, anchoring you like muscle memory.
Like this is what you do now. Like this is how your mornings are supposed to start. And maybe they are.
When you pull back, he looks a little smug. “I made coffee.”
“I see that,” you say, aiming for casual. You miss by a mile. Your voice comes out too soft, too fond.
He nudges one of the thermoses toward you. “Yours. The way you like it.”
You take it, fingers brushing his. Your chest pulls tight in that stupid, warm way again. “You’re setting a dangerous precedent.”
Robby’s eyes roam over your face, equal parts amused and affectionate. “Good.” You shake your head like you’re exasperated, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. You’re pretty sure it’s going to be permanent now. He steps closer, close enough that his body lines up with yours like it’s instinct. Like he’s meant to fit there. He presses another kiss to your mouth, soft and quick, like it’s his favorite part of the morning routine.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low. “We’re gonna be late.”
You snort. “We’re never late.”
His gaze drops to your lips again, eyes darkening with something slower, heavier. “We might be today.”
Heat flickers to life low in your belly. Your cheeks warm. You nudge him with your shoulder, trying for stern. “Behave.”
Robby laughs under his breath and reaches past you for his keys. His hand brushes your hip on the way by, light and deliberate, like it’s a secret only the two of you are allowed to keep.
Walking out the door with him isn't a beginning or an ending. It’s just right. The last piece of the puzzle finally clicked. Two people, two coffees, heading exactly where they belong. Together.
The walk to PTMC is almost normal. The air is crisp. The coffee is scalding. Robby’s hand is in yours, warm and steady. You keep looking down at your fingers, waiting for the illusion to break. Waiting for the softness to disappear.
Robby’s thumb strokes your knuckles. Lazy. Sure. He smiles that crooked smile. Don't overthink it, it says. We're okay.
Then the hospital appears. The nerves hit. The Pitt is a world of fluorescent lights and trauma. It's full of coworkers who have watched you both for years. The "almost" couple. The "not yet" pair. And the doors are right there.
You take a breath and let it out. Robby glances over. “You good?”
You lift a brow, mostly to keep from melting. “Are you asking me, or the part of you that still wants to run?”
His mouth curves. “Both.”
You snort and squeeze his hand. “Okay,” you say, voice steady even though your chest is not. “Let’s do it.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he stops you just short of the hospital doors, crowding gently into your space with that quiet, focused intensity that always makes you forget how to breathe.
“You know,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “if I don’t kiss you right now, I’m going to spend the entire shift thinking about it.”
Your pulse trips. Your grip on his hand tightens. “So kiss me,” you say, softer than you mean to.
He does, right there on the sidewalk, with the scent of coffee in the air and the morning just beginning, Robby leans in and kisses you like the rest of the world doesn’t matter. Like it’s just the two of you and this moment and everything you were too scared to admit before.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for half a second. “Okay,” he says, breath low. “Now I can walk in like a professional.”
You laugh, stunned and dizzy and stupidly, entirely his. “Sure, you can.”
You turn toward the glass doors, fingers interlaced, finally done with the doubts. You don't need to check the reality of it anymore; it’s written in the heat of his palm against yours. The automatic doors part, welcoming you with the scent of sterile floors and tired caffeine.
The lobby is a sea of motion that suddenly hits a dead calm. The air stutters. You watch as the realization spreads through the room like wildfire. You are the center of the storm, and Robby is the anchor, walking beside you with a terrifying, beautiful composure.
At the hub, Dana’s sharp eyes drop to your hands, a small, knowing smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. Santos looks like she’s seen a ghost, her coffee forgotten in mid-air. The world is watching the years of pining finally end. Robby’s voice is a low rumble near your ear, intimate enough to make your toes curl. “They’re going to make it weird.”
You meet his gaze, steady and unafraid. “Let them.”
His thumb traces a slow line over your knuckle. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. To erase any shadow of a doubt, you rise on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek. It isn't a shy touch; it’s a statement. You linger just long enough to feel the heat of his skin against your lips.
Robby’s eyes widen in surprise before a slow, triumphant smirk replaces it. Behind you, the Hub explodes. Dana’s laugh is strangled; Santos is actually applauding.
“Well, well, well.” You turn, already bracing yourself, as Jack approaches. He’s exhausted, but his grin is predatory and entirely too pleased. He zeroes in on your interlaced fingers. “I just won the pool.”
“Oh, God,” you mutter, hiding your face slightly. “Tell me there wasn't a pool.”
Jack gestures to you like you’re a prize-winning exhibit. “Let the record show I never doubted them. Not for a single second.”
Dana’s head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing. “That’s because you cheated. You placed that bet last night, the second Robby left the Hub.”
“I didn’t rig anything!” Jack says, looking deeply offended. “I just played to win.”
“You’re a nightmare,” Dana replies, but she’s grinning anyway.
“I hate you all,” you announce, though the flush creeping up your throat betrays the lie.
“You love us,” Santos sings out. Dana nods in silent agreement, a knowing spark in her eyes. “I’m your favorite,” Jack declares, basking in his betting victory.
“You’re all delusional,” you mutter, trying to find your footing.
But before you can turn away, Robby tips your chin up with two fingers, his touch gentle and smug all at once. That look on his face should be illegal, cocky, warm, and completely unbothered by the circus unraveling around you. “What about me?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Do you hate me, too?”
The air leaves your lungs. The jokes die. In the middle of the fluorescent lights and the beeping monitors, you let the truth fall. “No,” you say, the word a soft, steady vow. “I love you.”
The Hub erupts. Jack clutches his chest like he's been struck; Dana’s eyes crinkle with pure joy.
And Robby? He looks like a man who finally has everything he ever wanted. He smiles, slow and brilliant, as if the universe has finally clicked into place. “Good,” he says, his voice thick with a promise. “I love you, too.”
Tag List:
@rufles2 @absinthe-over-tea @littlezee80 @takethistoheartxxx @thesandbeneathmytoes @loftilyviolentthunder
