omg i missed seeing you active on here!! hope all is well with you!!
Hii! Decided to explain myself haha. I'm both doing a veterinary internship as well as exploring other fandoms on my side blogs. I will return one day when I have more time and motivation. Love y'all đ
MASTERLIST
AO3
PAIRING: Dinah Madani x F!Reader
SUMMARY: The human body turns out to be remarkably good at holding a grudge. You crawled out of an upstate ditch with a shattered spine, a half-blind gaze, and a dead partner. Special Agent Dinah Madani walked away from a Central Park carousel with a bullet wound to her head and a department trying to bench her. Neither of you can sleep. Neither of you can forget. When Billy Russo breaks custody, two broken women decide to work together to settle his bill.Â
CONTENTS: 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, slow burn, mutual pining, rivals to lovers, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, romantic tension, disability, disabled reader, revenge
The flashing red and blue strobe lights of three NYPD cruisers slice through the heavy Brooklyn fog, transforming the damp, brick-lined alleyway into a grotesque, pulsing disco. The air is thick with the smell of garbage, exhaust fumes, and the sharp, copper tang of freshly spilled blood.
Dinah Madani ducks beneath the yellow crime scene tape, her high-end leather boots stepping carefully over a puddle of murky water that reflects the chaotic lights overhead. She pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders against the biting New York chill, her dark eyes immediately scanning the perimeter.
At the center of the alleyway, slumped against a rusted dumpster like a discarded doll, is the massive corpse of a man named Miller.
Detective Brett Mahoney stands a few feet away, a cheap styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee clutched in his gloved hand. He looks exactly like a man who has worked three consecutive double shifts and is entirely out of patience for federal interference.
He looks up as Dinah approaches, letting out a heavy, visible sigh into the cold air.
"Madani," Mahoney grunts, nodding toward the body. "You're a long way from the Homeland office. Don't tell me the feds are handling low-level street executions now."
Dinah doesn't answer right away. She steps closer to the corpse, her gaze locking onto the clinical precision of the wound at the base of Millerâs skull.
A single, muffled entry point.
No signs of a frantic struggle.
No defensive wounds on his massive forearms.
Whoever did this had bypassed his massive physical advantage with absolute ease, neutralized him, and put a bullet in his head like they were turning off a light switch.
Low-level street execution, her mind sneers, dry and dripping with irritation. Right. Because local street gangs routinely execute highly trained private military contractors with zero collateral damage. Brilliant analysis, Detective.
"Heâs not low-level, Brett," Dinah says smoothly, her voice a calm, professional blade. She kneels slightly, her eyes tracing a faint, thin trail of dried blood near the corpse's neck.
There is a tiny, precise nick in the skin right over the jugularânot a fatal cut, but a deliberate, terrifyingly close puncture. A calling card of an interrogation.
"This is Miller. Former Anvil heavy security. He wasn't a street thug; he was a trained killer who survived two tours in the Sandbox."
Mahoney takes a slow sip of his terrible coffee, shrugging his shoulders. "Then itâs Castle. Frankâs been painting the town red since Russo broke out of the Sacred Saints Hospital. He tracks down old Anvil guys, he puts a hole in them, he moves on. Itâs his brand, Madani. We find a dead mercenary, we call the coroner, we file it under the Punisher's tab."
"It's not Frank," Dinah says firmly, standing back up and brushing a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead. Her thumb instinctively twitches against her pocket, a phantom ache pulsing behind her own scar. "Frank is a sledgehammer. He breaches the front door, he breaks the walls down, and he leaves the scene looking like a war zone. This? This is a scalpel. This is quiet, methodical, and entirely off the grid."
She looks down at Miller's dead eyes, a cold realization settling deep into her chest.
This wasn't an isolated incident.
Over the last seventy-two hours, three other former Anvil operators have turned up across the boroughs. All executed with the same terrifying efficiency.
But it isn't just their deaths that connect themâitâs their history.
Dinah knows the deep-state files better than anyone living. These specific men weren't part of Russoâs standard corporate contracts. They belonged to a highly classified, dark-ops cell within Anvil that took orders directly from Rawlins and the old Cerberus network.
A cell that specialized in making inconvenient people disappear forever.
Someone else is hunting, Dinah thinks, her chest tightening with a volatile mix of professional frustration and intense, visceral curiosity.
She looks at the meticulous nature of the kill, and for a strange, fleeting second, she imagines a shadow moving through the Brooklyn rain. A shadow that knows exactly who dies tonight.
Whoever you are, you aren't Frank Castle. You're a ghost with a very specific, very personal vendetta.
"Look, Madani," Mahoney says, interrupting her thoughts as he tosses his empty cup into a nearby bin. "Unless you're planning on seizing the body and tying my detectives up in federal red tape for the next six months, let the NYPD do its job. Itâs gang warfare. A falling out among thieves."
Dinah turns her sharp, unyielding gaze toward Mahoney, a dry, humorless smile playing on her lips. "Keep telling yourself that, Brett. It must help you sleep at night."
She turns on her heel and walks back toward her car, leaving the flashing lights and the useless chatter behind. As she slides into the driver's seat, she grips the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white.
"Whoever you are," Dinah whispers into the dark cabin of her car, her eyes reflecting the distant red strobes of the crime scene, "you're hunting my monsters. And I am right behind you."
The air in Yunnan is a thick, mountain-born mist that smells faintly of pine needles, wet slate, and the constant aroma of burning incense.
The humidity clings to the rough wool of your grey robes, pressing the fabric against your skin. You sit on the edge of the smooth stone balustrade, your left boot dangling over a drop that plunges straight into a sea of white fog.
You don't look down. Mostly because you don't need to, but also because looking too fast to the right makes the world tilt in a way that makes your stomach do uninvited backflips.
Instead, you focus on the steady, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a wooden water wheel somewhere down in the ravine.
Your left hand idly traces the deep carves in the ancient cedar pillar beside you. You cannot feel the cold touch of the morning dew, or the coarse texture of the rock, you are only vaguely aware you're touching something.
You treat your like a sleeping dog: leave them alone, and they won't snap at you with a sudden, blistering surge of pins and needles.
Then comes the sound. It ruins the entire atmosphere of mountain mystique.
Itâs the heavy, frantic, uneven stomping of designer hiking boots dragging across wet cobblestones, accompanied by the pathetic, ragged wheezing of a man who clearly thought a high-end gym membership in Manhattan prepared him for six thousand feet of elevation.
You tilt your head to the left, letting your eye sweep across the courtyard.
The tourist is a masterpiece of wealthy mid-life crisis. Brand-new technical outerwear that still has the folding creases in it, a premium tracking watch glowing aggressively on his sweaty wrist, and a face that is currently the color of a tomato.
He collapses onto the bottom step of the main pavilion, clutching his knees like his lungs are about to evict themselves from his chest. He looks around the empty, silent courtyard with absolute panic, entirely overwhelmed by the towering, gold-leafed eaves and the total lack of a reception desk.
You take a slow breath, letting a dry, amused smile tug at the corner of your mouth. God, they really just let anyone buy a plane ticket.
You slide off the balustrade. You make sure to lead with your left foot, anchoring your weight properly so your depth perception doesn't trick you into overshooting the stone floor.
Itâs a slow, deliberate movement, but to him, you probably just look like you're practicing some ultra-zen mindfulness shit.
"You know," you say, your voice cutting through the mist, blunt and dry. "If you throw up on the stones, Master Chen is going to make you clean it up with your bare hands. And let me tell you, the water here doesn't believe in plumbing or heating. Itâs straight from the glacier. Itâll freeze the skin right off your knuckles."
The tourist flinches, his head snapping up so fast you hear his neck pop. He stares at you, blinking through the sweat stinging his eyes, looking at your grey robes and your messy hair like heâs just found Jesus in a thrift store.
"Oh, thank Christ," he wheezes, his voice dripping with a thick, panicked East Coast accent. "An American. Look, Iâve been walking for three hours. The driver just dropped me at the base of the trail and pointed up. Thereâs no one here. Iâm supposed to meet someone named Abbot? I have a reservation. Well, a confirmation letter. I donated to the restoration fund."
A reservation. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
"A reservation," you repeat, leaning your left shoulder against the cedar pillar. You deliberately toss a quick, casual blind-spot check to your right, making sure one of the older monks isn't sneaking up on your blind side with a heavy wooden broom. "Yeah, sorry, buddy. The concierge is out back chopping wood until his arms fall off. And there's no Wi-Fi, so turn off that watch before the battery dies and you realize you have no idea what time of day it is."
He looks horrified, instinctively covering his smartwatch with his hand. "Iâm here for... for the training. Spiritual clarity. Internal martial arts. The email saidâ"
"Listen," you interrupt, stepping a little closer, keeping him firmly on your left side so you can read his pathetic expression. "The silent vow isnât mandatory, but if you complain too much, the monks will make you scrub the courtyard with a toothbrush. And honestly? My Mandarin isn't good enough to beg for your spare teeth."
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm not complaining. I just... I didn't think it would be this empty. Where is everyone?"
"They're working," you say plainly. "This isn't a retreat where people rub hot stones on your back, man. Itâs a monastery. You wake up at four in the morning, you eat porridge that tastes like cardboard, and you sweep steps until you canât feel your legs. Then you meditate until you realize all your money can't buy you a soul. It's a real hoot. You're gonna love it."
Before he can start whimpering again, the heavy wooden doors of the main hall groan open.
Abbot Zhiyuan steps out into the gray light. He is ancient, his face a beautiful, deeply lined topography of ninety years of mountain wind, clad in faded saffron robes that look like theyâve survived three separate revolutions.
Two senior monks stand just behind him, their hands tucked into their sleeves, their expressions completely unreadable.
The wealthy westerner freezes, instantly trying to fix his posture, looking like a schoolboy who just got called into the principal's office.
You don't straighten up. You just offer the Abbot a small, respectful nod of your head.
You actually like the old man; heâs the only one here who doesnât look at your scars like they're a curse from a past life.
The Abbot looks at the shivering, sweaty tourist, then turns his gaze to you. His dark eyes twinkle with a sharp, quiet intelligence. He speaks in a low, gravelly Mandarin, his dialect thick and heavy with the local mountain accent.
"Is this the one who sent the heavy paper boxes of money?" the Abbot asks.
You let your smile slip out, turning your head slightly so you can address the old man directly. You have to keep your sentences simple, your mind working a little harder to translate around the fog in your own skull. Your vocabulary is a bit clunky, but your tone is perfectly playful.
"Yes, Shifu," you reply in Mandarin, your accent rough but clear. "He is the rich one. He has very soft hands. Like a baby."
The two senior monks behind the Abbot let out a synchronized, low chuckle, their shoulders shaking under their robes.
The tourist looks back and forth between you and the monks, his anxiety spiking again as he realizes he is the punchline of a joke he canât understand. "What... what did he say? Did he say something about my reservation?"
You ignore him for a second, keeping your eyes on the Abbot. You tilt your head toward the tourist, giving a slight, dramatic roll of your good eye.
"He will cry tomorrow," you tell the Abbot in your simple, blunt Mandarin. "The water is too cold for him. He will not last one month. Send him to chop the big bamboo. It will break him fast."
The Abbot shakes his head, a soft, dry rasp of a laugh escaping his chest. "You are very cruel," he murmurs in his native tongue. "But your words have truth. Let him rest for one hour. Then, give him the small broom."
"Understood, Shifu," you say, bowing slightly from the waist.
The Abbot and the senior monks turn, slipping back into the dark, incense-heavy shadows of the main hall, the heavy doors clicking shut behind them.
The courtyard falls silent again, save for the touristâs nervous shifting. He steps toward you, his expensive jacket rustling loudly. "Hey. Please tell me what you just told them. Are they going to turn me away? Is there a problem with the donation?"
You turn your left side back toward him, crossing your arms. You give him a sweet, completely full-of-shit smile.
"Relax, big spender," you say, your voice dripping with easy, flirty sarcasm. "I was just telling them the weather lately has been absolutely beautiful for a walk. I told them you're a natural. A real warrior."
He lets out a massive sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping two inches. "Really? Thank God. I was worried they thought I wasn't serious."
"Oh, they think you're hilarious," you correct, turning on your heel and heading toward the side pavilion, making sure your steps are wide and stable on the damp stone. "Come on, Rolex. Letâs go find you a room before you faint on my boots. Iâll show you where the small brooms are kept."
The mountain doesnât do quiet at night. Not really.
The mist out there has turned into a heavy, relentless downpour, the fat drops drumming against the clay roof tiles with the rhythm of a firing squad.
Inside your tiny, spartan cell, it is pitch-black. You like the darkâusually. It means you don't have to watch your right hand fail to grab a loose thread, and it means your good eye doesn't have to strain against the harsh, shifting geometry of the world.
But tonight, the dark is just a canvas for the agony inside your skull.
A brutal, white-hot spike of a headache is clawing its way right behind your left eye, digging deep into the tissue, pulsing in time with your frantic heartbeat. Itâs the kind of pressure that makes you want to take a drill to your own temple just to let the air out.
You sit cross-legged on the thin straw mat, shivering slightly as the mountain chill seeps through the cracks in the floorboards.
With your left hand, you reach for the small wooden low-table beside your mat, fingers brushing against the smooth porcelain of an empty tea cup. You have to watch what you're doing to make sure your grip is secure.
You lift it and press the chilled bottom of the cup firmly against your right temple, groaning softly as the shock of cold briefly dulls the throbbing nerve pain.
The wooden door to your cell shifts, sliding open with a low, wet groan. The sharp, metallic scent of ozone and rain pours into the small room, cutting through the stagnant smell of old straw and your own cold sweat.
A heavy, dark silhouette fills the doorway. Even without seeing his face, you know the broad, slightly hunched shoulders of Master Jin.
Heâs the oldest senior monk under the Abbot, the one who spent months trying to teach you how to breathe through your pain when all you wanted to do was swear at the mountain.
He steps inside, the hem of his heavy, soaked robes dragging against the floorboards with a wet shluck.
He doesnât light a candle. He knows you're sitting in the dark for a reason.
You brace yourself.
You mentally prepare your ears for the standard, long-winded philosophical lecture. You can already hear it in your head: Vengeance is a ghost that eats its host, child. Let the river carry the mud away. You prepare a few choice, sarcastic retorts in your head, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his cosmic balance.
Instead, the old man just scoffs in the darkness, a rough, gravelly sound.
"Are you here to tell me that blood doesn't wash away blood?" you mutter, your Mandarin deliberately simple, the sentences chopped down to their bare essentials because your throbbing brain can't handle the complex grammar rules right now. You keep pressing the cold porcelain cup against your temple. "To say I must find peace?"
Out of the shadows, a heavy, solid object wrapped in cracked leather comes flying through the air. It lands right in your lap with a dull, familiar clatter.
"Fuck no," Jin grunts in his thick, low Mandarin.
You blink, your good eye adjusting just enough to trace the outline of what he just threw at you.
Your left hand drops the cup and reaches down, your fingers immediately recognizing the heavy, ribbed grip of your old combat knife. The leather sheath is clean. The tactical nylon straps have been neatly replaced.
You slide the blade out an inch.
Even in the pitch-dark, you can feel the terrifyingly perfect, lethal friction of an edge that has been honed down to the micrometer on a wet stone.
He didn't just clean it; he made it a razor.
You look up into the dark, completely thrown off. "What happened to the temple rules?" you ask, plainly, though your tone is laced with your usual playful disbelief. "You always say... there are no good wars. You say weapons are for fools."
Jin shifts his weight, the floorboards groaning under his heavy boots. "I am not here to audit your morality," he replies smoothly in his native tongue, his voice devoid of the usual monk-like serenity. Itâs just rough, pragmatic affection. "I just hope your terrible mouth doesn't get you killed before you reach the coast. Iâve grown used to the noise."
A bittersweet smile tugs at the left side of your mouth, cutting through the sharp lines of pain on your face.
You slide the knife back into its sheath with a crisp, satisfying snap.
"You know," you say, leaning your head back against the cold wooden wall, your brain briefly flashing to a life you buried a lifetime ago. "When I was young... when I argued with my mother, sheâd never say sorry. She would just walk into my room... and she would bring me a plate of sliced apples." You look toward the dark mass of his silhouette, your voice dropping its sarcastic edge for just a fraction of a second. "This feels exactly like that."
Jin stands there for a long moment, the rain howling outside the thin paper window screens, filling the silence between you. He doesn't offer a hug, and he doesn't say anything sweetâthatâs not his style.
But you can hear the slight softening in his breath.
"The apples are sharp," Jin grunts back in Mandarin, turning back toward the sliding door. "Do not cut yourself before you find the men you seek. Go. The fog will be thick at dawn. It will hide your tracks from the rich fool in the guest pavilion."
You let out a soft, dry chuckle, the motion sending a tiny residual spike of pain behind your eye, but you ignore it.
You tuck the sheathed knife securely into the waistband of your grey robes, using your numb right hand to steady the leather while your left hand pulls the knot tight.
"Goodbye, old man," you say quietly, not caring if he understands the words, because he definitely understands the weight behind them. "Try not to miss me too much. The silence is going to be deafening."
Jin doesn't look back. He steps out into the pouring rain, sliding the wooden door shut behind him with a firm, final click.
You sit alone in the dark for a few more minutes, listening to the storm, the weight of the steel against your hip feeling heavier and more real than anything else in this valley.
The air inside Sacred Saints Hospitalâs psychiatric secure wing smells permanently of industrial bleach and stale cafeteria coffee. It is a suffocating cocktail, the kind that clings to the wool fibers of Dinah Madaniâs expensive civilian coat and stays there long after she signs out at the security desk.
She stands on the sterile linoleum of the observation corridor, the harsh fluorescent lighting humming a relentless, low-register sound overhead.
The sound vibrates directly against her temples, a cruel little echo of the phantom ache that never really leaves her skull.
Through the thick, wire-reinforced glass of the room, Billy Russo sits on the edge of a hospital bed.
He is a ruin of a man.
The pristine, devastatingly handsome facade he used to conquer high-society galas and Dinahâs own bed has been violently dismantled, replaced by a grotesque patchwork of thick, jagged surgical tracks. He stares blankly at the far concrete wall, his shoulders hunched, his fingers picking aimlessly at the hem of his hospital gown.
He looks like a shattered mirror that someone tried to piece back together with superglue and spite.
Dinah stares through the reinforced glass at Billyâs bandaged profile, her own reflection looking just as hollow.
"You don't get to forget," she whispers to the glass, her voice barely a scratch against the silence of the corridor. Her right thumb moves instinctively up to her hairline, tracing the faint, puckered indentation where a bullet from Billyâs gun had once torn through her skull, missing her brain by millimeters. "I won't let you."
Look at him, her mind sneers, the inner monologue dry, bitter, and entirely lacking in the textbook empathy her mandatory Bureau therapist keeps trying to shove down her throat. The great Billy Russo. Master tactician. Cold-blooded killer. Reduced to a shell who supposedly can't remember what he did to me, to Sam, to any of us. How incredibly convenient.
"Agent Madani."
The voice breaks her trance. Dinah doesn't flinchâshe doesn't give them the satisfactionâbut her jaw tightens as she turns her head. Walking down the corridor with a heavy, authoritative stride is director Rafael Hernandez.
His expression is a familiar combination of paternal disappointment and bureaucratic exhaustion.
"You're here again, Dinah," Hernandez says, stopping a few feet away, his arms crossing over his chest. He doesn't look at the monster behind the glass. He only looks at her. "The NYPD reported your car in the courtyard an hour ago. You have a stack of field reports on your desk that haven't been touched since Tuesday."
"I'm executing my duties, Rafael," Dinah replies smoothly, her professional armor snapping into place with practiced ease. She tilts her chin up, her eyes hard. "Russo is a high-value asset with deep ties to fractured military-grade cells. Monitoring his cognitive recovery is directly tied to national security."
Hernandez lets out a slow, heavy sigh. "Heâs a psych patient in lockdown, Dinah. The doctors say his memory is a sieve. He doesn't know his own name half the time, let alone where his old Anvil offshore accounts are hidden. You're not monitoring an asset. You're haunting a graveyard."
"He's faking," she snaps, the composure slipping for a fraction of a second, revealing the raw, jagged edge of the obsession eating her alive. "I know him. I slept next to him. He is a predator, Rafael. Heâs waiting for the right moment to slip the leash, and everyone in this city is treating him like a tragic charity case."
"The Bureau thinks you're losing your mind," Hernandez says quietly, his voice dropping to a cautious murmur. "Theyâre talking about mandatory administrative leave. Paid time off, Dinah. A psychological evaluation that you won't be able to talk your way out of. I can't keep running interference for you if you're spending your nights staring at a ghost through a window."
Dinah lets out a short, dry laugh, a sound entirely devoid of humor. "Administrative leave. Right. Because the best way to handle a compromised field agent is to give her more time alone with her thoughts. Brilliant strategy." She turns her back on Hernandez, returning her gaze to the shattered man in the cell. "I'm staying on the clock."
"Dinahâ"
"I said Iâm fine, Rafael," she cuts him off, her tone dropping into a cold, non-negotiable register. "Go back to the office. Iâll sign the paperwork before the shift change."
Hernandez hesitates, his boots shifting on the linoleum, before he finally turns and walks away. His retreating footsteps echo down the hall until the heavy fire doors click shut, leaving her completely alone with her demon once more.
She presses her forehead against the cool glass, her eyes locked onto Billy's trembling hands. But as she stares at the monster who broke her world, a strange, persistent prickle begins to itch at the back of her mindâa tactical instinct she hasn't felt since before the carousel.
The basement apartment in Queens smells like a mixture of stale pepperoni pizza, hot copper wires, and the distinct, unwashed panic of a man who hasn't seen direct sunlight since the Obama administration.
It is a subterranean cavern of glowing blue LEDs, exposed brick walls damp with New York humidity, and the deafening, white-noise hum of custom-built server racks stacked from the floor to the low concrete ceiling.
You stand in the narrow gap between a stack of empty motherboard boxes and Leoâs multi-monitor command center. The air is warm, radiating off the hard drives, making your skin feel slightly tacky under your leather jacket.
You lift a sweating red can of Diet Coke to your lips and take a long, appreciative swallow, letting the sharp burn of carbonation hit the back of your throat.
It feels surreal to be back in the States after three long years of hiding in mountain mist and eating unseasoned broth.
You set the soda down with a soft click, a dry, sarcastic smile playing on your lips.
"God, I missed good old American capitalism," you murmur, tossing a lazy wink toward the desk. "High-fructose corn syrup really is the ultimate homecoming queen."
Your left eyeâthe one that actually tracks a straight line without making the room sway like a drunk freighterâscans the cascading lines of a decrypted code terminal.
Leo is currently trying to vibrate out of his skin.
Heâs a mass of nervous tics, a hyper-competent black-hat hacker who used to pull data out of deep encrypted servers for you back when your career was legitimate and your medical records didn't look like a horror movie script. His fingers are a manic blur over a mechanical keyboard, the clack-clack-clack sounding like a frantic roll of small-arms fire.
"I shouldn't be doing this," Leo mutters, a sheen of greasy sweat shining on his forehead under the harsh glow of a vertical monitor. "I officially died in a database error three years ago. I am a digital ghost, and you walk back into my life after years across the world, smelling like a yoga retreat and asking me to breach Homeland Security firewalls. Itâs bad for my blood pressure."
"Oh, stop whining, Leo. You love the adrenaline," you say, your voice an easy, dry purr. You step closer to his desk, balancing your weight on your left leg to compensate for the slight tilt in your depth perception. You lean down so your shoulder brushes his. "Besides, you look better when you're terrified. It brings out the color in your cheeks."
"It's arrhythmia," he shoots back, though a faint tint of pink actually hits his neck. He hits a violent strike on the enter key. "There. Thatâs the Anvil personnel manifest. Or whatâs left of it. Since Russoâs corporate empire went up in flames, the survivors have splintered into local tactical crews. Theyâre running protection rackets in Brooklyn, heavy arms smuggling at the docks... they're unguided missiles, and they're paranoid as hell."
You lean over his shoulder, tracking a massive file directory marked with a blacked-out âconfidentialâ seal.
As you shift your posture, your right hand swings forward to brace against the edge of the desk. Your movement is perfectly precise, but because your palm registers absolutely zero tactile feedback, you don't feel the plastic edge digging into your skin. You have to visually check your hand to make sure you aren't knocking over that freshly opened Coke.
Careful, your brain reminds you with a dry, sarcastic snort. Spilling sugar water on his rig is a capital offense. Let's keep the right hand on a visual leash before we drown his thousand-dollar keyboard.
You guide your left eye down the digital logs, shifting past the Anvil grunts to a completely separate, heavily encrypted data packet Leo bypassed. Itâs a back-door pull from Sacred Saints Hospitalâs psychiatric ward security grid. You're tracking Russo's physical perimeter, but as the visitor logs decrypt into raw text, one specific name repeats over and over on the daily ledger.
Dinah Madani. Special Agent, Homeland Security.
You freeze, your good eye narrowing. Sheâs been sitting outside Russo's room almost every single night since they locked him up.
"Well, well," you murmur, a low, dangerous ripple of amusement in your chest. "Looks like he has a stalker. Agent Madani is practically living at his bedside. Thatâs either a very toxic attachment or a beautiful vendetta."
Leo glances up at your face, sees the sharp, clinical focus in your expression, and looks down at the monitor. He realizes exactly what you're doing with this data.
You aren't just doing a vulnerability assessment; you're building a hit list.
Leo stares at the file logs, his fingers trembling over the mechanical keyboard. "If Homeland or the Bureau tracks this packet back to my proxy, am I going to land as an accessory to first-degree murder?"
You lean even lower over his shoulder, your hand casually tapping the top of his monitor. You give him a warm, reassuring bump with your shoulder, your voice dropping into a blunt, no-nonsense drawl that doesn't hide the dark edge underneath.
"Did you leave your full government name on the code, Leo? No? Then don't worry. The murder is entirely on my tab."
Leo lets out a shaky breath, his throat clicking as he swallows. "You're fucking crazy. You know that, right? Russoâs crew is heavily armed, and this Madani woman... sheâs a federal agent. If she catches you in the middle of a hit, she won't just write a report."
"Good thing I like a challenge," you say, a playful, wicked grin spreading across your face as you slide an encrypted flash drive out of the server slot. You tuck it safely into your inner jacket pocket. You reach out and gently tap Leoâs cheek with two fingers. "Thanks for the bedtime reading, sweetheart. Try to get some sun. You're starting to blend into the drywall."
You turn and walk toward the dark concrete stairs leading up to the rainy Queens alleyway, making sure your steps are wide and solid. Behind you, Leo is already frantically scrambling his digital footprint, the mechanical keys clacking a frantic prayer into the dark.
The indoor shooting range smells like gunpowder and vaporized lead. The rhythmic, deafening bang-bang-bang of a nearby lane echoes off the concrete walls, a harsh, familiar staccato that makes your ears ring in a comforting, tactical sort of way.
You stand in the narrow, particle-board stall, the target set at a modest fifteen yards. With your left hand, you rack the slide of a standard 9mm Glock, the metallic click clean and heavy. Your right hand grips the frame perfectlyâthe muscle memory is flawless, your fingers wrapping around the checkered polymer with textbook precision.
But because the nerve endings are sending back absolutely zero feedback, you have to visually check your grip to ensure your thumb isn't resting too high against the slide.
Alright, let's see how much American democracy we can hit, your inner monologue drawls, a dry, cynical smirk playing on your lips.
You raise the pistol, aligning your sights. Instantly, the world rebels.
Without your right eye, your depth perception is completely warped.
The front post, the rear notches, and the silhouette target downrange refuse to line up in a neat, three-dimensional plane. They overlap like a badly printed comic book.
When you try to track the bullseye, the distance feels elastic, completely untrustworthy.
You squeeze off a shot. The recoil snaps up through your wrists.
Downrange, a neat little hole appears in the paperâthree inches low and wide to the left, buried in the target's shoulder.
You let out a soft, irritated click of your tongue. Right. Pistols are officially a pain in the ass.
You can't rely on raw instinct anymore. You have to adapt, using light, shadows, and hard context clues to build a fake depth map in your head.
You look at the glare of the fluorescent lights bouncing off the Glockâs slide, using the hard angle of the reflection to judge if the barrel is parallel to the ground. You look at the size of the target silhouette relative to the lane's partition walls, calculating the distance mathematically rather than seeing it.
You adjust your stance, shifting your weight heavily onto your left leg, and fire three more times in rapid succession. The holes cluster tighter now, creeping into the high chest cavity.
It's passable, but it's exhausting. It requires too much processing power from a brain that's already fighting a permanent headache.
You lay the Glock down on the counter and reach for the heavy, tactical nylon bag at your feet. You pull out a lightweight carbine rifle fitted with a high-end optical scope.
Lifting the long gun, you try to bring the stock to your right cheek out of old habit. The rubber butt-pad digs into your shoulder, but when you look forward, all you see through the lens is the black, empty void of your blind right side.
Stupid, you chide yourself, a dry, self-deprecating snort escaping your nose. Old habits die hard. Just like my optic nerve.
You lower the rifle slightly and bring it back up, but this time, you explicitly tilt the entire frame a sharp fifteen degrees to the left. You crane your neck, dropping your chin low over the receiver so your functional left eye aligns perfectly with the glass.
The moment your left eye locks onto the reticle, the world snaps into terrifying, beautiful focus.
The magnification removes the guesswork. The red crosshairs sit crisp and steady against the center ring of the paper target, the distance suddenly rendered entirely irrelevant by the lens.
Your numb right index finger finds the trigger guard, and you look down at it once to make sure the placement is clean. You take a slow, rhythmic breath, letting the red dot hover over the target's chest.
There you are, you think, a wicked, playful grin finally cutting through the focus on your face.
You squeeze the trigger. The rifle barks, a sharp, clean thump against your shoulder. A perfect, jagged hole opens up exactly in the center of the dead-red bullseye. You fire twice more without changing the tilt, the brass casings clattering brightly against the concrete floor.
Three holes, one single ragged cavity right where the heart would be.
You lower the rifle, a soft, satisfied purr rippling in your chest as you look at the shredded paper.
The magnification removes the guesswork, but maintaining that sharp, fifteen-degree tilt requires a deliberate strain on your neck thatâs already threatening to stir up the phantom embers of your headache.
Before you can rack the bolt to clear the chamber, a shadow cuts across the scuffed plexiglass partition to your left.
A guy in the lane next to youâclad in tight tactical cargo pants, a pristine plate carrier thatâs clearly never seen dirt, and an ego that takes up two lanesâsteps back from his bench.
"Hey," he calls out over the dull hum of the ventilation fans, raising his voice to compete with the muffled bangs down the line. "Nice grouping. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"
You don't turn your head all the way. You just shift your posture slightly so your good left eye can catalog him. Your brain gives a long, exhausting sigh. Great. The local weekend warrior wants to talk shop.
"Military," you answer sharply, your voice clipped and dry.
You turn your back to him, deliberately reaching for a fresh magazine with your left hand, trying to return to practice before he can keep talking. You check your numb right hand visually, wrapping your fingers back around the rifle grip to prepare for the next round.
The guy doesn't take the hint. He takes a half-step closer to the partition, shaking his head with a patronizing, know-it-all smirk.
"Yeah, well, whatever branch taught you that stance did you a disservice, sweetheart," he says, his tone shifting into that classic, insufferable lecturer cadence. "Youâre canting the whole frame. If you hold your rifle properlyâsquared up, stock buried tight in the pocket of your right shoulder, head straightâyou won't have to strain your neck. You're throwing off your recoil management with that weird tilt."
You stop. You slowly set the rifle down on the bench, letting the metal click against the surface.
You turn around fully, leaning your left hip against the counter so you can give him the full, unshielded benefit of your gaze, your tone dropping into a blunt, icy register that completely cuts through his tactical bravado.
"I'm blind in my right eye," you say plainly, letting the words hang in the air like smoke.
The guy's smug smile instantly disintegrates. He blinks, his jaw dropping open just a fraction as his eyes dart from your face down to the tilted rifle, his brain violently trying to calculate a retreat from the massive hole he just dug for himself.
"Oh," he stammers, the crimson color flooding up his neck. "Iâuh. I didn't meanâ"
"So unless you've got a magical way for me to shoot without looking, I'm going to keep tilting the damn gun," you add, giving him a sharp, wicked little wink from your good eye that makes him look even more miserable.
He mumbles something entirely incoherent, rapidly turning back to his own lane and grabbing his gear, suddenly very interested in looking at anything other than your partition.
The smell inside the abandoned Brooklyn auto-body shop is a rotting soup of old motor oil and rusted iron. Rain hammers a relentless, deafening rhythm against the corrugated tin roof overhead, drowning out the ambient hum of the city outside and trapping the two of you in a private, shadow-drenched hell.
You stand perfectly still behind a rusted-out chassis, your good left eye tracking the beam of a tactical flashlight cutting through the gloom.
The flashlight belongs to Miller.
Heâs a mountain of a manâsix-foot-four of thick, steroid-fueled muscle wrapped in a stained Carhartt jacket, a former Anvil heavy contractor who stood by and watched your world get torn apart.
He carries a heavy-caliber handgun like itâs an extension of his own hand, checking the corners of the dark shop with a slow, practiced lethality. If he gets his hands on you in a straight-up wrestling match, heâll crush your spine like a dry twig.
But we aren't playing fair tonight, are we? your brain chides, a dry, venomous little purr. A straight fight is for people who have proper depth perception and two hands that can actually feel things. We do things a little differently now.
You carefully shift your weight to your left foot. Your right arm functions perfectly, your fingers resting loosely against the ribbed grip of Master Jinâs perfectly honed combat knife. But the arm is completely silent to your brainâa ghost waiting for orders. You have to visually check that your fingers are curled correctly around the hilt, using your left eye to confirm the grip before you make your move.
You slide a heavy iron lug nut out of your jacket pocket with your left hand. With a quick, precise flick of your wrist, you toss it across the shop. It hits a stack of old oil drums on the far left side with a loud, ringing CLANG.
Miller snaps. He spins hard to his left, his flashlight and his gun tracking the sound instantly, his massive back turning entirely to your position.
Bingo, big boy.
You explode from the shadows, stepping wide to compensate for the slight sway in your peripheral vision.
You don't make a sound.
Before Miller can even register the shift in the air, you drive the heel of your left boot directly into the back of his right knee. The joint pops with a sickening crunch, and his massive frame folds instantly, sending him crashing heavily onto the grease-slicked concrete.
His gun clatters away into the dark.
Before he can even draw a breath to scream, you are on him like a shroud. You drop your full weight onto his back, your left hand grabbing a fistful of his greasy hair to yank his head back, while your right arm whips forward, pressing the razor-sharp edge of your blade directly against his jugular.
Your right hand is perfectly steady, holding the steel with flawless mechanical precision. But you feel absolutely nothing. No vibration of his skin, no warmth of his neck, no resistance of his flesh. To your brain, you might as well be holding a knife against a block of wood.
Miller thrashes under you, a pathetic, wet wheeze tearing from his throat as he realizes heâs pinned. "Who the fuckâwhat do you want?!" he gasps, his blood mixing with the dirty oil on the floor.
You lean down, pressing your lips dangerously close to his ear. Your voice is a low, conversational drawl, completely casual, as if youâre chatting with a bartender over a drink.
"See, the thing about nerve damage," you whisper, driving the heel of your boot ruthlessly into his cracked ribs, a sickening snap echoing under the tin roof, "is that I can't really tell how hard I'm pressing. So if I slip... let's just blame the medical system."
Miller freezes completely, his eyes bulging as the steel nicks his skin, a thin trickle of crimson starting to stain the collar of his jacket. "Please, manâplease. I don't know who you are. What do you want from me?"
"Oh, come on, Miller. Don't be a party pooper. We were just getting to the fun part," you tease, a playful, wicked little tilt in your voice. You enjoy the way he shivers under your weight. Itâs almost flirty, the way you hold his life in your unfeeling fingers. "I'm looking for Billy. The artist formerly known as handsome. Whereâs his new safehouse? Whereâs he hiding his little fractured family of psychopaths?"
"I don't know!" Miller cries, a genuine sob breaking through his tough-guy exterior. "Swear to God, I don't know! Since the hospital escape, he went completely off the grid. Heâs not using the old Anvil channels. He thinks everyone is a mole. He didn't contact any of the old crews!"
You look down at the back of his head, your good eye analyzing the frantic, erratic pulsing of the artery against your blade. You check his breathing, the pitch of his voice, the sheer desperation in his sweat.
He's telling the truth, your inner monologue notes with a dry, disappointed sigh. How incredibly anticlimactic. All this grease and rain, and the big guy is just a useless dead end.
"Are you sure?" you ask softly, shifting your weight slightly, your left hand idly tracing a playful circle against the nape of his neck. "Think real hard, sweetheart. A name, a neighborhood, a favorite coffee shop? Give me something to work with here. Iâd hate to think this whole evening was a waste of perfectly good makeup."
"I don't know anything about Russo!" he bellows, his voice cracking with pure terror. "I swear to Christ, I don't know anything!"
You stay quiet for a beat, letting the heavy sound of the rain fill the space between you. The playfulness leaves your expression, replaced by a cold, blunt finality.
"Okay, I believe you," you say simply.
With your left hand, you smoothly draw the suppressed pistol from your inner jacket pocket. Before Miller can even process the shift in your posture, you press the barrel directly against the back of his skull and pull the trigger.
The silenced gunshot is nothing more than a dull cough against the roar of the storm.
Millerâs massive body goes completely limp beneath you.
You slide off his corpse, standing up slowly and making sure your boots find solid purchase on the slippery concrete. You visually check your right hand, seeing that it is covered in his warm blood, though to your mind, it feels as clean and dry as it did in the monastery.
You let out a slow, heavy breath, tucking the gun away and wiping the blade on Millerâs jacket with your left hand.
One less ghost in the ledger, you think, turning your back on the body and walking out into the pouring Brooklyn night. But the big fish is still swimming.
Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Chronically ill!F!Reader
Summary:
You hide inhalers in coat pockets and scars beneath scrubs. You hide the way you've been in love with your attending for years.
You tell yourself it's professionalism. Survival. Pride.
You never wanted to be the inspirational story.
But when Robby is the one holding your hand while you can't breathe it becomes impossible to keep pretending you don't matter to each other.
Word count: 12,5K
Rating: Teen and up
Tags/Content warnings: chronic illness, medical trauma, hospitalization, ICU stay, mentions of death, medical procedures, slow burn, mutual pining, somewhat medically realistic, hidden disability, recovery, caretaking, Robby being protective, vulnerability, fluff, confessions, angst with a happy ending, hurt/ comfort, second person POV, no use of Y/N
Comment or DM to join the taglist
AN: Finally managed to finish a draft đ„č Sorry for the long silence, I am still crazy busy with real life stuff, but for now enjoy this one. Also: I've gotten through my DMs and added people to the taglist, haven't gone through the comments yet, so if you're not on it you can either comment here again or just wait till I have time to look through the other comments, sorry for the inconvenience đ Anyway. hope you enjoy this one đ
You wake up already tired.
Not oh, the weight of existence tired but the practical, bone-deep exhaustion that settles in your chest before your eyes are even open. Your alarm hasnât gone off yet. You can tell because the room is still quiet, the city outside your window holding its breath in that narrow hour before morning traffic starts screaming again.
Your lungs feel⊠tight. Not dramatic. Just wrong. Like someoneâs cinched a belt one notch too far and left it there overnight.
Fantastic.
You stare at the ceiling for a moment longer than you should, negotiating with yourself.
Okay. Weâre not panicking. Weâre not catastrophizing. We are simply acknowledging that breathing is currently a conscious activity.
You swing your legs out of bed anyway.
The floor is cold. You wince, more out of habit than pain, and shuffle toward the kitchen, shoulders already hunched forward like youâre trying to protect something fragile inside your ribcage. Which, rude as it is to admit, you are.
Meds first. Always meds first.
You line them up with mechanical precision, hands steady because they have to be. Inhaled corticosteroid, long-acting beta agonistâthe familiar plastic weight of the inhaler fits your palm like muscle memory. You exhale fully, lips tight around the mouthpiece, inhale slow and deep until your lungs protest, then hold it there.
One Mississippi. Two. Three.
Your chest burns faintly, the way it always does. You tell yourself that means itâs working.
Spiriva next. You hate this oneâthe dry powder catches sometimes, makes you cough if you rush itâso you donât. You take your time, breathing carefully, deliberately, like your lungs are temperamental animals that might bolt if startled.
Then the pills. The rattle of the bottle is too loud in the quiet apartment. You swallow them with lukewarm water, chasing them down like they might try to escape.
Supplements follow. Vitamin D. Magnesium. The illusion of control.
By the time you drag yourself into the bathroom, your chest has loosened just enough to be functional. Not comfortable. Functional. Youâll take it.
The mirror reflects someone who looks⊠fine. Thatâs the infuriating part. No obvious signs of weakness. No visible struggle. Just you, hair pulled back, dark circles softened by fluorescent light, scrubs hanging off your shoulders like armor youâve worn long enough to forget the weight of.
You brush your teeth while mentally running through the day. Trauma call. Likely understaffed. Definitely overcrowded. The usual.
Not chaoticânot yetâbut vibrating with barely contained energy. Monitors beep in overlapping rhythms, stretchers line the hallways because rooms are a luxury you no longer pretend to have, and someone is already arguing with triage about wait times.
You step into it and the noise swallows you whole.
This is the part of the day where you stop noticing your lungs.
You move through trauma bays with practiced ease, voice sharp and steady as you give orders that land clean and precise.
âTwo large-bore IVs.â
âLetâs get a FAST exam.â
âType and cross, now, not eventually.â
Your hands are sure. Your brain is faster. You crack a dry joke at a intern whose gloves are on backward, just to cut the tension, just to keep everyone breathingâmetaphorically, at least.
The tightness in your chest is there, a low hum beneath your sternum, but you ignore it the way you ignore a hundred other discomforts. Hunger. Thirst. The ache in your feet. All negotiable. All secondary.
From the corner of your awareness, you feel Robby.
He doesnât hover. He never does. He stands at the periphery, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed, eyes tracking everythingâyou included. He steps in only when necessary, when something teeters just slightly too close to the edge.
You pretend not to notice the way his gaze lingers a beat longer than strictly professional.
Dana passes you near the med room, voice low as she falls into step beside you.
âYouâre gonna burn yourself out, kid.â
You donât slow down. Donât look at her. Donât give the comment the dignity of consideration.
âAfter sign-out,â you reply, already moving toward the next crisis.
She snorts. âSure.â
Laterâor what feels like later, though time in the ER is elastic and cruelâRobby corners you at the board. Literally corners, planting a hand against the wall so you canât just slide past him like you usually do.
âYou should take a break.â
You donât look up from the chart. âIâm fine.â
âThat wasnât an answer.â
You finally meet his eyes then, irritation flaring sharp and quick. âI didnât realize this was a therapy session.â
His jaw tightens. Not angry. Concerned. Which is worse.
âYouâre running yourself into the ground,â he says quietly. âAnd you donât have to.â
You force a smile that doesnât quite reach your eyes. âFunny. Because it feels like I do.â
For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you hums with unspoken thingsâlooks held a second too long, proximity justified by medicine but charged with something else entirely.
You peel off your scrubs, muscles aching now that adrenaline has finally abandoned you. The quiet presses in, broken only by the distant echo of the ER and the harsh hum of fluorescent lights.
Thatâs when the cough hits.
Harder than usual. Deeper. It claws its way up from your chest, sharp enough to make you brace a hand against the bench until it passes. You breathe through it, slow and controlled, waiting for your lungs to remember how to behave.
The realization lands with a strange, hollow feelingânot guilt, exactly, but disbelief. You stare at your phone after sending the message, half-expecting someone to knock on your door and accuse you of fraud.
Nice try, an imaginary charge nurse says. Get your ass in.
But no one does. The apartment stays quiet. Too quiet.
Youâre back in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, your chest buzzing with that low, angry tightness that never fully lets go. Your skin feels too warm, like youâre wrapped in damp wool. Feverish, definitely. Congested. Wheezy in a way you recognize and resent.
Upper respiratory infection, you decide firmly. Unpleasant, inconvenient, but not dramatic.
Youâve treated a thousand of them. You know the script.
Your phone vibrates.
Samira: You okay?
You consider typing a reassuring lie. You settle for something vague.
Yeah. Just wiped.
Another buzz.
Trinity: Donât die, I donât want your patients.
You huff out a breath that turns into a cough halfway through. âYouâre all heart,â you mutter to the empty room.
Then a private text lights up your screen.
Robby: Check in when you can.
You stare at it longer than the others. Thereâs no joke. No emoji. Just concern stripped bare of pretense.
Iâm fine, you think reflexively. Then, more honestly: I donât want to be seen like this.
You set the phone facedown on the mattress and close your eyes.
Sleep comes in fragments. Fever dreams and shallow dozing, your breathing loud in your ears, every inhale a little too deliberate. You wake coughing, you wake sweating, you wake convinced you forgot something importantâan order, a chart, a patientâbefore remembering youâre not there.
Good, you tell yourself. Youâre allowed to be a person today.
Sometime laterâyouâre not sure whenâyou wake up wrong.
Not groggy-wrong or disoriented-wrong. This is sharper. Immediate. Your eyes fly open and your body knows before your brain catches up.
You canât breathe.
Not it hurts to breathe. Not this is uncomfortable.
You gasp, chest heaving, and nothing comes in. Your lungs feel like theyâve turned to stone, frozen mid-exhale. You suck in air again, harder this time, panic spiking hot and fastâ
Nothing.
âOh,â you rasp, the sound barely audible. âOh, thatâs⊠bad.â
Your heart is racing now, pounding so hard it shakes your ribs. You fumble for your inhaler on the nightstand, fingers clumsy, vision already starting to blur at the edges. You press it to your mouth, inhale sharply, trigger the dose.
Once.
Twice.
It does nothing.
The wheeze worsens, a high-pitched, traitorous sound you recognize from textbooks and trauma baysâfrom other patients. You sit up too fast and the room tilts violently.
Okay, you think dimly. We are officially outside the home management plan.
For one dizzying second, a cold, awful thought slices through the fog.
If I pass out before I call for help, this is how people find me.
The idea snaps something into place.
Your hands are shaking as you grab your phone. The screen swims. It takes two tries to unlock it. Dialing 911 feels surrealâlike an out-of-body experience, like youâre doing this for someone else.
Youâre vaguely aware of how bad you must sound. Youâre very aware of how little air youâre moving.
The minutes stretch unbearably long. Every breath is work. Your fingers tingle. Your vision tunnels further, the room dimming around the edges like someoneâs slowly closing a lens.
Thenâdistant but unmistakableâsirens.
Relief hits you so hard your eyes burn.
The knock at the door is loud, urgent. You manage to get up, legs weak but functional, and fumble it open.
The paramedics take one look at you and move fast.
âHey, hey,â one of them says gently, already slipping an oxygen mask over your face. âWeâve got you.â
You nod, or think you do. The cool rush of oxygen feels like mercy, like something you donât deserve but are taking anyway.
They help you toward the stairs. You make it exactly three steps before your legs betray you completely, buckling without warning.
âWhoa,â someone says, and suddenly youâre being lifted, strong arms cradling you like you weigh nothing at all.
âI can walk,â you protest weakly, mortified even now.
âThatâs okay,â the other medic replies, kind but firm. âYou donât have to.â
You cling to that sentence as they carry you down, fear finally punching through the professional detachment youâve clung to all night.
Youâre scared.
Not abstractly. Not clinically.
Viscerally, achingly scared.
And for the first time in a very long while, youâre not the one in control.
You arrive at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center barely coherent, which feels unfair considering you know this place blindfolded.
The automatic doors part and the world assaults you all at onceâfluorescent lights drilling straight into your skull, the echoing clatter of gurney wheels, overlapping voices that refuse to separate into anything intelligible. Everything smells like antiseptic and plastic. Your chest tightens again, sharp and panicked.
Great, you think distantly. Dying at work.
Your hands are trembling. You try to slow your breathing, but your lungs refuse to cooperate, shallow and frantic like a bad parody of respiration. Someone says your name. Someone else says your oxygen saturation. Numbers float past your awareness without sticking.
Thenâ
âHey. Hey. Iâve got you.â
Robbyâs voice cuts through the noise like a blade through fabric.
Itâs immediate. Instinctive. Your brain latches onto it with embarrassing desperation. You donât even have to look to know itâs himâthe exact cadence, the low steadiness he uses when everythingâs about to go to hell and he needs people to listen.
You turn your head, or try to. The movement makes the room tilt unpleasantly.
There he is.
Robby is suddenly everywhere. One second heâs at your side, crouched slightly so his face is level with yours, the next heâs reaching for an oxygen mask, snapping instructions over his shoulder.
âNon-rebreather. Fifteen liters. Now.â
Someone moves fast. Someone always does when Robby sounds like that.
The mask settles over your face, cool plastic against your skin, elastic snapping into place behind your head. Oxygen floods in, sharp and dry. You suck it down greedily, but it barely helps. Your chest still burns. Your breaths still stutter.
Robbyâs hand finds yours. His fingers are warm, solid, anchoring. His thumb brushes across your knuckles in a small, grounding motion that he probably doesnât even realize heâs doing.
You cling to it anyway.
âRobbyââ you manage, voice muffled and pathetic beneath the mask.
âI know,â he says immediately, leaning closer. His eyes flick over your face, sharp and assessing, but his voice stays calm. âDonât talk. Save your air.â
You want to argueâyou always argueâbut another wave of breathlessness hits and steals whatever retort youâd planned. You nod instead, which feels like a personal defeat.
Youâre dimly aware of IV access being establishedâa sharp pinch in your arm, the practiced efficiency of someone whoâs done this a thousand times. You feel hands adjusting monitors, stickers tugged onto your skin, leads snapping into place. The beeping of the monitor grows louder, more insistent.
Robby glances up at it, then back at you.
âOkay,â he says, mostly to himself. âOkay.â
You donât like that tone. Youâve heard it before. Usually from the other side of the bed.
Your lungs refuse to improve. The oxygen feels decorative at best.
You see the moment he decides.
Itâs subtleâa tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders squareâbut you recognize it instantly. The same expression he gets when the plan changes from letâs see to weâre doing this now.
He straightens and speaks clearly, decisively.
âNoninvasive isnât cutting it. Weâre intubating.â
The words land with an odd sense of inevitability. Youâre too tired to be scared. Mostly youâre annoyed.
Robby leans back into your space, one hand still holding yours.
âHey,â he says again, softer now. âListen to me.â
You force your eyes to focus on his. Theyâre dark, intent, threaded with something you donât let yourself name.
âWeâre going to help you breathe,â he continues. âIâm going to give you some sedatives. Iâll be right here the whole time.â
You snort weakly despite yourself, which turns into a wheeze.
âLucky me,â you rasp, then pause to drag in another shallow breath. âAlways wanted⊠the VIP experience.â
His mouth twitches despite the tension.
âThatâs you. Always angling for special treatment.â
They tilt your bed back slightly. Gravity is not your friend. The room swims.
As they prepare, you watch with a detached, professional fascination. Laryngoscope. ET tube. Syringes drawn up with practiced speed. Itâs surreal, recognizing every step while being utterly powerless to stop it.
Robby takes the laryngoscope from the tray. His movements are precise, economical â no wasted motion. He steps closer, positioning himself at the head of the bed.
You look up at him, at the concentration etched into his face, and the absurd thought occurs to you that heâs very handsome when heâs about to take over your airway. Your brain immediately follows it with: Focus. You are actively suffocating.
He meets your eyes again.
The meds are ready. You feel the cold sting as they push something into your IV. A creeping heaviness starts at the edges of your limbs.
You gather what little air you can manage and murmur, breathless and crooked:
âIf you chip my teethâŠâ you pause, fighting for air, ââŠpray I donât survive.â
For half a second, something raw flickers across his face â too fast for anyone else to catch.
His mouth tightens.
âYouâre going to survive,â he says, firm, almost fierce.
The room feels farther away now. Sounds dull, like youâre underwater. Robbyâs hands come to either side of your face, fingers firm but gentle as he tilts your chin upward, positioning you just right. Itâs oddly tender for such a clinical moment.
âYou're okay,â he says, voice low and steady, right in your ear. âYouâre doing great. Just let it happen.â
You want to tell him you hate that phrase. That nobody ever âdoes greatâ while being rendered unconscious.
But the words slip away as the medication deepens its hold.
The last thing you register is his thumb brushing your jaw â a grounding, reassuring touch â and his voice, calm and unwavering, anchoring you as the world dissolves into dark.
You wake up the way people always say you do in the ICUâconfused, heavy, dragged back into yourself like youâre being reeled in through thick water.
The first thing you notice is the pain.
Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just⊠everywhere. Your throat feels like you gargled sandpaper. Your chest aches deep, bone-deep, the kind of ache that suggests your lungs are still offended you asked them to do anything at all. Every breath burns, shallow and cautious, like your body doesnât trust itself anymore.
You blink.
The ceiling is wrong. Too white. Too close. Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, a sound that feels personal, like itâs mocking you for waking up at all.
Then you realize whatâs missing.
The tube.
Your tongue feels huge, your mouth dry, but thereâs no plastic foreign object clawing down your throat. You swallow experimentally and immediately regret it. Pain flares hot and raw.
Fantastic, you think. I survived and my reward is feeling like I swallowed a cactus.
You turn your head slowly. Everything feels sluggish, like your brain is still half-asleep.
Thatâs when you see him.
Robby is sitting in the chair beside your bed, slumped forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped like he forgot what to do with them. His scrubs are wrinkled, darkened in places like he spilled something hours ago and never noticed. His hair is a mess. Not the intentional, charming messâthis is pure exhaustion. Dark circles are carved deep beneath his eyes, the kind that donât come from one bad night but from too many strung together.
He looks wrecked.
The word lands with surprising weight. Youâve seen Robby after bad shifts. After codes that went sideways. After paperwork hell. This is different. This is hollowed-out.
For a moment you just watch him, stupidly fixated on the rise and fall of his chest, on the way his shoulders seem permanently braced for impact. You wonder how long heâs been there. The answer, you suspect, is too long.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the sheets. The movement must register somewhere in the universe, because his head snaps up immediately.
âOhââ Heâs suddenly alert, halfway out of the chair before he seems to remember heâs human. âHey. Hey.â
His voice is rough, like he hasnât used it properly in a while.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
You try again, forcing sound past the burn. âHhââ
Heâs already moving. âDonât push it. Easy. You were intubated for a bit, your throatâs going to be angry.â
Angry is a generous word, you think.
You take a shallow breath, gather whatever dignity you have left, and mutter, âHope⊠You didnât chip any teeth.â
Thereâs a split second where he just stares at you, eyes wide, like heâs not sure he heard that correctly.
Then he lets out a startled laughâshort, sharp, disbelieving. It cracks out of him before he can stop it. He scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head.
âJesus,â he mutters. âYou wake up extubated and thatâs your first concern?â
You try to smile. It probably looks terrible.
His laughter fades almost as quickly as it came, like it burned through its fuel and left ash behind. He sobers, eyes dropping back to you, expression tightening.
âWhy didnât you tell anyone?â he asks quietly.
The question isnât accusatory. Itâs worse than that. Itâs hurt.
You stare up at the ceiling again, suddenly very interested in the fine cracks in the paint.
Your throat hurts. Your chest hurts. Answering hurts most of all.
âI didnât want to beâŠâ You pause, swallow, wince. âThat story.â
He waits.
âYou know,â you continue softly. âThat inspirational story. Look at her, sheâs so brave, living with chronic illness.â Your lips twitch. âSimply existing, but make it motivational.â
Robby exhales slowly through his nose.
âI didnât want the pity,â you say. âThe looks. The careful voices. People pretending they donât see you counting your breaths.â You glance at him. âDidnât want to be fragile.â
âYou donât get to decide that alone,â he says, not harshlyâbut firmly.
âI know.â
Silence settles between you, thick and humming with machines you donât bother looking at. You already know what theyâre doing. You donât need the reminder.
Robby leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
âYou have no idea what itâs like,â he says, âto intubate someone you care about.â
That word lands hard.
Care.
It hangs there between you, heavy and unignorable. You feel it press against your ribs, right where breathing already hurts.
âIâm sorry,â you say, immediately. Too immediately. âI didnâtâ I never wanted you toââ
âI know,â he interrupts, softer now. âI know.â
He reaches out, hesitates, then sets his hand over yours where it lies on the bed. His fingers are warm. Solid. His thumb rests lightly against your knuckles, not moving yet, like heâs afraid to assume permission.
âBut,â he adds, eyes locking onto yours, ânever do that again.â
Itâs not a request.
You nod. âOkay.â
He watches you for a second longer, like heâs making sure you mean it. Then, with infinite care, he lifts his other hand and smooths two fingers back through your hair, tucking it away from your face. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts more than the illness. Like heâs afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.
Your eyes burn unexpectedly. You blink it away, annoyed.
âHey,â you murmur, voice still rough. âIf youâre going to hover, you could at least pretend Iâm not your worst nightmare.â
A faint huff of a smile pulls at his mouth. âYou already were,â he says. âThis just confirmed it.â
You breatheâcarefullyâand let the quiet stretch again.
âI was twenty-five,â you say suddenly.
He stills, thumb beginning its slow, absent sweep over your knuckles.
âHalfway through med school,â you continue. âFinally felt like my life was⊠moving forward.â
You swallow.
âThen I got diagnosed.â
Hospitals. Tests. More hospitals. You list them clinically, like reciting labs. Pneumonia that didnât respond to antibiotics. A lung that decided it was done participating. Surgery. Recovery. Rehab. Months of learning how to breathe without panicking. Months of medication adjustments, side effects, alarms, inhalers, checklists.
âAnd now,â you finish quietly, âIâm here. Years later. And my lungs are still trying to kill me.â
Robby doesnât interrupt once.
He doesnât tell you youâre strong. He doesnât say everything happens for a reason. He doesnât offer platitudes or statistics or false reassurance.
He just listens.
His thumb keeps moving, slow and steady, grounding. When your voice falters, his grip tightens just a fraction, like an anchor.
âIâm tired,â you admit. âOf being careful. Of pretending this isnât always in the background.â
âI know,â he says again.
For the first time since you woke up, you let yourself believe him.
The monitors hum. The lights buzz. The ICU breathes around you.
And Robby stays, hand in yours, like leaving was never an option.
They move you out of ICU on a Tuesday that smells faintly of antiseptic wipes and rain.
The step-down unit is quieter, but only in the way a library is quieter than a nightclubâstill full of noise, just less obvious. The monitors are fewer. The alarms less dramatic. No one is hovering over you like you might spontaneously decide to die out of spite.
Progress, apparently.
You sit propped up in bed, lungs still sore, ribs, staring at a beige wall that has absolutely nothing to say for itself. Thereâs a window, but it looks out onto a brick wall and the vague suggestion of Pittsburgh weather. Todayâs forecast appears to be gray.
You are contemplating whether pudding counts as breakfast when thereâs a knockânot a polite one, not a formal one, just a quick tap like the person on the other side already knows the answer.
Robby slips in anyway.
Of course he does.
Heâs not in scrubs today. Jeans, hoodie, sneakers that have definitely seen things. He looks⊠off-duty, which feels illegal somehow. Like spotting a teacher at the grocery store buying frozen pizza.
âGood,â he says immediately, scanning you with his eyes in that clinical-not-clinical way. âYouâre sitting up. They finally trusted you with gravity again.â
âBarely,â you say. âI could still topple. It would be dramatic.â
He smirks, then lifts the brown paper bag in his hand.
âI come bearing gifts.â
You eye it suspiciously. âIf thatâs hospital puddingââ
âIt is not,â he says, affronted. âI have standards.â
He sets the bag on your tray table and pulls out a small plastic cup with a peel-off lid. Chocolate pudding. The good kind. Smooth. Dark. Definitely not something that came from the nutrition department.
You feel something warm and traitorous bloom in your chest.
âOh,â you say weakly. âReal pudding.â
âReal pudding,â he confirms. âProcured legally. No bribes were involved. Probably.â
You laugh before you can stop yourself, a short sound that immediately turns on you. Your chest tightens. A cough claws its way out.
Robbyâs smile vanishes.
âHeyâeasy,â he says, already moving closer. His hand hovers, uncertain, like heâs trying to remember which version of you heâs allowed to touch. âSlow breaths. In through your nose.â
You obey, because apparently your autonomy packed up and left sometime during intubation. The cough passes, leaving you annoyed and vaguely embarrassed.
âCongratulations,â you mutter. âYou made me laugh. This is your fault.â
âIâll live with that,â he says, but his brow is still creased. He watches you for another few seconds, like heâs waiting for the universe to take another swing.
When it doesnât, he relaxes a fraction.
He pulls the visitor chair closer, spins it around, and sits on it backward, arms folded over the backrest. Itâs casual. Too casual. Like this is just something he doesâdrops by your hospital room with contraband pudding and concern he pretends is professional.
âSo,â he says. âStep-down unit. Big milestone.â
âI miss ICU,â you say solemnly. âThe constant surveillance. The thrill of wondering which alarm is for me.â
âAh yes,â he deadpans. âVery relaxing.â
You peel the lid off the pudding. The smell alone is enough to make your eyes close for a second. When you take the first bite, you make an involuntary sound that is frankly undignified.
Robby grins.
âThere it is,â he says. âThatâs the reaction I was hoping for.â
You swallow. âI could cry.â
âPlease donât,â he says. âI donât think Iâm equipped to handle that.â
You eat slowly, savoring it, aware of him watching you like this is the highlight of his day. Which is ridiculous. He is a grown man with a job and a life and approximately eight million other things he could be doing.
And yet.
âSo,â he says, leaning back slightly. âYou want to hear something incredibly stupid?â
âAlways,â you say. âIâm bored and medically fragile.â
âMatteo tried to flirt with a patient,â he says.
You pause mid-spoonful. âHe what now?â
âThis one was actively vomiting,â Robby adds.
You choke on pudding this time. âNo.â
âYes.â
âPlease tell me Dana saw.â
âOh, Dana saw,â he says with relish. âDana nearly murdered him. I thought she was going to use the IV pole.â
You laugh again, softer this time, more careful. Your chest protests but allows it.
âWhat did he say?â you ask.
âHe told the patient she had âbeautiful eyes.ââ
âWhile she was vomiting.â
âWhile she was vomiting.â
You shake your head. âBold strategy.â
âHeâs lucky she didnât throw up on him out of spite.â
âOr attraction,â you say. âWho can tell.â
Robby snorts. The sound surprises both of you. He looks down, like heâs embarrassed by his own amusement.
For a moment, itâs just that. You. Him. Pudding. Ridiculous ER gossip. It feels⊠normal. Too normal.
Domestic, your brain supplies unhelpfully.
Dangerous follows right behind it.
You shift slightly, the sheets rustling. Youâre painfully aware of how small you feel in this bed, how your body still doesnât quite feel like yours. How heâs seen you at your worstâgray-skinned, gasping, unconscious.
And still heâs here, telling you stories like this is just another shift overlap.
âWhy are you really here?â you ask lightly, because if you donât make it a joke it will sound like something else.
He doesnât answer right away.
He tilts his head, considering you in that careful way he has.
âI was nearby,â he says finally. âThought Iâd check in.â
You raise an eyebrow. âNearby.â
âVery nearby,â he admits. âOkay, I came on purpose.â
There it is.
Your stomach flips, traitorous again.
âWell,â you say. âGood thing you had a medically relevant excuse.â
âNutrition is essential care,â he agrees.
Another silence settles, not awkward, just⊠full. You can hear the soft beep of a monitor down the hall. The murmur of voices at the nursesâ station. Life going on without your permission.
Robby shifts closer without realizing it, his knee nearly touching the bed. His voice drops.
âYou scared the hell out of us,â he says.
Us.
You look at him, closely. The faint shadows under his eyes. The tension he hasnât quite shaken. The way his hands are clasped together, tight.
âI know,â you say quietly. âIâm sorry.â
âFor what?â he asks.
âFor being dramatic,â you say. âFor making you all work so hard.â
He exhales, something like a laugh, something like a sigh.
âDonât do that,â he says. âDonât apologize for almost dying.â
âFine,â you concede. âIâll apologize for the coughing.â
âThat Iâll accept.â
You finish the pudding. He takes the empty cup without comment, like this is a routine youâve done a hundred times.
Something domestic. Something dangerous.
He stands, lingering.
âIâll come by again,â he says. Itâs not a question.
You nod. âBring vanilla next time.â
He smiles, soft and genuine, and for a moment you forget youâre in a hospital at all.
âRest,â he says.
âYou say that like itâs optional.â
He hesitates at the door, then glances back.
âIâm glad youâre still here,â he says simply.
So am I, you think.
You donât say it out loud.
He leaves, and the room feels quieter without himâlike something essential has stepped out and taken the oxygen with it.
You lie back against the pillows, heart a little too full, lungs a little too tight, and think, not for the first time, that this is going to complicate everything.
Robbyâs arrival announces itself with the unmistakable crinkle of plastic and the soft, conspiratorial thunk of a bag being set down like contraband.
You donât even look up at first.
âI swear to God,â you say, staring at the television thatâs muted and playing a cooking show you cannot hear and would not watch even if you could, âif thatâs another puddingââ
âItâs not pudding,â he says, far too pleased with himself.
That gets your attention.
You turn your head slowly, suspiciously, and there he isâleaning against the doorframe like he belongs there, hoodie half-zipped, badge flipped backward, holding a clear plastic sleeve of brightly colored popsicles.
Popsicles.
Your brain takes a moment to reboot.
ââŠRobby,â you say carefully. âWhere did you get those.â
He grins. Not sheepish. Not apologetic. A victory grin.
âPediatrics.â
You stare at him.
âYou stole from sick children,â you say flatly.
âI liberated,â he corrects. âTwo. Maybe three. They wonât miss them.â
âTheyâre children,â you hiss. âTheyâre ill. Theyâre tiny.â
He shrugs, entirely unrepentant, and steps farther into the room, already tearing open the sleeve.
âWorth it.â
You snort before you can stop yourself. âYouâre going to hell.â
âYeah,â he says easily. âBut Iâll be warm.â
He hands you oneâred, still frosty, the plastic already slick with condensation. Itâs absurdly cheerful against the sterile beige of the room.
You take it. Of course you do. You are weak and cold things taste good.
âYouâre lucky Iâm not strong enough to report you,â you say.
âYou are absolutely strong enough,â he counters. âYouâre just morally flexible.â
You peel the plastic open and take a tentative lick. Cherry. Artificial in the best way.
Your eyes close for half a second.
âOh no,â you murmur. âThis is good.â
âTold you,â he says, smug. He pulls a chair closer but doesnât sit, perching on the edge like he might bolt at any moment. âIce helps with inflammation.â
âYou stole medical supplies,â you accuse.
âI practiced medicine creatively.â
You take another lick. âYouâre enjoying this far too much.â
He watches you with a soft, fond expression that makes your stomach do something unnecessary and unhelpful.
âHow are you feeling today?â he asks, quieter now.
You roll your shoulders experimentally. âLike my lungs were sandpapered. But upright. Which feels like winning.â
He nods. âGood.â
Thereâs a beat. Comfortable. The unit hums around youâdistant call bells, a cart rattling past, the low murmur of voices. Normal hospital life. You are still here to hear it.
âSo,â he says, leaning in slightly. âWant to hear the stupidest thing that happened last night?â
You sigh happily. âDesperately.â
He rubs his hands together, already gearing up.
âOkay. So. We get this patientâmiddle-aged woman, chest pain, nothing dramatic at first. Comes in clutching this carrier.â
You frown. âCarrier.â
âCarrier,â he confirms. âShe tells triage itâs her emotional support animal.â
âPlease tell me it wasnât a ferret.â
âWorse,â he says solemnly. âA pigeon.â
You freeze. Popsicle halfway to your mouth.
âNo.â
âYes.â
You stare at him. âLike. A city pigeon?â
âLike,â he says, nodding, âa full-grown, extremely confident pigeon.â
âOh my God.â
âWeâre trying to get her settled,â he continues, eyes bright now, clearly relishing this. âDana asks her to keep the carrier closed. The woman says he gets anxious.â
You already know where this is going.
âShe opens it,â Robby says.
You cover your mouth. âOh no.â
âAnd the pigeon,â he says, gesturing broadly, âimmediately launches.â
You laughâa sharp bark of a sound that surprises you.
âHe starts flying around the trauma bay,â Robby says. âWings everywhere. Feathers. One of the interns screamed. I think Matteo ducked.â
âI would have paid money to see that.â
âDana tried to shoo it with a clipboard,â he adds. âLike that was going to help.â
You laugh again, harder this time. âWhat did security do?â
âThey refused,â he says. âSaid it was a âpersonal boundary.ââ
That does it.
You laugh properly nowâhead tipping back, chest shaking, a real laugh that feels good for exactly half a second before your lungs decide to revolt.
The sound catches. Breaks.
Your chest tightens abruptly, breath stuttering. The laugh turns into a cough, sharp and uncontrollable, each one scraping your throat raw.
Robby is on you instantly.
He drops down into a crouch beside the bed, all humor gone, one hand firm and warm against your back. His palm settles between your shoulder blades like itâs always belonged there.
âHey,â he says softly. âIâve got you. Easy.â
He rubs slow, steady circles, grounding, instinctive. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just there.
âBreathe with me,â he murmurs. âIn through your nose. Out slow.â
His touch doesnât waver, pressure consistent, reassuring.
âSorry,â you rasp between breaths. âStupidâlaughingââ
âShh,â he says. âNot stupid. Just breathe.â
You follow his lead, inhaling carefully, counting it out. The fit eases, leaving you shaky and embarrassed and painfully aware of how close he is.
His thumb presses gently, grounding you back into your body.
âThere you go,â he says quietly.
When the coughing finally subsides, you sag back against the pillows, exhausted. He doesnât move his hand right away. You donât ask him to.
âPigeon got caught eventually,â he adds softly, like an afterthought. âLanded on the crash cart. Refused to move.â
You huff weakly. âOf course he did.â
Robby smiles, still crouched there, still rubbing your back like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âYou okay?â he asks.
You nod. âYeah. Just⊠lungs throwing a tantrum.â
âThey do that,â he says.
You look down at him then. The concern in his eyes. The care heâs pretending isnât personal.
âYouâre going to get caught stealing popsicles,â you say faintly.
You know itâs real before you even see itâthe smell hits first, rich and dark and almost obscene against the sterile hospital air. It cuts through disinfectant and plastic and the faint sadness of overcooked vegetables like a promise.
You lift your head slowly, wary. Hope is dangerous.
He nudges the door shut behind him with his foot, both hands occupied: one paper cup, double-lidded, and a small tower of sugar packets tucked precariously under his arm like an offering.
Your eyes narrow.
ââŠIs that,â you say, âactual coffee?â
âActual,â he confirms solemnly. âFrom the cafeteria. Not the vending machine one that tastes like mop water.â
You push yourself a little more upright, interest thoroughly piqued. âAnd the sugar?â
He dumps the packets onto your tray table. There are⊠many.
You count automatically. One. Two. Three. Fourâ
âRobby,â you say faintly. âThis is enough sugar to kill a small horse.â
He shrugs. âI didnât know your dosing.â
âI am not a hummingbird.â
âCouldâve fooled me,â he says, already popping open packets. âYou look fragile.â
âYouâre trying to kill me,â you accuse.
âIâm trying to make you happy,â he corrects. He stirs, hands you the cup.
Itâs warm. Solid. Comforting in a way that borders on emotional manipulation.
You take a careful sip.
Your eyes widen.
âOh,â you breathe. âOh wow.â
âYeah?â
âThatâs⊠aggressively sweet.â
He grins. âGood.â
You sip again, slower this time, savoring it. It tastes like mornings you donât have anymore. Like being awake on purpose. Like normalcy.
You sigh. âI might cry.â
âPlease donât,â he says. "I'll panic."
He pulls the chair close again, this time actually sitting, stretching his legs out beneath the tray table like heâs planning to stay awhile.
He watches you drink, something gentle in his expression, something that makes your chest feel tight in a different, quieter way.
âYou know,â he says casually, âdoing ER residency with your FEVs is either very bold or very stupid.â
You choke on the coffee slightlyânot coughing, just sputtering in surprise.
âWow,â you say. âGood morning to you too.â
âI mean,â he rushes on, holding up a hand, ârespectfully.â
âAh yes. Respectfully calling me an idiot.â
He smirks. âI prefer âoptimist.ââ
You lean back against the pillows, cradling the cup. âIn my defense, becoming a pulmonologist felt a little too on the nose.â
He laughs. âFair.â
He tilts his head, studying you. âSo why emergency?â
You hesitate, just a beat. The question isnât invasive. Itâs curious. Genuinely so.
âI was almost done with it,â you say finally. âMy internal medicine specialty.â
He nods. âAlmost.â
âI wasnât happy,â you admit. âI was good at it. But it didnât⊠fit.â
He waits. Doesnât rush you. You appreciate that more than you should.
You stare into the coffee, watching the surface tremble slightly with each breath you take.
âYou know what they tell you when youâre thinking about putting your dog down?â you ask.
He blinks. âThat took a turn.â
âQuality of life matters more than quantity,â you say. âThey tell you to stop counting days and start looking at joy.â
He exhales slowly. âThatâs bleak.â
âNo,â you say, immediately, more firmly than you expect. You look up at him now. âThink about it.â
He does. You can see it on his face.
âDogs donât know,â you continue. âThey donât sit around catastrophizing. They just⊠wag their tails. They go full tilt for every scrap of joy they can find.â
He smiles despite himself.
âA sandwich crust,â you say. âA good walk. Someone coming home.â
You gesture vaguely with the coffee cup, sloshing a little dangerously.
âI want to live like that,â you say. âLike I donât know when it ends, but it could be soon, so I better enjoy the sandwich crust.â
Robbyâs smile fades into something softer. Something more careful.
âI want to treat every day like itâs the last good one,â you add quietly. âLike Iâve still got time to chase a ball.â
The room feels very still.
He looks at you like youâve just said something important and heâs afraid to mishandle it.
âYouâre making me sad about an imaginary dog,â he says finally.
You laugh.
A real laugh.
It comes out smooth and unbroken, no coughing, no sharp edge afterward. It startles you both.
You pause, blinking. Then you laugh again, just because you can.
âOh my God,â you say. âDid you hear that?â
âI did,â he says, eyes bright. âSmall miracles.â
You grin at him. âI've always suspected you had a soft spot for animals.â
He scoffs lightly. âUntrue.â
âMm,â you hum. âThis feels like confirmation.â
He shakes his head, but heâs smiling. âDonât tell anyone.â
âYour secretâs safe,â you say, lifting the cup in a mock toast.
For the first time in days, you donât feel like youâre waiting for something bad to happen.
Discharge planning happens the way everything in hospitals happens: abruptly, between alarms, with a clipboard shoved gently but firmly into the space of your life.
The nurse perches on the edge of the chair, pen poised, eyes kind but efficient. She has the voice of someone who has learned to ask difficult questions without sounding like sheâs asking anything at all.
âSo,â she says, glancing down the checklist. âWhoâs helping you at home for the first few days?â
The room hums. Ventilation. Footsteps in the hall. A cart rattling past with a tray of untouched Jell-O cups.
You look down at your hands because they are safe and familiar and currently doing nothing incriminating. Your IV tape is peeling at the edges. Thereâs a faint bruise blooming underneath, yellow and purple like a bad watercolor.
âMy familyâsâŠâ You pause, because the sentence wants to end dramatically and you refuse to give it the satisfaction. ââŠfar.â
Geographically far. Emotionally far. Functionally useless in a crisis. Take your pick.
The nurse nods, already writing something, and for half a second you think thatâs going to be it. That sheâll circle home health consult and move on. That this will be solved with pamphlets and a phone number and the gentle implication that you are, technically, an adult.
âIâll drive her.â
Robbyâs voice lands in the room like itâs always been there.
You look up.
Heâs leaning against the counter, arms crossed, wearing the same hoodie heâs been wearing for three days straight, the one with the frayed cuff he never notices. He looks tired in that specific ER-doctor wayâwrung out but alert, eyes sharp, posture deceptively relaxed. Like heâs braced for impact even while offering help.
He doesnât look at you when he says it. He looks at the nurse. Calm. Certain. No qualifiers.
The nurse blinks once, then smiles. âOkay,â she says easily. âThat works.â
Of course it does. Of course the universe accepts this without question. Of course Robby saying it makes it real.
You open your mouth, ready to object on principleâsomething about independence, something about being fine, something deeply unconvincingâand then you close it again.
Because youâre tired.
Because you donât want to navigate stairs alone.
Because your lungs still feel like theyâre negotiating with you rather than cooperating.
Because a small, traitorous part of you wants to see what happens if you donât push him away this time.
Robby glances at you then, just briefly. His mouth tilts, not quite a smile.
âWeâll figure it out,â he says quietly, like this is already settled.
You swallow. Nod once.
The nurse finishes her notes, explains medications you already know by heart, gives you the look that says donât be brave at home, and disappears back into the controlled chaos.
When the room finally empties, the silence feels louder than the alarms ever did.
âYou didnât have toââ you start.
âI know,â he says immediately. âI wanted to.â
There it is. No argument. No martyrdom. Just a fact.
You sigh. âYouâre going to get sick of me.â
He snorts. âBold of you to assume Iâm not already.â
You roll your eyes, but it comes out weak. He steps closer, reaches for the bed rail, steadying it while you shift. His hand brushes your wristâaccidental, probablyâand you hate how much you feel it.
He keeps showing up after that.
Not in grand gestures. In quiet invasions.
The first time you come home, your fridge is empty in that way that feels more like an accusation than a fact. You sit on the couch, breathing carefully, cataloging all the things you should do and wonât.
The next morning, there are groceries.
Not dropped dramatically on your counter. Not announced. Just⊠there.
Soup you actually like. Crackers that donât taste like despair. Fresh fruit. A stupidly expensive brand of electrolyte drink you once mentioned offhand in the break room.
You stare at the bags for a long time.
You do not text him.
He doesnât mention it.
Later, when he stops by âto check in,â he pretends not to notice you eating the soup. You pretend not to notice him checking your breathing without looking like heâs checking your breathing.
Nothing is said.
Everything is understood.
He sits in the armchair like he belongs there, scrolling through his phone, telling you about a patient who insisted on keeping a lizard in his hoodie pocket. You listen, half amused, half exhausted, your body slowly unclenching in ways you didnât realize it had been holding.
Your breathing gets easier.
Not perfect. But easier.
You catch yourself taking deeper breaths without thinking about it. Laughing without immediately coughing. Sleeping for more than two hours at a stretch.
Emotionally, too.
Thatâs the part that scares you.
Because illness is familiar. You know how to be sick. You know the rules. You know the exits.
Thisâbeing cared for, quietly, without obligation or expectationâthis feels dangerous.
You watch him from the couch, the way he moves around your kitchen like heâs already memorized it. The way he washes his hands automatically. The way he glances back at you every few minutes, like a reflex.
You think, dryly, Ah. This is how people get into trouble.
Your chest tightensânot from bronchospasm this time, but from the creeping realization that youâre letting this happen. That youâre not stopping it.
That you donât want to.
Robby looks over. âYou okay?â
You force a shrug. âI feel like someone who was discharged from the hospital less than a week ago.â
He smiles, soft and knowing. âFair.â
You lean back, close your eyes, let yourself breathe.
And for the first time since you landed in that trauma bay, the fear isnât about whether your lungs will hold.
It doesnât do anything dramaticâno geyser, no catastrophic failureâbut thereâs a steady, petulant drip from the cabinet below, the kind that suggests itâs been happening for a while and youâve been politely ignoring it out of mutual disrespect.
You notice it because Robby notices it.
He pauses mid-sentence, head tilting. âDo you hear that?â
You do not look toward the sink. You know better. âHear what.â
âThat,â he says, already crouching.
âRobby.â
He opens the cabinet door. The drip becomes visible, obscene in its persistence. A slow bead of water gathering, falling, splashing into a warped plastic container you shoved under there weeks ago with the full intention of dealing with it eventually.
He straightens slowly. Looks at you.
âHow long has this been leaking?â
You consider lying. Decide you are too tired to construct a believable narrative.
âA while.â
âA while as inââ
âTime perception is subjective,â you say mildly.
He stares at you.
You add, âI was going to call someone.â
âWhen?â
âWhen I could breathe without bargaining with my alveoli.â
He exhales through his nose, already rolling up his sleeves. âIâm fixing it.â
âYou absolutely do not have toââ
âIâm fixing it,â he repeats, firmer this time, like heâs announcing a trauma protocol.
You push yourself up from the couch, wobble slightly, and immediately regret it.
âSit,â he says without looking at you. âActuallyâno. Sit on the floor. I donât want you passing out and cracking your head open.â
âThatâs very romantic of you.â
He shoots you a look over his shoulder. âIâm full of surprises.â
You sink down onto the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, legs stretched out. The tile is cool through your sweatpants. You tell yourself this is fine. You tell yourself you are absolutely not watching the way his forearms flex as he reaches under the sink.
You are offering moral support. This is a noble position.
âYou know,â you say, âI could call a plumber.â
âAnd wait three weeks while it turns into a mold ecosystem?â He reaches into the cabinet. âNo.â
âYouâre a doctor.â
âIâm a man with YouTube and a basic sense of spite.â
Water drips onto his knuckles. He hisses quietly.
âSee,â you say. âThis is where Iâd stop.â
He glares at the pipe. âIâm not losing to a sink.â
You tilt your head back against the cabinet, watching him out of the corner of your eye. His hoodie has ridden up slightly, a sliver of skin visible at his waist. You think, unhelpfully, This is how people end up emotionally compromised.
âYou really donât have to do this,â you try again, softer.
He pauses. Crawls back out from under the sink and sits on his heels, looking at you properly now.
âI know,â he says. âI still want to.â
Something in your chest shifts. Not tight. Not painful. Just⊠exposed.
You clear your throat. âWell. Iâm here for⊠encouragement.â
He snorts. âThrilling.â
âI can say things like âgood jobâ and âwow, youâre so capable.ââ
âThat would help tremendously.â
He goes back under the sink. You watch his legs stretched out behind him, the ridiculous domesticity of it all. This is not an ER. There are no alarms. No urgency. Just a man fixing your sink because he decided you shouldnât have to deal with one more broken thing.
Your brain tries to make a joke out of it. Your heart does something quieter and more dangerous.
âHowâs it going?â you ask.
âAsk me again in five minutes.â
âIâm very good at waiting.â
He laughs, muffled by the cabinet. The sound warms the room more than the radiator ever has.
You rest your chin on your knees, breathing slow and steady. The drip stops.
âHey,â he says. âI think I got it.â
You lean forward, peering into the cabinet like you have any idea what youâre looking at. âI never doubted you.â
âLiar.â
âOkay, I doubted you briefly.â
He emerges, wiping his hands on a towel, hair slightly mussed. He looks⊠pleased. Ridiculously so.
Eating together becomes a thing without either of you ever calling it that.
At first itâs practical. Necessary. You need calories; your lungs are burning through them like theyâre fuel in a failing engine. Robby insists, in the same tone he uses to insist patients take their antibiotics, that soup alone does not constitute a meal.
âThis,â he says one evening, setting a container on your table, âis not dinner.â
âItâs warm and it has sodium,â you counter. âWhat more could a woman want.â
âProtein.â
âI had crackers.â
He just looks at you. That look. The one that says I will absolutely die on this hill.
So you eat together.
Sometimes itâs takeout he brings under the pretense of having âordered too much.â Sometimes itâs something embarrassingly domesticâpasta, scrambled eggs, toast with peanut butter because thatâs all either of you has the energy for. You sit at the small table by the window, knees occasionally knocking under it, your apartment dim and soft in the evenings, the city humming faintly outside like background noise youâre both too tired to notice.
Sometimes you talk.
Sometimes you donât.
On quieter nights, you chew slowly, deliberately, focusing on breathing between bites. Robby doesnât fill the silence. He just eats, glancing at you now and then like heâs monitoring something important but invisible.
Itâs comforting. And irritating. Mostly comforting.
Then there are the nights with the TV.
It starts innocently enough. Youâre curled on the couch, blanket tucked around your legs, when he flips through channels with the vague indecision of someone who has opinions but no solutions.
âYou can put something on,â he says.
âI did.â
He squints at the screen. âIs this⊠Greyâs Anatomy?â
âYes.â
He looks at you like youâve admitted to a minor crime. âYou donât even like hospital shows.â
âI like this hospital show.â
âThey defibrillate asystole,â he says flatly.
You smile sweetly. âI donât watch it for accuracy.â
âWhat do you watch it for?â
âThe drama.â
He groans, dropping back against the couch. âTheyâre all sleeping with each other.â
âThatâs the point.â
âThatâs not a point.â
âItâs a soap opera with scrubs,â you say. âLet people live.â
He gestures at the screen as Meredith Grey launches into a monologue about love, loss, and something metaphorical involving elevators. âThis is ridiculous.â
âAnd yet,â you say, spooning another bite of food into your mouth, âyouâre still sitting here.â
âIâm eating.â
âYou could eat anywhere.â
He opens his mouth, closes it. Scowls faintly.
You hide a smile behind your fork.
You argue about it the way you argue about everythingâhalf serious, half performative. He complains about the medical nonsense; you complain about his lack of imagination. He insists real life is dramatic enough; you tell him real life is exhausting and fictional drama is safer.
âAt least on TV,â you say, âthe worst thing that happens is someone gets amnesia or married to the wrong person.â
He snorts. âThatâs not the worst thing.â
âYouâve clearly never been married to the wrong person,â you say dryly.
He quiets at that, just for a moment. Then the show cuts to commercial and he clears his throat.
âYou want dessert?â he asks, like an offering.
You glance at the clock. At your half-empty plate. At the way your chest feelsâtired but steady.
âSure,â you say. âIf you donât judge me.â
âI will absolutely judge you,â he says, already standing. âBut quietly.â
He brings back ice cream. You eat it straight from the container, knees tucked up, the spoon clinking softly. He leans back, one arm along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel his warmth without touching.
You realize, distantly, that this has become routine.
That you expect him now.
That when he doesnât show up until later than usual, you feel it like a skipped heartbeat.
You tell yourself this is temporary. Recovery-adjacent. A kindness with an expiration date.
You also tell yourself a lot of lies.
The episode ends. Another starts. You breathe easier than you have in weeksâphysically, yes, but also in the quieter, more treacherous way.
It happens on a Thursday, which feels important only in retrospect.
Youâre halfway through an episode youâve seen beforeâsomething dramatic is happening, someone is crying attractively in a stairwellâwhen you notice the silence beside you has shifted. Not the comfortable kind. The heavy kind.
Robbyâs head has tipped back against the couch cushion, mouth slightly open, breath slow and even. His reading glasses are still on, crooked now, sliding down the bridge of his nose. One arm is folded across his chest, the other dangling loosely at his side like he just⊠powered down.
You stare.
For a long moment, you assume this is a trick. That if you move, heâll wake up and make a comment about how terrible your show is.
He does not move.
The TV murmurs on. The apartment is dim except for the blue glow of the screen and the faint orange light from the streetlamp outside. The radiator clicks. The city breathes.
You lower the volume slowly, bit by careful bit.
Still nothing.
âWell,â you whisper to yourself. âThatâs new.â
You shift closer, your movement deliberate. Your lungs cooperate, which feels like a small miracle. You reach out and hesitate, fingers hovering near his face.
You have done harder things than this. You have intubated people. You have held pressure on bleeding arteries. And yet.
You slide the glasses off his face with exaggerated care, holding your breath like that might help. They come away easily. He stirs, brow furrowing slightly, then relaxes again.
Unfair, you think. Completely unfair.
He looks younger asleep. Softer. The perpetual tension in his jaw has eased. His lashes rest against his cheeks, ridiculous in their length. You feel something tug in your chest that has nothing to do with your lungs.
You set the glasses on the coffee table. They make the faintest click.
He doesnât wake.
You stand slowly, joints protesting, and fetch the blanket from the back of the chair. The one you usually reserve for yourself. You drape it over him, adjusting it around his shoulders, tucking it in without thinking.
You freeze halfway through, your hand resting briefly against his chest.
Steady. Warm.
You pull back like youâve touched something hot.
The TV keeps playing, muted now. You sit on the other end of the couch, knees drawn up, watching the familiar scenes unfold without sound. Youâre not really watching, though. Youâre watching him, out of the corner of your eye, like this might be temporary and you need to memorize it.
This is nothing, you tell yourself firmly. This is just a tired man on a couch. This does not mean anything.
Your heart does not listen.
Sometime laterâhours or minutes, youâre not sureâyou drift off too, head tipped to the side, blanket pulled around you, breathing slow and easy.
Morning comes quietly.
Light filters through the blinds, pale and early. You wake to the sound of movement.
Robby is sitting up, rubbing a hand over his face, hair sticking up. The blanket has slipped down around his waist. His T-shirt is rumpled. He looks disoriented, blinking like the world hasnât quite come into focus yet.
He looks⊠good. Annoyingly so.
He notices you watching and stills.
âOh,â he says. His voice is rough with sleep. âHey.â
âHey,â you reply, trying for casual and landing somewhere near fondly horrified.
He glances around. At the TV. The blanket. You.
âI, uh,â he says. âI didnât mean to fall asleep.â
You shrug, already standing. âYou looked like you needed it.â
He watches you as you move toward the kitchen, tracking you like this is a new behavior he needs to understand.
âYou didnât wake me.â
âYouâre welcome.â
You fill the kettle, set it on the stove. Your movements are practiced, automatic. You do not examine why this feels so natural.
âYou have a shift,â you say.
He nods. âYeah. I shouldââ
âSit,â you interrupt, not looking at him. âCoffee first.â
He hesitates, then obeys, slumping back into the couch with a soft exhale.
You make the coffee the way he likes it. You know how he likes it. This is information you did not mean to acquire.
You hand him the mug. Your fingers brush. Brief. Electric.
âThanks,â he says quietly.
You nod, pretending very hard that this doesnât feel like something dangerous. Like something you might want.
He takes a sip, sighs. Smiles at you, small and real.
The doors sigh open like they always do, like the building itself is tired of breathing, and for a half-second you stand there wondering if itâs going to let you back in or spit you right back out.
The ER smells the same. Antiseptic and old coffee and the faint trace of blood. The lights are still too bright. The noise still lands a little too sharply in your skull.
Good. Familiar is survivable.
âLook who decided to rise from the dead.â
Samira is on you before you can make a clever remarkâarms warm and firm around your shoulders, cheek pressed briefly against your temple. She smells like citrus hand sanitizer and cheap peppermint gum.
âYouâre squishing my lungs,â you croak, because of course thatâs what you say.
She pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes scanning your face with the clinical precision of someone who has watched you turn blue.
âStill funny,â she says, unimpressed. Then softer: âIâm glad youâre back.â
You swallow. Nod. Do not get emotional in the hallway like a Victorian child with consumption.
From behind her, Trinity appears. "I knew it.â
You blink. âKnew what?â
She grins, wicked and unapologetic. âI had twenty bucks riding on you pulling through.â
You stare at her.
âWow,â you say. âThatâs⊠touching. Did you at least hedge your emotional investment?â
She shrugs. âIâm an optimist. And a gambler.â
Samira snorts. âShe also bet Dana youâd be back within two weeks.â
âThat was a reasonable estimate,â Trinity says defensively.
You glance down at your badge, clipped back onto your scrubs like it never left, like none of this happened. Like you didnât scare the hell out of half the department.
âWell,â you say dryly. âSorry to disappoint the odds-makers.â
Then the shift starts. No fanfare. No easing in. Just a trauma alert overhead and the familiar surge of motion pulling you forward whether you feel ready or not.
You do. Mostly.
And Robbyâ
Robby is careful.
Painfully so.
Heâs everywhere without being obvious about it. A hand on the gurney rail before you reach it. A quiet, âIâve got this,â when a patient needs to be boosted. He steps in smoothly, redirects with a tilt of his shoulder, a murmur in your ear meant only for you.
âLet me take that.â
âIâll grab labs.â
âWhy donât you run point from here.â
You notice every single time.
You hate that you do.
You bristle, a low-grade irritation buzzing under your skin, but you let it slide because the alternative is snapping at him in front of everyone, and that feels worse. Because heâs not wrong. Because your chest still feels like itâs lined with sandpaper some days. Because you donât want to prove him right by keeling over dramatically next to Room Three.
Still.
You overcorrect.
You take the stairs instead of the elevator. You volunteer for one more consult. You talk too fast, move too much. You make a point of lifting things you absolutely do not need to lift, just to prove that you can.
Your lungs register their disapproval immediately.
Dana notices first. Of course she does. Dana notices everything.
She leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrow climbing slowly toward her hairline as she watches Robby intercept you again.
Interesting, that eyebrow says. Very interesting.
You pretend not to see it.
Laterâmuch later, when the department settles into that uneasy late-shift rhythm, when the adrenaline dips and the exhaustion creeps inâJesse sidles consideredly into the break room.
Youâre halfway through your coffee. It tastes like mop water with a hint of caffeine. Comforting.
âSo,â he says, casual to the point of suspicious. âYou dating Robby?â
You choke.
Full-on aspirate coffee like a rookie. It goes down the wrong way, and suddenly youâre coughing hard enough to see stars, slapping the counter as if it personally betrayed you.
âWhatâno,â you rasp, when you can finally breathe again. âJesus. Where did that come from?â
Jesse watches you with open amusement. âJust asking.â
âDonât,â you say hoarsely. âAsk. Ever.â
He raises his hands. âRelax. Itâs just⊠you know.â
You do not, in fact, know.
âHeâs hovering,â Jesse continues. âLike a very competent, very intense mother hen.â
You glare into your coffee like it might offer answers. Or poison.
âHeâs a colleague,â you say. âAnd I was sick.â
âMmm.â Jesse nods. âSure.â
You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. âDrop it.â
He grins. Drops it. Obviously files it away for later.
You leave the break room before your face can betray you further.
By hour ten, your chest is tight in a way you recognize too well. Not panic. Not yet. Just that creeping pressure, that subtle resistance when you inhale, like your lungs are quietly renegotiating their contract.
Your hands start to shake.
Just a little.
You tell yourself itâs caffeine. Adrenaline. Dehydration. Everything except what it actually is.
You keep working anyway.
Youâre in a trauma bay, charting, when Robbyâs voice cuts in softly behind you.
âHey.â
You donât turn around. âHey.â
âYou okay?â
âFine.â
Thereâs a pause. You can feel his eyes on you, assessing, cataloging details you wish heâd miss.
âYouâre breathing shallow,â he says. âAnd your handsââ
You clench them into fists. âIâm fine.â
âYouâre not breathing right.â
That one lands.
You straighten, bristling. âIâm breathing fine.â
He exhales through his nose, sharp. âCome with me.â
Before you can argue, his hand is at your elbowânot rough, but insistentâand he steers you down the corridor, past curious glances, past the noise and chaos and beeping life support of the department, until he shoves open a stairwell door.
It slams shut behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
The stairwell smells like dust and disinfectant and old concrete. Itâs quiet in the way hospitals never really areâmuffled, sealed-off, like youâve stepped into a pocket outside of time.
Robby turns on you.
Heâs furious.
Not loud-furious. Worse. Tight-furious. His hands are clenched at his sides, shoulders rigid, eyes bright with something sharp and dangerous and very close to breaking.
âWhat were you thinking?â he demands.
Your hackles go up instantly. Reflex. Survival.
âWhat was I thinking?â you snap. âI was thinking itâs my first day back and I didnât want to be treated like a patient.â
âThatâs notââ
âYou donât get to decide what I can handle,â you cut in, heat flaring in your chest that has nothing to do with your lungs. âYou donât get to manage me like a liability.â
His mouth opens, then shuts. For a second you think he might actually shout.
Instead, his voice cracks.
âI barely survived taking Adamson off ECMO,â he says, words coming out raw, unarmored. âI watched that man hover between here and gone for weeks. Doing that to youââ His breath stutters. âThat would destroy me.â
The world tilts.
That stops you cold.
You really look at him then. The red-rimmed eyes heâs been pretending arenât there. The tension carved into his face like heâs been holding himself together with stubbornness and caffeine. There are tears shining, unshed but very much present, clinging to his lower lashes.
Oh.
This isnât about protocols.
This is fear. Naked and shaking and standing right in front of you.
Your chest tightens for an entirely different reason.
âHey,â you say softly, stepping closer. Your hands come up without thinking, cupping his face, thumbs warm against his jaw. He leans into the touch like heâs been falling and finally found something solid.
âLook at me,â you murmur.
His eyes flick up, searching.
âYouâre not losing me,â you say. Steady. Certain. âIâm still here. Iâm stubborn. You know this.â
A broken sound slips out of himâhalf laugh, half sobâand then heâs kissing you.
Itâs not careful.
Itâs not polite.
Itâs desperate.
His mouth crashes into yours like heâs been holding his breath all day and only just remembered how to inhale. Thereâs anger in it, and fear, and this aching, unspoken donât leave me that pulses through the contact.
You gasp, startled, and he makes that small, fractured sound against your lipsâlike something inside him finally gave wayâand suddenly your back is against the wall, cool concrete biting through your scrubs as he crowds in close.
You kiss him back.
Hard.
Your fingers fist in his scrubs, dragging him closer, closer, like proximity alone might stitch him back together. His hands are everywhere and nowhereâat your waist, your shoulders, sliding up to cradle the back of your head as if afraid you might disappear if he doesnât keep a hand on you.
Your lungs burn, but you donât care. Youâre dizzy with itâhim, the taste of peppermint and coffee and something unmistakably Robby. The way he kisses like heâs trying to memorize you. Like he needs proof youâre real.
When he finally pulls back, itâs barely an inch. His forehead presses to yours, breath uneven, yours matching it.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Then reality taps politely on the glass.
âWe need to get back,â he says, voice rough.
âLater,â you reply immediately, without opening your eyes. âWeâre talking later.â
He huffs a weak laugh.
You add, because it feels necessary, âYou donât get to kiss your way out of this.â
His thumb brushes your cheek, gentle and trembling.
âDamn,â he murmurs. âWorth a try.â
You smile despite yourselfâsoft, tired, resolute.
Yeah. Youâre definitely not done with this conversation.
But for now, you straighten your scrubs, take a breath you probably should have taken an hour ago, and open the stairwell doorâtogether.
It happens in that strange limbo after sign-out, when the department exhales and the noise dulls to a manageable hum. The lockers clang shut one by one. Someone laughs too loudly down the hall. The world keeps going.
Youâre sitting on the edge of a bench in the staff room, shoes kicked off, feet aching, chest finally behaving itself. Robby stands across from you, arms crossedânot defensive, exactly, but contained. Like heâs afraid if he relaxes, something important might spill out.
You break the silence first. Of course you do.
âOkay,â you say. âWe need to talk about⊠all of that.â
His shoulders tense. Then he nods. âYeah.â
You tilt your head, studying him. He looks wrecked in the quiet aftermath wayâeyes tired, jaw tight, hair flattened from running his hands through it too many times. Heâs listening already, which is a good sign. Encouraging.
âYou donât get to act like myââ you search for the right word, then huff softly. âLike my keeper. Especially when we never named whatever this is.â
He flinches, just a little. Not from the wordsâmore from the accuracy.
âI know,â he says quickly. âI crossed a line.â
âYou were scared,â you say, not unkindly. âI get that. But fear doesnât give you ownership.â
His gaze drops to the floor. He nods again, slower this time.
âYouâre right,â he says. âIâm sorry.â He swallows. âI didnât mean to make you feel⊠managed. Or trapped. Or like you owed me anything.â
You let that settle. Let him feel the weight of it, because he can handle it.
âThank you,â you say. âAnd for the recordâI will tell you if Iâm not okay. You donât have to read tea leaves.â
He lets out a breath that sounds like itâs been waiting all day to escape.
âIâm still learning,â he admits. âIâm better at protocols than⊠people I care about.â
You snort. âShocking.â
That earns you a faint smile. Then he straightens, visibly bracing himself.
He takes a breath.
âI want to take you out,â he says. Clear. Direct. Terrifyingly earnest. âSomewhere not fluorescent. As a date.â
Your heart does a stupid, traitorous little skip.
You pretend to consider it, because youâre not a monster. Or maybe because you enjoy watching him sweat.
âHmm,â you say thoughtfully. âA date.â
âYes,â he says, hopeful and terrified in equal measure.
You nod slowly. âOkay.â
Relief flashes across his face so fast itâs almost comical.
âBut,â you add, holding up a finger.
He freezes. âOkay.â
âI need a ride home.â
ââŠOkay.â
âAnd,â you continue, sweetly, âI need you to kiss me like that again.â
He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then color blooms across his cheeksâactual, honest-to-God blush. It spreads fast, like heâs lost a battle with his own circulatory system.
âOh,â he says. Eloquently.
You grin. âThose are my terms.â
He rubs the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. âYou drive a hard bargain.â
hey so uh.. i miss you like a child missing their mother. just telling you how much i love your works and how your works are the highlights of my gloomy life. i hope youâre doing fine and everythings in your life is going great. take care !
This is so nice to hear đ I promise the AO3 curse hasn't struck me yet! I'm just busy with clinicals and other life things like planning a wedding. I am also writing more on my other blog for a different fandom, but trust I have some WIPS I need to finish and post so I'll be back when I have a moment.
Four patients arrive at the Pitt with fever, bleeding, and no obvious exposure history.
Robby knows something is wrong long before the labs confirm it.
The CDC sends you.
You're brilliant, relentless, and allergic to staying anywhere long enough to build a life.
Robby remembers you as all of those things-and the one person who ever left him before he could leave first.
Word count: 23K (in two parts)
Rating: Explicit
Tags/content warnings: brief alcohol consumption mentioned, female reader, one random oc for the sake of exposition (really minor character), exes to lovers, slow burn, (kinda) medically accurate, workplace tension, professional rivalry, Robby being petty (and pretty), forced proximity, avoidant attachment, touch-starved, power struggle, eventual smut, hopeful ending, consensual sex, aftercare, soft intimacy, alternating POV, no use of Y/N
Comment or DM to join the taglist
Robby tells himself the irritation is professional.
Thatâs the lie he repeats while he signs charts with a pen that keeps blotting, while he re-reads labs he already knows by heart, while he pretends the tightness in his jaw has anything to do with throughput metrics and nothing to do with a name spoken too casually in a hallway..
Your name lands like a dropped instrumentâmetallic, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He doesnât look up. He keeps typing. He tells himself that people talk, that names circulate in medicine like pathogens, that this is nothing. He tells himself irritation is normal when someone dredges up old colleagues, old reputations, old ghosts.
The lie fractures anyway.
He scrubs his hands longer than needed. He drinks bad coffee and doesnât notice until itâs gone. He avoids looking at you too directly, which is absurd considering youâre impossible to missâcalm in a way that reads like competence rather than affect, moving through the department with the quiet authority of someone who has already seen worse and survived it.
And that, if heâs being honest, is the problem.
You catch him near the supply room, both of you stalled by a cart no one bothered to return. The lights hum. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and something fried from the cafeteria.
You donât rush to fill the silence. You never do.
He studies you thenâthe set of your shoulders, the way you stand like youâre always braced but not tense, as if readiness is muscle memory now. He thinks of the stories heâs heard in fragments, the CV that reads like a map of outbreaks rather than institutions.
âYou ever have one of those moments,â you say, eyes drifting briefly to the floor, âwhere you realize how stupidly close the margin actually is?â
He snorts. âDaily.â
You glance at him, something dry and amused flickering there. âI once got a cut in my hazmat suit handling Ebola. Tiny thing. Barely noticeable.â
His posture stills.
âAnd?â he asks, because he canât not.
âAnd my life flashed before my eyes,â you continue. âOnly it was a very unimpressive montage. Mostly bad coffee. Questionable hookups. A truly embarrassing number of hours arguing with logistics about gloves.â
Despite himself, he laughs. A real one. It surprises him, the sound of it echoing briefly off tile.
âThatâs it?â he says. âNo soaring memories? No loved ones?â
You shrug. âI figured if that was the highlight reel, I deserved whatever happened next.â
He shakes his head slowly. âJesus.â
âYeah,â you say lightly. âTurns out the cut didnât breach. But the adrenaline hangover lasted days.â
He can picture it too easilyâyellow suit, sweat pooling at your spine, the second where time stretches thin and ugly. He feels something twist in his gut that has nothing to do with professional respect and everything to do with proximity.
âYouâre insane,â he says.
âClearly, I'm an epidemiologist,â you reply.
Thereâs a pause then, heavier than the others. Robby becomes acutely aware of how close youâre standing, of the quiet between pages turning somewhere down the hall, of the way the ED seems to hold its breath around the two of you.
He realizes, distantly, that the hostility heâs been carryingâthe territorial edge, the petty comparisons, the reflexive bristlingâhas shifted. It hasnât vanished. Itâs transformed.
This is worse.
This is tension that hums rather than spikes. Interest he didnât authorize. Recognition that lands too close to admiration.
âNew Orleans hardened me,â he says finally, more to himself than to you. âI thought that was the point.â
You meet his eyes. âIt is. Until it isnât.â
You push the cart aside and move past him, your shoulder brushing his armâaccidental, probably, but his nerves light up like it wasnât.
Robby stays where he is for a second longer, listening to your footsteps recede, feeling the unfamiliar weight of something settling in his chest.
Professional irritation, he thinks.
Sure.
âËâĄââËâĄ
The labs donât arrive all at once. They never do. They seep in, one result at a time, like a slow leak.
You stand at the workstation with one hip braced against the counter, arms folded, eyes flicking between screens. The fluorescents buzz overhead. Somewhere nearby a monitor alarms and then stops. The ED hums on, indifferent to your growing sense of unease.
AST: elevated.
ALT: worse.
Not catastrophic. Not yet. The kind of numbers that make interns shrug and attendings say weâll trend it. You donât shrug. Youâve learned the hard way that early warnings rarely shout.
You scroll.
Protein in the urine. Not dramatic. Enough to be annoying. Enough to matter.
You feel that faint, familiar prickle between your shoulder bladesâthe one that shows up when something doesnât fit but hasnât announced itself yet.
âRenal involvement,â Matt says beside you, chewing on the cap of his pen. âLow-grade, but still.â
âMm,â you murmur. Thoughtful. Noncommittal. You donât like declaring things prematurely. Pathogens have a way of punishing arrogance.
Then you catch the audiology note buried three tabs deep. A consult no one thought was relevant. A throwaway line.
âHearing changes,â you reply. âMild. Early. Nobody flagged it.â
He squints at the screen. âThatâs⊠weird.â
Weird is an understatement. Weird is a rash that doesnât blanch. Weird is a fever that wonât declare its allegiance. Weird is medicineâs entire personality.
You push away from the counter. âLetâs go back. Exposures again.â
Matt sighs, already moving. âWe already didââ
âI know,â you say. âLetâs do it better.â
You end up in the consult room with its sad laminated table and chairs that never quite sit level. The family is tired now. Guard down. Answers come easier when people are exhausted.
You donât start with blood or symptoms. You start with food.
âWhat did you eat together?â you ask gently. âAnything shared. Any special occasions.â
Thereâs a pause. A look exchanged. That tiny hesitation that might mean nothing and might mean everything.
âChurch,â the aunt says finally. âAfter service. We always eat.â
âWhat kind of food?â
âStews. Smoked meat. Things from home.â
From home. There it is.
You nod, encouraging. Neutral. Youâve perfected the art of looking harmless.
âAnd where was it prepared?â
Another pause. Longer.
âMy cousin,â someone says. âHe has a freezer. In his garage.â
You feel your pulse tick up. Not racing. Just⊠focused.
âA freezer,â you repeat. âWhat was in it?â
They list things. Fish. Goat. Something else, described vaguely, translated awkwardly, hands miming size and shape.
Matt exhales through his nose.
âBush meat?â he mutters, not quite under his breath.
The room goes very still.
You donât react outwardly. Inside, something clicks.
Not a bang. Not panic. A precise, dreadful certainty. Like a blade sliding home.
Lassa fever doesnât announce itself loudly. It insinuates. It wears the wrong costumes early on. GI symptoms. Mild hepatic involvement. Renal hints. And thenâif youâre paying attentionâhearing loss, quiet and cruel.
Youâve seen it before.
You keep your face calm. You ask a few more questions you already know the answers to. Rodents. Storage. Timing. Everything lines up with sickening elegance.
You step out into the hallway with Matt. The noise rushes back inâstretchers rolling, voices calling, life continuing as if nothing just pivoted.
He looks at you. âYou thinking what Iâm thinking?â
You nod once.
âLassa,â you say.
He swears softly. âJesus.â
You lean back against the wall, arms crossing again. Thereâs no adrenaline spike. No cinematic dread. Just the weight of inevitability settling into your bones.
âWell,â you say dryly, âon the bright side, at least itâs not boring.â
Matt snorts despite himself. âYou are fucked up.â
You glance down the hall toward isolation, already recalculating protocols, contacts, consequences.
âNo,â you say. âIâm experienced.â
âËâĄââËâĄ
Robby doesnât like saying the diagnosis out loud.
You can see it in the way his jaw tightens before the word leaves his mouth, the fractional pause like heâs testing whether silence might somehow be safer.
âLassa. In Pennsylvania.â he says finally, clipped, precise, as if enunciation could blunt impact.
You nod once. âYeah.â
Not I think. Not possibly. Just yes. Confirmation without ceremony.
He exhales through his nose, sharp and irritated, like the diagnosis personally offended him.
It explains everything, and you both know it. Thatâs the worst part.
The incubation that stretches just long enough to obscure the source. The hemorrhage that isnât dramaticâno Hollywood sprays, just oozing, mucosal bleeding, quiet coagulopathy. The way the disease waits, patient, until clinicians relax. The hearing loss slipping in, a signature most people miss until itâs too late.
A virus that hides until it doesnât.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Containment escalates fast after that.
The ED transforms. Yellow tape. Signage slapped on doors with the urgency of superstition. PAPRs wheeled in like relics from a half-forgotten age of COVID. Nurses move with sharper edges, voices lower, eyes more alert.
Public health arrives in wavesâlocal first, then state, then federalâeach layer with its own badges, binders, and opinions. The CDC shows up with polite smiles and immaculate posture, carrying the weight of institutional memory like a second spine.
Administration panics beautifully.
Conference rooms fill. Phones ring endlessly. Someone starts using the phrase optics far too often. Someone else asks if the word âLassaâ can be avoided in written communication.
You sit back in your chair, arms crossed, watching the theater with tired amusement.
Of course they want to negotiate with a virus. Of course they do.
Robby sits beside you, shoulders squared, eyes flicking between speakers. You can feel the tension rolling off him, restrained but ferocious. He hates this partâthe politics, the bargaining, the way fear disguises itself as procedure.
You lean in slightly, not enough to be obvious.
âIf anyone says âabundance of caution,â Iâm walking out,â you murmur.
His mouth twitches despite himself.
âDonât,â he whispers back. âTheyâll tackle you.â
The meeting drones on. Slides. Timelines. Contact tracing that looks neat on paper and feral in reality. The CDC wants one thing. The hospital wants another. Legal wants everyone to stop talking.
You doodle idly on your notepadânothing useful, just shapes and arrows and a tiny cartoon rat you label suspect zero.
Robby glances down, then back up at the speaker. âYouâre impossible,â he murmurs.
âYou used to do that during pharm lectures,â you reply. âRight before falling asleep.â
âThat was different.â
âWas it?â
He shakes his head, lips pressed together. You realize, distantly, that he hasnât questioned a single thing youâve said since the diagnosis landed. No pushback. No hedging. Just trustâimmediate, unfiltered, and total.
That scares him more than the virus.
You can see it in the way he watches you work now. Like youâre something solid heâs leaning on without checking if itâll hold. Like if he thinks about it too hard, it might vanish.
âËâĄââËâĄ
You spend too much time together after that. Long days that bleed into nights. Shared meals eaten standing up. Coffee that tastes like cardboard. You argue logistics in hallways and trade gallows humor in PPE anterooms.
At one point, while a public health official is explainingâagainâwhy they need more time, you whisper, âIf I had a dollar for every meeting this virus has inspired, I could retire.â
Robby snorts, then coughs to cover it.
Later, when the room finally empties and the air feels heavy with decisions deferred, he leans back and rubs his eyes.
âI hate this,â he says quietly.
âI know,â you reply.
He looks at you then, really looks. âYouâre not even rattled.â
You consider that. The truth is more complicated than he needs.
âI am,â you say. âI just donât find it productive.â
He laughs softly, tired and a little wrecked. âYou always did that.â
âCompetence is my coping mechanism.â
He shakes his head again, something warm and unsettled flickering across his face.
You stand there together in the quiet aftermath, the hum of the hospital continuing around you, both of you aware that the real work is only beginning.
And that, somehow, youâre exactly where youâre supposed to be.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Between meetings, you escape.
Not dramaticallyâno slammed doors or pointed silences. Just a mutual, unspoken drift toward the cafeteria when the conference room starts to smell like recycled air and bad decisions. Robby falls into step beside you without comment, badge swinging, sleeves pushed up like heâs already lost the battle with formality.
The coffee is terrible. You both know it. Acidic, burnt, bitter.
You take a sip anyway.
âJesus,â you mutter. âEvery time I think it canât get worse, it finds a way.â
Robby snorts, eyeing his cup cautiously. âThis is why morale is low.â
âItâs not the death. Itâs the coffee.â
He huffs a quiet laugh, shoulders loosening just a fraction. You notice things like that nowâhow tension leaves him in increments, never all at once.
You donât linger. The pager will scream soon enough. Instead, you tilt your head toward the doors.
âIâm stepping out.â
He hesitates. Then, after half a beat too long to be casual, says, âIâll come with you.â
Outside, the ambulance bay breathes cold air and diesel. Sirens wail somewhere distant, a sound that barely registers anymore. You pull a cigarette from your pocket, lighter flicking open with practiced ease.
Robby watches with narrowed eyes.
âYou know,â he says mildly, âthose are going to kill you.â
You exhale smoke toward the concrete. âOnly if some nightmare bug doesnât get me first.â
He snorts before he can stop himself, then shakes his head.
You smile thinly. Itâs not charm. Itâs truth dressed up as humor so it doesnât sit too heavily in your chest.
He leans against the wall beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. The silence stretchesânot awkward, just⊠unfilled. A rare thing.
âSo,â he says eventually, carefully. âYouâve been⊠a lot of places.â
You glance at him. Heâs not interrogating. Heâs offering an opening, tentative as a fingertip against glass.
âYeah,â you say. âDepends how bad the bug is.â
You tell him stories in pieces. Ethiopia. Sierra Leone. A field hospital that flooded overnight. A lab generator that failed in ninety-degree heat. You keep it factual, a little dry, like youâre reciting weather reports instead of memories that still itch under your skin.
He listens. Really listens. Doesnât interrupt. Doesnât flinch.
âI donât know how you do it,â he says quietly when you finish. âAfter COVID⊠I havenât been the same.â
There it is. Not dramatic. Not polished. Just honest.
You stub out the cigarette, watching the ember die. âMost of us arenât.â
He swallows, jaw working. âI still hear the alarms sometimes. At home. I stillââ He stops, shakes his head. âI thought I was built for this.â
Built for this.
You almost snort. That particular lie gets sold early and often.
Thereâs a beat. The quiet stretchesânot uncomfortable, just full. And then, because apparently today is about mutual emotional hemorrhaging, you hear yourself say it.
âLast year,â you start, staring at the ground like it might offer absolution. âTanzania.â
His head tilts slightly, attention sharpening. You can feel it click into placeâfield work, outbreaks, the kind of stories people like him half-collect and half-fear.
âMarburg,â you continue. âPediatric case. She was positive. We all knew it. Full protocol. Full PPE. No mistakes allowed.â
You can see it again as you talk. The heat. The suit. The way sweat pooled at the base of your spine. The kidâtoo small, too still, eyes too big for a body that fragile.
âShe was crying,â you say. Your voice stays even, which is either impressive or deeply concerning. âNot hysterical. Just⊠quiet crying. Asking if someone could stay. Asking if someone could touch her.â
Robbyâs gone still now. You donât look at him, but you can feel the shift, the way the air tightens.
âI broke protocol,â you say plainly. No buildup. No apology. âTook my gloves off. Hugged her.â
Thatâs when you finally glance up.
He looks paler. Not dramatically so, but enough that itâs noticeable under the harsh fluorescent spill from inside. His eyes are wide, a little stunned, like you just casually mentioned juggling live grenades.
âHoly shit,â he breathes.
You laugh, short and humorless. It pops out of you before you can stop it. âYeah. That was pretty much my internal monologue too.â
You lean back, arms folded, staring out into the dark parking lot. âI remember thinkingâclear as dayâthat if I died because a kid wanted actual human touch before she died⊠thatâd be a decent reason. Not the worst obituary.â
You wait for the questions.
Are you okay?
Did you get tested?
What the hell were you thinking?
Theyâre lined up and ready. Youâve answered them before. You already know the script.
But Robby doesnât say any of it.
He just reaches over and squeezes your hand. Firm. Grounding. No dramatics. No pity. Just there.
Something in your chest shifts, unpleasant and warm all at once.
You let out a slow breath you didnât realize youâd been holding. âAfter a while out there,â you say quietly, âmost of this stuff just⊠bounces off. Or you convince yourself it does. Otherwise you donât make it.â
âBounces off.â
âLike water off a duckâs back,â you say. âWhich is probably bad. Psychologically speaking.â
He glances at you. âBut?â
âBut it makes the job survivable.â
You push off the wall, pacing a step, then another. âYou canât carry all of it. Not long-term. You pick what sticks.â
âAnd what sticks?â he asks.
You think of the wins. The rare, electric moments when everything alignsâthe right question, the right test, the right call made just in time.
âThe cracked cases,â you say. âThe saves. The times you beat the clock by seconds and everyone walks away breathing.â
He nods slowly. âYeah.â
âThatâs the stuff you keep,â you add. âEverything else⊠you let slide.â
The pager goes off then. Of course it does. The spell breaks gently.
Robby straightens, all edges againâbut not quite as sharp.
âThanks,â he says, like heâs not entirely sure what heâs thanking you for.
You flick him a look. âAnytime.â
And you mean it.
âËâĄââËâĄ
You donât really notice when night happens.
One moment itâs late afternoon and everyone is still pretending this is a problem with edges. The next, the windows have gone black and the conference room lights hum with that faint, headache-inducing pitch that only exists after midnight. Time stops behaving normally in situations like thisâit stretches, folds in on itself, loses all structure.
You and Matt have been at it for hours.
Whiteboards fill, get erased, fill again. Exposure timelines spiderweb across laminated surfaces. Names. Dates. Church pews. Freezer contents. Who hugged whom. Who cooked. Who stood too close for too long.
The CDC personnel rotate in shifts, crisp and alert in a way that feels almost offensive. Admin grows progressively sweatier, voices tight, hands fluttering over binders they donât actually understand.
You sit cross-legged on a chair that was never meant for it, laptop balanced on one knee, mug of something that was once coffee sweating beside you. Your back protests every time you shift.
You stretch, slow and deliberate, vertebrae popping in a way that feels both obscene and deeply satisfying.
Matt groans immediately. âOh my god,â he mutters. âIâm too old to be sleeping on a conference room floor.â
âYouâre forty-eight,â you say without looking up.
âExactly.â
You snort, eyes flicking across another contact list. This oneâs worse. Always is.
Silence settles brieflyâthe kind that only exists when everyoneâs too tired to perform competence anymore.
âSo,â Matt says casually, too casually. âWhatâs the deal with your ex?â
You blink. Once.
âMy what?â
He swivels slightly in his chair to look at you. His expression is maddeningly smug for someone who just used a printer as a pillow. âDonât do that. You know exactly who I mean.â
You shrug, noncommittal, fingers still typing. âYouâre going to have to be more specific.â
He rolls his eyes. âTall. Grumpy. Looks like heâs one inconvenience away from biting someone.â
You consider that. Fair, honestly.
âAnd?â you say.
âAnd,â Matt continues, âyouâve been spending a lot of time together. And the energy? Is not neutral.â
You pause now, just long enough to be deliberate about it. Then you lean back in your chair, letting it creak in protest.
âItâs just two chronically avoidant people,â you say, evenly, âwho decided to stop avoiding and start circling a decades-old breakup.â
Matt stares at you for a beat. Then he snorts. âWow. Good luck with that.â
âThank you for your unwavering support.â
âIâm serious,â he says. âThat kind of emotional archaeology usually ends with someone bleeding.â
You tilt your head. âYou say that like I donât routinely deal with hemorrhagic fevers.â
He opens his mouth, closes it again. âFair.â
You lean back farther, spine protesting loudly now. You close your eyes for half a secondâjust enough to feel how tired you actually are.
âI honestly need a vacation,â you say.
Matt lights up immediately, like this is the most reasonable thing youâve said all night. âYes. Thank you. Iâve been saying that for years.â
âI need sleep,â you add. âAnd food that doesnât come from a vending machine. And a location where no one knows my name.â
âWe should go somewhere together,â he says. âDitch the CDC for a solid two weeks at least.â
You hum thoughtfully. âTempting.â
âDo it,â he insists. âWeâll vanish. No outbreaks. No press briefings. No PowerPoints.â
âI just need somewhere without mosquitoes carrying deadly shit,â you say, opening your eyes again, âand also without brain-eating amoebas.â
Matt laughs outright. âI still donât get why thatâs the one that freaks you out.â
You give him a flat look. âBecause itâs a nightmare death. Something literally eating your brain.â
He shakes his head, still smiling. âSays the woman who handles Marburg samples every day like itâs childâs play.â
You shrug. âEveryone has their fears. I'm scared of microscopic pond demons. You're scared of small planes.â
âThose are deadly,â he says defensively.
You give him an unimpressed look, slowly point a finger at him, and say, âSo. Are. Amoebas.â
He laughs again, softer this time, and the sound settles into the room like a brief, fragile truce against exhaustion.
Outside the conference room, the hospital keeps breathingâmachines humming, alarms chirping, people moving through corridors unaware of how close the margins really are.
Inside, you sit with your friend, surrounded by maps of contagion and half-empty mugs, held upright by dark humor and the stubborn refusal to let the worst win.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Youâre standing too close. Thatâs the first mistake.
The second is that youâre both exhausted, overstimulated, and convinced youâre rightâwhich, historically, is when you and Robby are at your most unstable.
The patient list is up on the screen between you, a grim column of names and statuses. New admissions highlighted in red. ICU beds disappearing faster than anyone will admit out loud.
âThis oneâs deteriorating faster than expected,â Robby says, tapping the screen with the back of his pen. âWe need to escalate sooner.â
âWe need to be careful how we escalate,â you snap back. âRibavirin timing matters, and you know it. You donât just throw it at everyone and hope.â
He turns toward you, eyes sharp. âIâm not suggesting hope as a strategy.â
âCouldâve fooled me,â you say. Your voice is tight now. You can feel it slipping. âYouâre reacting instead of thinking.â
His jaw sets. âThatâs rich, coming from you.â
Oh. That does it.
You take a breath that does absolutely nothing to calm you. Youâve been awake too long. Youâve argued this same point three times already. Youâre surrounded by charts and alarms and the low-grade hum of impending catastrophe, and he is still talking.
His eyes flash. âYou donât get to waltz in and dictate care like this is one of your field clinics.â
âAnd you donât get to pretend protocol matters more than survival,â you fire back, voice low but lethal. Youâre standing too close now. Youâre aware of it. He is too.
âYouâre being reckless,â he says.
âYouâre being territorial,â you say. âAgain.â
âBecause this is my department.â
âAnd those are my patients,â you counter.
The argument tightens, spiralsâtwo sharp minds circling the same truth from different angles, sparks flying because neither of you knows how to yield. People move around you, sense the heat, give you space.
Your patienceâalready thin from sleepless nights and bad coffee and the constant weight of almost-missed catastropheâfinally snaps.
âOh, for fuck'sââ you mutter.
Your hand moves before your brain can intervene.
You grab the front of his collar, fingers curling into fabric, and yank him down toward you.
His eyes widenâjust for a split secondâbefore your mouth crashes into his.
Itâs fast. Rough. All teeth and heat and frustration finally finding an outlet. No tenderness. No hesitation. Just a hard, decisive kiss meant to shut him up.
For a heartbeat, heâs frozen.
Then his hand comes up, firm on your waist, pulling you closer instead of away, and he kisses you back just as hard.
God. Of course he does.
Itâs over almost as soon as it starts. A blink. A breach of every rule you both pretend still matters. You pull back first, breath uneven, pulse loud in your ears.
No one notices. The hallway noise swallows the moment whole.
You lean in just enough to murmur, low and lethal, âWeâre going with my treatment plan.â
His pupils are blown. He looks stunned.
âYou owe me,â you add.
For a second, he just stares at you. Then his mouth twitches. A grin breaks through despite himselfâcrooked, incredulous, entirely inappropriate.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âthere are easier ways to shut me up.â
You straighten, already reaching for the keyboard again, armor snapping back into place.
âYeah,â you reply dryly. âBut those wouldnât be nearly as effective.â
Behind you, you can feel him watching youâstill smiling, still reelingâas the outbreak waits for neither of you to get your composure back.
âËâĄââËâĄ
The patients improve.
It happens quietly, without ceremonyâno dramatic pivot, no moment where everyone in the unit stops and exhales at once. Just numbers easing back into acceptable ranges. Fevers that donât spike again at 3 a.m. Platelets that stop their slow, spiteful slide. Urine output that looks less like a warning and more like a promise.
You notice it the way you notice everything now: wary, suspicious, waiting for the trick.
Morning rounds feel different. Lighter, somehow. The room still smells like antiseptic and overworked air filters, but the tension has thinned, stretched out. Nurses speak in normal voices again. Someone cracks a joke that actually lands. You watch a patient sit up without swaying and feel something in your chest loosen, just a notch.
Robby notices too. Of course he does.
He doesnât say anything at firstâjust stands at the foot of the bed longer than necessary, hands on his hips, brow furrowed like heâs daring the universe to contradict him. When nothing does, when the monitor stays steady and the patient manages a weak but real smile, he lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh.
âDonât jinx it,â you murmur, flipping through the chart.
âI didnât say anything.â
âYouâre thinking loudly.â
He snorts, glances at you. Thereâs something softer in his eyes now, something unguarded. It makes you look away before it can do anything dangerous, like feel meaningful.
By late afternoon, the word spreadsânot officially, not in any memo or emailâbut in the way people walk, the way shoulders drop. The crisis recedes, like a tide pulling back from the shore, leaving behind damp sand and a mess to clean up.
You finish charting, your handwriting sloppier than usual, exhaustion finally punching through the adrenaline. When you step out into the hallway, Robby is there, jacket slung over his shoulder.
âDrinks are on me,â he says, like itâs a verdict.
You blink at him. âThat wasnât a question.â
âItâs not optional.â
You consider arguing out of habit, then realize you donât actually want to. Your feet hurt. Your head is buzzing. The idea of fluorescent lighting for even one more minute makes you want to scream.
âFine,â you say. âBut if I fall asleep face-first in a glass of whiskey, thatâs on you.â
âËâĄââËâĄ
The bar is dim in a way that feels intentional, like it was designed for people whoâve had enough of seeing things clearly. Low ceiling. Sticky floors. The kind of place where the bottles behind the bar glow softly, amber and green, like a shrine to bad decisions.
You sit at the end, backs to the wall. Habit. Control. Old instincts never die.
Your glass sweats between your hands, cold enough to sting your palms. The first sip burns, sharp and grounding. You hadnât realized how tightly wound you were until the alcohol loosens the knot just enough to make you aware of it.
Robby exhales beside you, long and slow, like heâs been holding that breath since the first patient rolled in.
âGod,â he says. âI forgot what this feels like.â
âAlcoholism?â
âRelief.â
You hum. âSame chemical pathway."
He laughs, real this time. It catches you off guard. You glance at him, the lines around his eyes deeper than you remember, his hair a little more gray at the temples. He looks tired in a way that no amount of sleep fixesâburned down to the essentials.
You probably do too.
You talk for a while about nothing important at first. Hospital gossip. Which admin nearly had a coronary when isolation protocols went up. A resident who fainted dramatically and then insisted he was âjust dehydrated.â
âClassic,â you say. âMedicineâs version of âIâm fine.ââ
Robby smirks. âYou ever fainted?â
âNo,â you say. âIâm too stubborn.â
âI believe that.â
The conversation drifts, as it always does, backward.
Med school stories come spilling out like old scarsâgross anatomy disasters, the exam you both thought youâd failed and somehow aced, the attending who terrified everyone except you, because youâd figured out early that he only respected pushback.
âYou were unbearable,â Robby says, shaking his head. âAlways correcting people. Always right.â
âNot always.â
âEighty-five percent of the time.â
You sip your drink. âStatistically significant.â
He grins. âYou disappeared after graduation. Justâgone.â
You feel that familiar, reflexive tightening. There it is. The question that isnât really a question.
âI warned you,â you say lightly. âIâm migratory.â
âYeah,â he says. âYou always were.â
You stare into your glass, watching the ice crack. You tell yourself itâs just curiosity in his voice, not something heavier. Tell yourself youâre not avoiding his eyes.
Eventually, he asks about your fellowship.
âInfectious diseases,â he says. âYou always did like the weird stuff.â
âI like puzzles,â you correct. âAnd consequences.â
He raises an eyebrow.
You shrug. âHalf the time it feels like being a detective. Youâre chasing patterns, exposures, timelines. Who ate what. Who slept where. Who thought washing their hands was optional.â
âAnd the other half?â
You snort softly. âA series of very unfortunate events and stupid decisions.â
âSounds optimistic.â
âYou should hear me on a bad day.â
You tell him about casesâabout tracking a fever back to a forgotten bat exposure, about outbreaks that hinged on one person lying about travel because they didnât want to deal with quarantine. About the frustration of knowing exactly what went wrong and also knowing it will absolutely happen again.
âPeople are exhausting,â you say, finishing your drink.
âAnd yet,â Robby says, âhere you are.â
You glance at him. Thereâs no accusation in his tone. Just fact.
âYeah,â you admit. âHere I am.â
Silence settles between you, not awkward, just full. The bar hums around youâlow music, clink of glasses, someone laughing too loudly at something that probably wasnât that funny.
You feel it then. The aftermath. The delayed emotional hangover of crisis averted. Your body finally clocking the danger itâs been outrunning for days.
Robby notices, because he always does. He shifts slightly closer, not touching, but near enough that youâre aware of the warmth of him.
âWe did good,â he says quietly.
You swallow. You want to deflect, to joke, to roll your eyes. Instead, you nod.
âYeah,â you say. âWe did.â
The words sit heavy and earned between you. Not triumphant. Just true.
You take another sip, let the burn remind you that youâre still here, still breathing, still capable of feeling the weight of a job done rightâand the people who understand exactly what that costs.
The conversation keeps going, because neither of you is quite ready to leave the tableâor each otherâyet.
You circle back to safer ground first. Familiar ground. The good parts, the ones that donât ache if you touch them too hard.
âHowâs your grandmother?â you ask, because it feels like something youâre allowed to care about without consequences.
Robbyâs face softens immediately, the way it always has when she comes up. âStill terrifying,â he says. âOver ninety now. Refuses to slow down. Keeps correcting her cardiologist.â
You smile into your glass. âAs she should.â
âShe asks about you,â he adds, casually, like it doesnât mean anything.
You look at him over the rim. âDoes she.â
âYeah,â he says. âAlways liked you.â
You laugh, bright and easy. It surprises you a littleâhow natural it feels. âI am,â you say solemnly, âdeeply charming.â
He snorts. âShe said you had good posture and strong opinions.â
âHigh praise.â
âShe also said youâd never stay.â
That lands quieter.
You tilt your head, considering. âShe wasnât wrong.â
The air shifts after that. Not abruptlyâjust a gradual deepening, like the lights dimming another notch. The kind of conversation that only happens when the danger has passed and the truth finally has room to breathe.
Robby tells you about the mentor he lost. A doctor who taught him how to think, not just the protocols. A man who saw through his bravado early and pushed anyway. The funeral he almost missed because he was on call. The guilt that still sneaks up on him in empty trauma bays.
âHe taught me everything,â Robby says quietly. âAnd then he was just⊠gone.â
You nod, because you understand that particular hollow. The shape of absence never really changes.
You tell him about the things youâve seen travelingâthe outbreaks that burned through villages before anyone noticed, the children you couldnât save, the way certain images lodge themselves behind your eyes and refuse to fade.
âSome of it,â you say, staring at the bar top, âI donât think Iâll ever unsee.â
Robby doesnât interrupt. He just listens, jaw tight, eyes steady on you like heâs anchoring you in place.
Eventually, the confessions turn inward.
âI ran,â you admit. The words come easier now, smoothed by alcohol and honesty. âFrom commitment. From stillness. From routine. If I stayed too long, I started feeling like I was suffocating.â
Robby exhales. âI did the opposite.â
You glance at him.
âI buried everything,â he continues. âUnder work. Risk. Hookups. Nights that meant nothing. If I didnât slow down, I didnât have to think.â
You tilt your head, amused despite yourself. There it isâthat old, sharp humor slipping back into place.
âSo,â you say lightly. âYou became a slut.â
He huffs a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. âWhen you put it like that.â
You lean closer, close enough now that his knee brushes yours. The contact sends a quiet, traitorous thrill through you. You can smell his cologneâclean, familiar, something that reminds you of long nights and bad decisions.
âShow me what you've learned, then,â you murmur.
Thereâs no hesitation this time.
Heâs on you in a heartbeatâone hand angling your head with practiced certainty, mouth covering yours in a kiss thatâs slower than before but no less hungry. Deliberate. Like heâs been waiting for permission he no longer needs.
You sigh into his mouth, a sound you donât bother stopping. His lips are warm, insistent. You catch his lower lip gently between your teeth, just enough to tease, and he groansâlow, roughâdragging you closer until the line between where he ends and you begin blurs dangerously.
Your chair scrapes. Youâre vaguely aware that youâre probably one shift away from ending up in his lap, and the thought is far more appealing than it should be.
Youâve seen worse decisions than this.
And for once, you donât feel like running.
He pulls away first.
Not abruptlyâgently, like heâs testing whether the moment will shatter if he loosens his grip. His forehead rests against yours, warm, familiar, the bridge of his nose brushing your temple. His thumb traces along your cheekbone, slow and absent-minded, like heâs reassuring himself youâre still there.
You keep your eyes closed for a beat longer than necessary. Regrouping. Reassembling the parts of yourself that scattered the second his mouth left yours.
Your brain clears its throat.
Get it together.
âYou okay?â he asks softly.
You open your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, breathing a little uneven. Good. Fair is fair.
âDepends what you mean by okay,â you say. âBecause if you mean emotionally stable and making excellent life choicesâno.â
That pulls a quiet laugh out of him, the sound vibrating faintly where his forehead meets yours.
He hesitates, just a fraction. You feel itâthe moment where heâs deciding whether to risk asking.
âDo you⊠want to come back to my place?â he says finally. Not rushed. Not slick. Careful in a way that makes something low in your chest tighten.
You study his face, cataloging details youâve somehow missed a hundred times before. The faint scar near his jaw. The crease between his brows that deepens when heâs tired or worried or trying very hard not to care.
Your brain supplies a list of reasons not to. Long list. Bullet points. Subsections.
You ignore it.
You tilt your head, considering him like heâs just proposed a mildly interesting experiment.
âWell,â you say, dry as dust, âif youâre offering a tour.â
His mouth curvesâslow, unmistakable satisfaction. âNaturally.â
âStrictly educational,â you add. âI like to understand the environment.â
âOf course you do.â
He pulls back just enough to signal movement, settling the bill without ceremony. The bartender gives you a look that says good luck, kids, and you pretend not to notice.
Outside, the night air hits your skinâcool, damp, smelling faintly of rain and city grime. The bar door thumps shut behind you, sealing off the dim cocoon you didnât realize youâd been hiding in.
Robby shrugs into his jacket. You watch his hands, competent and steady, the same hands that had just been on your face like you were something fragile. Itâs unsettling in a way you donât hate.
As you walk, your shoulders brush. Not accidental. Not acknowledged. Electricity hums in that narrow strip of space between you.
âYou still always leave,â he says lightly, like heâs testing the words before giving them any weight.
You glance sideways. âIâm still here.â
He nods, accepting that for what it isânot a promise, not a denial. Just a fact.
His place is a few blocks away. You catalog it automatically: the neighborhood, the building, the way he unlocks the door without looking. A habit born of repetition. A life lived here.
Inside, it smells like coffee and clean laundry and something unmistakably him. The lights are low. Shoes by the door. A space that feels used, not staged.
You step in, taking it all in with professional curiosity and personal interest.
âNice,â you say. âVery⊠functional.â
He arches a brow. âHigh praise.â
âDonât get cocky.â
You turn to face him, the door clicking shut behind you. The sound lands heavy, final in a way that sends a small, traitorous thrill down your spine.
He looks at you for a momentâlike heâs checking one last time.
You meet his gaze evenly.
Still not running, you think.
How about that.
And when he reaches for you again, it feels less like a mistake and more like a decisionârare, deliberate, and entirely your own.
He backs you into the door without breaking the kiss.
Not roughâdecisive. The solid thud of your shoulder blades meeting wood sends a sharp jolt through you. His mouth is on yours again immediately, deeper this time, like heâs done pretending patience is a virtue.
You make a sound you donât bother swallowingâlow, involuntaryâand he takes it as an invitation. His tongue slips into your mouth, confident, familiar, like he already knows the terrain. You meet him halfway, kissing back with a hunger that surprises you despite ample evidence youâve been wound tight for days.
His thigh slides between your legs, pressing just enough to scatter whatever coherent thoughts you had left. Not grinding. Not desperate. Just thereâintentional, maddening. Your hands fist briefly in his shirt, your body reacting faster than your pride would prefer.
When he pulls back for air, itâs barely an inch. His forehead rests against yours again, breath warm, uneven.
You blink, dazed, then laugh softly. âI forgot how good this is.â
He exhales a quiet chuckle. âWhatâkissing?â
You tilt your head, lips still tingling. âWanting to have sex with someone,â you say. âInstead of with anyone.â
His brows lift, amused and unmistakably interested. âAm I the someone?â
You donât hesitate. âYes,â you say plainly. Then, because you are still you, you add, âBut only if you shut up right now.â
He laughs again, the sound warm and delighted against your mouth. âI can do that.â
He proves it by kissing you againâslower this time, more thorough. His hands slide beneath your T-shirt, warm palms skimming your skin, exploring with teasing familiarity that makes your spine arch without permission.
You inhale sharply, fingers finding the hem of his shirt. You tug; he gets the message instantly, helping you pull it off in one smooth motion. The fabric lands somewhere unimportant.
Your hands drift over his chest, following muscle and heat. He catches your wrists playfully, fingers tangling with yours, a brief, intimate struggle that feels more like teasing than resistance.
You meet his eyesâdark, intent, very much hereâand think, not for the first time tonight, that this is a spectacularly bad idea.
You donât stop.
He crowds into you again, and your body takes over.
You roll your hips against his thigh, chasing friction with an urgency that makes you scoff at yourself even as you do it. Desperate, your brain notes dryly. Charming.
Robby notices immediately. Of course he does.
His hands slide to the hem of your T-shirt and he tugs, decisive, pulling it up and over your head in one smooth motion. Cool air hits your skin, followed instantly by his gazeâslow, appreciative, unguarded. He swears under his breath, the word rough and reverent all at once.
âWell,â he murmurs. âThatâs⊠distracting.â
You smirk, breath a little uneven. âFocus, doctor.â
He laughs softly and leans in, kissing down the line of your jaw, your neck, unhurried and deliberate. Each press of his mouth sends a spark straight through you, and you grind against his thigh again without thinking, chasing relief.
He pulls back just enough to tease, voice warm with amusement. âIs that impatience I hear?â
You make a sound that is absolutely not dignified.
He hums like heâs pleased with himself and goes back to your neck, this time slower, more intent. The teasing vanishes. His attention sharpens, his mouth lingering, coaxing, and whatever clever remark you were lining up dissolves into a breathy whimper you donât quite manage to stop.
âGod,â you mutter, tipping your head back despite yourself.
He chuckles, low and satisfied, and keeps goingâkissing, lingering, making it impossible to think straight. Your back arches instinctively, your hands finding his shoulders.
âForgot how good you sound,â he murmurs, almost to himself.
This is how people make bad decisions, you think weakly.
You donât pull away.
He keeps moving downward, mouth warm and unhurried, kissing along your breast with an attention that feels almost reverent. His lips linger; his tongue flicks teasingly over your nipple, deliberate enough to make your breath hitch.
Your hand fists in his hair before you can stop yourself. So much for composure. You make a soundâsoft, wreckedâand feel him smile against you like heâs filed it away for later use.
âEasy,â he murmurs, though he doesnât slow. If anything, he seems encouraged.
Your back arches, your head tipping against the door. Youâre dimly aware of the cool wood at your shoulders, the heat of him everywhere else. The world narrows to sensation and the irritating, undeniable truth that youâve been wound tight for far too long.
His hands slide to your waist. Thereâs a brief pauseâjust enough to feel intentionalâbefore he works the buttons of your pants open with practiced ease. When his hand slips beneath the fabric, you gasp, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing contact like youâve forgotten how to be patient.
He looks up at you then, eyes dark, assessing, far too pleased with what he finds. His voice drops, low and teasing. âLook at you,â he murmurs. âSo needy already. Iâve barely touched you.â
You donât bother answering. Words feel optional at best. You just moan, hips moving against his hand, body broadcasting agreement with an honesty that feels both mortifying and delicious.
He exhales a quiet laugh, approving, and leans back in, pressing another kiss to your skin as if to say heâs got all the time in the worldâwhile you very clearly do not.
His hands slide down, decisive but careful, easing your pants and underwear away before you can overthink it. The cool air follows, sharp enough to make you gasp. Then heâs lowering himself in front of you, steadying you as he goes, one of your legs lifted and draped over his shoulder like it belongs there. Like this is inevitable.
He looks up at you onceâjust onceâeyes dark, intent, almost reverent. It knocks the breath clean out of you.
Then his mouth is on you.
Not hurried. Not greedy. Slow, exploratory at first, like heâs reacquainting himself with something familiar but precious. The contrast is dizzyingâthe heat of his mouth, the deliberate patience of itâuntil your head tips back against the door with a helpless sound you donât recognize as your own.
He takes his time, drawing it out, alternating languid, unhurried strokes with lighter, playful touches that make your nerves spark and scatter. You can feel how aware he is of every reaction, every involuntary shift of your body.
Your hands fist in his hair, fingers curling without permission. You make small, needy sounds you would absolutely mock in someone else. The hypocrisy barely registers.
One of his fingers brushes your folds, a quiet, coaxing gesture that pulls your focus just long enough for you to realize how completely undone you are. You respond instinctively, hips rocking, breath breaking, your body betraying you with ruthless efficiency.
He murmurs to youâsoft encouragements, quiet praiseâlow enough that the words blend into sensation more than language. Each sound feels like it lands somewhere deep and destabilizing, loosening you further, piece by piece.
You are painfully aware of how exposed you are. How thoroughly seen.
And instead of panicking, instead of pulling away, you let goâjust enough to feel him draw you apart, patient and unrelenting, until the world narrows to heat and breath and the fact that you donât want him to stop.
Not even a little.
He pulls away, just enough to steal the sensation from youâand you make a sound that is, frankly, undignified.
A soft, wounded whine slips out before you can stop it.
Robby chuckles, low and pleased, like heâs been expecting that exact reaction. âHey,â he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your thigh in apology. âCome on. Bedroom.â
You donât argue. You donât pretend to consider it. You just grab his hand and pull him back into your space, kissing him like youâre afraid he might disappear if you donât keep contact.
The walk down the hallway is⊠messy.
You bump into the wall. He knocks his shoulder into a doorframe. At one point you fumble for a light switch and miss entirely, hands landing somewhere much more interesting instead. Neither of you cares. The priority is very clearly keeping your mouths together; navigation is a distant second.
The bedroom finally appearsâsoft light, rumpled sheets, a space that feels suddenly charged just by your presence in it. He lowers you onto the bed with surprising gentleness, hands firm at your waist, like heâs grounding both of you.
The mattress dips beneath you and whatever patience you had left evaporates completely.
You reach for his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency, more determined than precise. The metal clinks softly. You hiss under your breath.
âHold on,â you mutter. âIâve got it.â
He watches you with unmistakable amusement, then steps in to help, hands guiding yours without taking over. âYou always were bad at asking for assistance.â
âI am literally asking with my hands,â you say, tugging again.
That earns you a grin as he helps push his pants down and out of the way, movements quick now, intent matching yours. You lean up, kissing him againâhungry, impatient, all sharp edges and anticipation.
You drag him back down with you, heart racing, body buzzing, the world narrowing to the press of him and the bed beneath youâand the very clear sense that neither of you plans to slow down now.
He settles between your legs with care that feels almost reverent, his weight supported on his arms so youâre never pinned, never rushed. One hand comes up to your face, thumb brushing your jaw, his eyes searching yours.
âYou good?â he asks quietly.
You nod, breath already uneven. âIâd complain if I werenât.â
A corner of his mouth lifts, fond and a little smug, and then he leans in againâkissing your neck, slow and lingering, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. He takes his time there, nibbling lightly, like he knows exactly how close to the edge you already are and intends to enjoy it.
He eases into you, inch by deliberate inch, until heâs fully inside. The contact makes your head tip back without conscious permission, a needy sound slipping out of you that you absolutely would pretend never happened if anyone asked.
He smiles against your skin, clearly pleased.
âEasy,â he murmurs, not stopping at all.
He pauses thereâjust a momentâletting you adjust to the stretch, the heat, the sheer presence of him. His forehead rests against your collarbone, his breathing steady and grounding.
You become acutely aware of everything: the sheets beneath you, the strength in his shoulders under your hands, the way your body feels stretched thin with anticipation.
Then he begins to move.
Unhurried. Measured. Almost cruelly patient.
Your hips lift instinctively to meet him, chasing more, faster, anythingâbut he keeps the pace exactly where he wants it. You whimper, clutching at his shoulders, fingers digging in like that might convince him to speed up.
It does not.
He makes a quiet, pleased sound at the back of his throat, still kissing your neck, still taking his time, like this is something heâs been waiting to savor rather than rush through.
You moan, breath breaking, hips moving against his in helpless agreement, and he stays right there with youâsteady, patient, maddeningly attentive.
He keeps the pace exactly where it isâunhurried, languid, almost lazy in a way that feels intentional. Like he knows precisely what itâs doing to you and has decided to enjoy every second of it.
You are, frankly, undone.
You clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging in as if holding on might keep you from dissolving entirely. Sounds slip out of youâsoft, needy, embarrassing in a way youâll absolutely pretend never happened later. Right now, you donât care. Right now, youâre too busy being overwhelmed by the infuriating fact that heâs in no hurry at all.
He keeps you close, chest to chest, kissing you againâyour mouths moving together a little uncoordinated, breath and heat and urgency tangling everything up. Itâs messy in the best way, like neither of you is interested in doing this neatly.
He breaks away just long enough to kiss down your neck, teeth catching playfully at your skin. You gasp, your head tipping back, another sound escaping.
He smiles against you, pleased.
âGod,â he murmurs, low and warm, âyou feel so good.â
You whine softly, hips shifting without permission, and he chuckles, pressing another kiss to your throat like a reward.
âI missed this,â he admits quietly, the words landing heavier than you expect. âMissed you.â
That does something dangerous to your chest.
He stays right there, murmuring praise and encouragement between kisses, his voice steady and grounding even as it completely unravels you. âYouâre doing so good,â he says. âSo perfect like this. Right here.â
You cling to him, breath broken, body responding despite every carefully constructed wall youâve built over the years. He keeps the rhythm slow, patient, devastatingâlike heâs not just touching you, but reminding you of something youâd almost convinced yourself you didnât need.
And for once, instead of running from that realization, you let yourself stay right where you areâunder him, with him, completely and unapologetically present.
The rhythm shiftsânot abruptly, but inevitably.
What had been slow and measured grows a little more urgent, less coordinated, like neither of you is interested in pretending restraint any longer. Your mouths meet again, kisses turning almost desperate, breath shared and uneven. You moan into his mouth, the sound half-lost between you, and he answers it with a low sound of his own, holding you close.
He keeps you there even as everything else starts to unravel. You feel yourself opening to the sensation, piece by piece, the careful patience from before giving way to something more instinctive. Your back arches without permission, a helpless sound tearing out of you as your body reacts faster than thought.
Your nails scratch down his back, the marks almost unconscious, and he exhales sharply at the contact. One of his hands slides to your hip, steadying you as your legs wrap around him, pulling him closer. The change in angle steals your breath entirely, another needy sound breaking free before you can stop it.
He presses his forehead to yours, breath rough now. âHey,â he murmurs, half-laugh, half-warning, like heâs as affected as you are.
You manage something between a whimper and a laugh. âYou did this.â
He kisses you again, slower for a moment, grounding, like heâs reminding you heâs right thereâpresent, attentive,
The rhythm breaks down entirely after that.
Whatever coordination you had dissolves into something raw and desperateâboth of you chasing the same edge without bothering to pretend otherwise. Bodies brush and grind, movement driven more by instinct than intention. Your voice goes hoarse from how many sounds youâve been making, breath torn from you in broken little gasps you donât even try to control anymore.
Robby laughs softly against your neck, breathless and disbelieving. âI donât remember you being this loud.â
You want to retortâsomething sharp, something smugâbut the words refuse to assemble. Your mouth opens; nothing coherent comes out.
You cling to him instead, nails scraping faint lines down his back, hips rocking helplessly. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once. Your head tips back as another sound breaks loose, unfiltered and entirely unguarded.
âIâmââ you manage, voice breaking. âIâm close.â
That gets his attention immediately. He steadies you, one hand firm and grounding, the other slipping between your bodies finding exactly what youâve been aching for without you needing to say another word.
The reaction is immediate. A loud, helpless moan tears out of you, and your back arches as if your body has been waiting for that exact moment to give up the pretense of control.
He doesnât slow. If anything, he stays right there with you, voice low and steady in your ear. âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âYouâve got it. Just a moment longer.â
You cling to him like heâs the only solid thing left, the world narrowing to sensation and breath and the quiet, devastating certainty that you are completely undoneâand that he knows it, and is holding you through every second of it.
The tension winds tighter and tighter until itâs almost painfulâyour whole body strung thin, breath shuddering, muscles trembling as if youâve forgotten how to stay still.
Then it breaks.
The orgasm hits you all at once, overwhelming and shattering, leaving you shaking beneath him, clinging like you might float away otherwise. Your voice tears out of you, hoarse and unguarded, every carefully maintained wall collapsing in the span of a heartbeat. Youâre aware only of heat and closeness and the way your body moves without asking permission.
He stays with you through it, pressed close, breath rough against your neck, holding you there until the last tremor runs its course. When he finally stills, itâs with a sound thatâs more relief than anything else, his forehead tucked into the crook of your neck like he needs the contact as much as you do.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then he rolls to the side, careful not to lose you, pulling you with him until youâre settled against his chest. One arm comes around you immediately, solid and warm, his hand rubbing slow circles into your back as you come down, still shaking slightly, breath gradually evening out.
âHey,â he murmurs softly. âYou okay?â
You nod weakly, words still elusive.
âYou were incredible,â he adds, voice low and sincere. âSo good.â
Your brain stirs faintly, sharp even now:
Fantastic. Compliments. When I am at my least articulate.
Eventually, you manage to drag in a deeper breath and choke out, âI donât want to inflate your egoâŠâ
He huffs a quiet laugh, arm tightening around you.
âBut,â you continue, voice rough, honest to the point of recklessness, ânobodyâs made me feel like that in a long time.â
Thereâs a pause. Then his thumb traces a slow, grounding line along your spine.
âIâll take that,â he says softly.
You let yourself sink into him, exhaustion and warmth settling in your bones, the room quiet except for the uneven sound of your breathing and the strange, unfamiliar comfort of not wanting to leave just yet.
Robby holds you like something precious.
Not possessive. Not urgent. Just carefulâone arm firm around your back, the other resting easy at your waist, like heâs afraid sudden movement might spook you. He presses a kiss to your temple, unhurried, lingering. Itâs a simple gesture. It lands harder than it has any right to.
âYou were always the one that got away,â he says softly, almost to the ceiling.
You let out a quiet laugh, tired and fond, the sound muffled against his chest. Your inner voice clears its throat.
Ah. Sentiment. Weâve arrived.
âFor a good reason,â you say.
He doesnât argue. You feel the subtle shift of his chest as he exhales, the acceptance in it. It doesnât hurt the way it used toâdoesnât scrape or sting. Just sits there, acknowledged.
You trace idle patterns against him, fingers brushing over the familiar pendant hanging from a thin chain around his neck. You remember it from years ago, remember teasing him for never taking it off. Itâs warm from his skin now, grounding in a way that surprises you.
Your gaze drifts, cataloging details you hadnât seen beforeâink along his upper arm, a tattoo half-hidden by shadow. New lines. New chapters. Proof that life kept happening even when you werenât around to witness it.
You stay close when you speak, voice quieter now, more tentative than youâd like.
âYou never really understood,â you say, fingers still worrying the chain, âthat just because I donât like staying in one place⊠doesnât mean I donât like coming back to some places.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. You brace, out of old habit.
Then his arm tightens around youânot trapping, just anchoring. His thumb rubs slow, thoughtful circles into your side.
âYeah,â he says. âI think I was⊠a bit stupid about that.â
You snort softly. âOnly a bit?â
âAnd petty,â he adds, self-aware enough now to make it almost endearing.
You tilt your head, resting your cheek more fully against him. Growth, your brain notes dryly. Look at that.
Neither of you rush to fill the quiet after that. You just stay thereâclose, warm, breathing in syncâletting the moment be what it is. Not a promise. Not a conclusion either.
Just two people who finally understand each other a little better than they used to.
You talk for a long time after that.
Not all at once, not in some neat, cinematic burst of honestyâjust in fragments that surface when the quiet makes room for them. Old misunderstandings. Half-formed resentments that never quite deserved the weight you gave them. Things you each assumed about the other because it was easier than asking.
Thereâs no grand reckoning, no dramatic absolution. Just the slow, steady feeling of something easing into place.
At some point the room cools. The sheets twist around your legs. The city outside hums faintly through the windowâsirens far away, a car passing, life continuing without any regard for your personal revelations.
Robbyâs arm stays around you the entire time, solid and warm, his thumb absentmindedly tracing patterns against your side like heâs grounding himself. You realize, with mild surprise, that youâre doing the sameâfingers idly mapping familiar territory, no longer searching for exits.
Eventually, his voice drops lower, closer to you.
âIâm glad you came back,â he says against your temple. Thereâs no drama in it. Just sincerity. âEven if itâs only temporary.â
You huff a quiet laugh, tipping your head back slightly so you can look at him. âYou say that like Iâm heading back to war,â you murmur. âNot⊠sitting in a lab in Atlanta arguing with colleagues and pipettes.â
He smiles, fond and tired. âYou always make it sound so safe.â
âIt is safe,â you say dryly. âDangerous only to my patience.â
The humor fades gently, like a wave receding. You stare at the ceiling for a moment, watching shadows shift, choosing your next words more carefully than you usually bother to.
âIâm glad we met again,â you add, quieter now. Less armor. âReally.â
He tightens his arm around you, just a fraction. No pressure. No attempt to pin you down.
âMe too,â he says.
You lie there like thatânot pretending this fixes everything, not pretending it doesnât matter either. Just breathing, close and unguarded, settled into the rare comfort of something unfinished that no longer feels unresolved.
For once, you donât feel the urge to run.
And that, you think dryly, is probably worth noting.
You ask about the shower like itâs an afterthought, like you havenât been cataloguing the sweat on your skin and the slow creep of exhaustion for the last ten minutes.
âHey,â you say, tilting your head. âDo you have a shower, or is that too much to hope for?â
He smiles, lazy and fond. âCome on.â
The bathroom is dim and warm, lit by a single overhead light that throws everything into softer edges. Steam fogs the mirror almost immediately, blurring your reflections until youâre just shapes moving together. He adjusts the temperature without askingâstill remembers how you like it, apparentlyâand you file that away under annoying but unsurprising.
You stand under the spray together, water slicing over tired muscles, the heat easing something deep in your bones. Itâs quiet, the comfortable kind. He reaches for soap, works it into his hands, then presses them gently to your back.
âTurn a bit,â he murmurs.
You do, letting him wash your back, slow and careful. His thumbs trace along your spine, unhurried, reverent. He kisses your shoulders, then the back of your neck, soft and lingering in a way that is absolutely too intimate to be brushed off as casual.
Your brain clears its throat.
This is how people accidentally stay.
You donât say anything. You just close your eyes and let yourself lean back into him, water and warmth and familiarity washing over you in equal measure.
Afterward, you end up back in the bedroom, skin clean and heavy with fatigue. He tosses you a shirtâsoft, worn, unmistakably his. You pull it on, the fabric hanging loose on you, smelling faintly of soap and him and something comforting you donât want to analyze too closely.
You settle into the bed together without discussion. He pulls you in, one arm firm around your waist, your head fitting easily against his shoulder like it remembers how. His hand rubs slow, absent circles at your back until your breathing evens out.
You tell yourself youâll leave soon. In the morning. After a bit of rest.
You fall asleep before you can finish the thought.
And for once, you make no move to goâjust yet.
âËâĄââËâĄ
You wake before dawn to the quietâreal quiet, the kind that feels earned rather than imposed. The room is still dark, blue-gray at the edges, the city holding its breath outside the window. The clock on the nightstand glows something offensive like 5:02 a.m.
Too early.
Too late.
Perfectly inconvenient.
You lie there for a moment, cataloguing sensations the way you always do when youâre trying not to think: the unfamiliar mattress, firmer than yours; the faint hum of traffic far below. And Robbyâwarm, solid, breathing slow beside you.
You shift, careful, already bracing for the inevitable disentanglement.
His arm closes around you anyway. Instinctive. Possessive without being forceful. Like his body noticed before his brain did that you were leaving.
âMm,â he murmurs into your hair, voice rough with sleep. âWhere you going.â
You sigh softly. Of course.
âI have to catch a flight,â you say. You keep your voice light, factual. This is not a confession. This is logistics.
His grip tightens a fraction, not enough to trap you, just enough to register as a request. His forehead presses between your shoulder blades.
âWhat time?â
âSoon.â
He exhales, long and quiet, like heâs weighing something and doesnât like the math. Then, softer: âStay a bit.â
You close your eyes.
This is the part youâre good at, usuallyâthe clean break, the efficient exit. Clothes, coffee, polite distance. You tell yourself you donât linger because youâre busy, because youâre practical, because youâre an adult with a life that exists elsewhere.
Not because staying feels dangerous.
You glance at the clock again. You could make it. Barely. Youâd have to move now, decisively, before your resolve erodes.
Instead, you lie there, staring at the dim ceiling, his arm heavy and warm around your waist.
âA bit turns into an hour,â you say.
âThatâs sort of the point.â
You huff a quiet laugh. âIâm supposed to meet Matt.â
Robby makes a vague, dismissive sound. âHeâll live.â
You hesitate. Actually hesitate. Thatâs new.
Your phone is on the nightstand, screen dark, buzzing faintly with the threat of responsibility. You reach for it, feeling Robby tense like heâs bracing for rejection.
You type quickly.
Catching a later flight. Donât wait. Go home.
You stare at the message for a second longer than necessary, then hit send.
There. Damage done.
You set the phone back down and turn, finally, to face him. His eyes are half-open now, watching you carefully, like he doesnât quite trust the moment yet.
âI guess nothing happens,â you say, âif I catch the later one.â
Something flickers across his faceârelief, satisfaction, something dangerously close to tenderness. He doesnât comment on it. Smart man.
âGood,â he says instead. âIâd hate for the universe to collapse on my watch.â
You roll your eyes and settle back against him, fitting more easily than youâd like. His hand spreads over your stomach, warm, grounding. You let yourself be still.
Just for now, you tell yourself.
This is not a pattern.
This is a delay.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Morning comes the way it always doesâunromantic and insistent.
Light creeps in around the blinds. The city wakes up with a cough and a groan. Robby is the first to move this time, slipping out of bed with a quiet efficiency that feels almost professional. You listen to him in the kitchen, cabinets opening, the hiss of the kettle.
When you finally sit up, the sheets are already cooling.
You dress without ceremony. No borrowed shirts. No lingering nudity. Just clothes, shoes, competence sliding back into place like armor. Robby hands you a mug of coffeeâblack, strong, exactly how you take it. You notice. You donât comment.
âSo,â he says, leaning against the counter. âWhere to?â
âHome.â
He raises an eyebrow.
âAtlanta,â you clarify. âFor now.â
He nods slowly, absorbing that. You watch him do it, watch the part of him thatâs always planning, always anticipating.
At the door, your bag slung over your shoulder, you reach for the handle.
âHey.â
You turn.
He steps closer, stopping just short of crowding you. His voice is steady, but his eyes arenât.
âWhat if I wanted to see you again?â
There it is.
No jokes.
No deflection.
You open your mouth to answer automaticallyâand stop.
You hesitate. Actually hesitate.
You hate that part of yourself, the one that considers. The one that doesnât immediately run.
Finally, you reach into your pocket and pull out your phone. You scroll, type, then hold it out to him.
âMy private number,â you say. âIf youâre going to ask me outââ you meet his eyes, sharp, unapologetic ââmake it worth my time.â
A slow smile curves his mouth. Not smug. Determined.
âDeal.â
You step in and kiss himâbrief, deliberate, just enough to remind both of you that this was real, and just restrained enough to keep it from becoming a promise.
Then you pull back, open the door, and leave.
You donât look back.
You never do.
âËâĄââËâĄ
You board another flight like youâve boarded a hundred othersâby muscle memory, by habit, by the quiet resignation of someone who knows how to leave without ceremony.
Jet bridge. Stale carpet. That recycled-air smell that never quite masks old coffee and nervous sweat. You slide into your seat, window this time, because you always pick the window when youâre tired enough to want distance from people but not so tired that you can sleep. You shove your bag under the seat with a practiced kick, buckle in, lean your head back.
Home.
Until it isnât.
Until something else breaks loudly enough to require you.
Outside, the tarmac shimmers faintly. A baggage cart crawls past like a beetle. Somewhere ahead of you, an engine whines into life, rising in pitch until it vibrates in your bones. You close your eyes for a second, letting the sound flatten your thoughts.
You should feel relief.
You mostly feel⊠neutral.
Which is its own kind of peace.
Your phone buzzes in your hand just as the plane starts to inch forward.
You glance down without thinking.
Robby.
For a split second your chest does something annoyingâtightens, then loosens, like itâs trying to remind you that youâre not a machine after all. Rude of it, honestly.
You open the message.
Text me when you land. Just want to know youâre safe.
You snort softly, the corner of your mouth betraying you before you can stop it.
Safe.
As if thatâs ever been the metric.
You picture him sending itâprobably standing in his kitchen, coffee gone cold, still barefoot, pretending this is casual. You imagine the pause before he hit send. The way he probably debated sounding detached and failed.
You type back.
Bossy already.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
You know me.
You shake your head, smile lingering despite your best efforts. You slide the phone face down onto your thigh like it might expose you if you keep looking at it too long.
The plane turns, aligning with the runway. The engines deepen, a low, powerful growl that presses you back into the seat. This part always does itâthe moment where forward motion becomes commitment.
You watch the ground blur past the window.
You think about Atlanta. Your place. The quiet routines waiting for you there: your coffee mug, the one with the chipped rim; the stack of mail you havenât opened; the voicemail from your mother youâve been avoiding. You think about unpacking and not unpacking at the same time. About how long âfor nowâ usually lasts in your life.
You think about Ethiopia. About bloodwork and fever curves and the particular look people get when they realize the math is against them. You think about how quickly youâll go again when something flares up somewhere inconvenient and far away.
Another outbreak.
Another disaster calling your name.
It always does.
The wheels lift. The city drops away. The horizon tilts, then steadies.
You exhale, slow and deliberate.
You shouldnât let this feel like anything. You know that. Youâve built a whole personality around knowing that.
And yet.
You imagine landing. Walking off the plane. Sending a brief, understated Landed. Maybe adding Thanks. Maybe not.
You imagine him reading it.
You tilt your head against the window, watching clouds gather beneath you like something solid enough to rest on.
Maybe, you thinkânot without irony, not without cautionâsome things are worth coming back to.
Four patients arrive at the Pitt with fever, bleeding, and no obvious exposure history. Robby knows something is wrong long before the labs confirm it.
The CDC sends you.
Youâre brilliant, relentless, and allergic to staying anywhere long enough to build a life. Robby remembers you as all of those thingsâand the one person who ever left him before he could leave first.
Word count: 23K (in two parts)
Rating: Explicit
Tags/content warnings: brief alcohol consumption mentioned, female reader, one random oc for the sake of exposition (really minor character), exes to lovers, slow burn, (kinda) medically accurate, workplace tension, professional rivalry, Robby being petty (and pretty), forced proximity, avoidant attachment, touch-starved, power struggle, eventual smut, hopeful ending, consensual sex, aftercare, soft intimacy, alternating POV, no use of Y/N
AN: This is probably the closest thing to a detective story I'll ever write. And it took me months of research and chipping away on it. It's really hard to keep the personality and atmosphere consistent that way, unfortunately. And I really love the protagonist and the story and hope you love it too đ
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The lights are too bright in here. They always are. Fluorescent panels buzz faintly overhead, an insect whine that drills straight into the back of your skull after a while. Steam fogs the air as the suit comes apart in practiced stagesâouter gloves off first, peeled away with careful violence. Sweat slicks your forearms. Your undershirt clings unpleasantly to your spine. Everything smells faintly of disinfectant and hot plastic.
You move on muscle memory alone. Tug. Twist. Seal disengaged. You donât have to think about it anymore, and thatâs the point. Thinking is where people make mistakes. Thinking is how you end up contaminating yourself, or worseâsomeone else. So you donât think. You do.
The PPE is absurd when you really look at it: layers on layers, bulk designed by people who have never tried to move quickly in it, never had sweat drip into their eyes while their heart rate climbs and the clock ticks louder in their head than any alarm. BSL-4 couture. You imagine it on a runway sometimes, glossy visors gleaming, models strutting under the banner of Apocalypse, but Make It OSHA Compliant. It amuses you just enough to keep you sane.
Youâre halfway out of the suitâhood off, respirator disconnected, finally breathing air that doesnât feel filtered through anxietyâwhen Mattâs voice cuts in.
âSo,â he says, leaning against the far wall like he hasnât just watched you handle something that could liquefy organs and end careers. Light. Casual. A beer-after-work tone. âHow was Ethiopia?â
You donât look at him at first. Youâre busy wrestling the suit down your hips, trying not to kick over the biohazard bin with one exhausted foot. Your hands shake a little now that theyâre free, adrenaline leaking out of you in slow, petulant drips. Typical. Your body always waits until itâs safe to complain.
You snort softly. âWarm,â you say. Your voice sounds rough, scraped raw by masks and too many nights of too little sleep. âBeautiful. A malaria playground. Basically a vacation if you ignore the dying.â
Matt huffs a laugh, the sound echoing too loudly off tile and steel. âJesus. Youâre really selling it.â
You finally glance over at him. Heâs still in scrubs, arms folded, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
âYou should go,â you add mildly. âYouâd love it. Sunsets. Kids with bright smiles. Parasitemia that laughs in the face of prophylaxis.â
âHard pass,â he says. âI prefer my existential dread domesticated. Contained to spreadsheets and grant deadlines.â
You peel the suit the rest of the way off and hang it where it belongs, fingers careful, reverent in that way that comes from knowing exactly how bad it could be if you mess this up. Thereâs a line of sweat tracing your spine, cooling now, making you shiver despite the heat. You roll your shoulders once, trying to unkink them.
Ethiopia flashes behind your eyes without your permissionâred dust, the smell of iron and smoke, the way the wards hummed at night with breath and coughing and the low murmur of prayers. You shove it back down where it belongs. Later, maybe. Or never. Youâve never been sentimental enough to go digging for feelings when theyâre quiet.
âSeriously though,â Matt says, softer now. He watches you with that careful look people get when theyâre deciding how much truth they can handle. âYou okay?â
There it is. The obligatory check-in. The concern sandwich. You feel it slide right off you.
You shrug, reaching for the disinfectant wipes. Your hands move automatically, scrubbing down surfaces that are already clean. "Yeah,â you say. âThriving. Nothing like a dose of existential despair in the morning.â
Itâs easier like this. Work as humor. Humor as armor. If you make it a joke, it doesnât get to hurt you. If you keep everything sharp and dry and just a little cruel, nothing sticks. Youâve built a career on competence and deflection, and itâs served you well so far.
Matt studies you for another second, then sighs. âYouâre impossible.â
You flash him a thin smile. âI prefer methodical.â
He shakes his head, pushing off the wall. âWelcome home, then. Try not to volunteer for another outbreak for at least, I donât know, a week.â
âNo promises,â you say, already turning back to the sink, already scrubbing Ethiopia off your skin in scalding water and antiseptic, like itâs something that can be washed away if youâre thorough enough.
The lights buzz on. The steam rises. And you keep moving, because stopping has never really been your thing.
You dry your hands on a paper towel that disintegrates halfway through the job, leaving pulp stuck between your fingers. Of course it does. Even the infrastructure here knows better than to offer real comfort. You toss the remains into the bin and follow Matt toward the exit of the lab proper, past the layers of doors and badge readers and warning placards that scream DO NOT FUCK THIS UP in increasingly creative fonts.
âSo,â he says again, because apparently today is a day for conversation. âTheyâve got you back on Marburg.â
You grimace theatrically. âAh yes. Our old friend, filovirus. Nasty, hemorrhagic, possibly fatal.â You pause, considering. âActually, definitely fatal if it decides it doesnât like you.â
Matt hums. âHigh viral load. Brutal case fatality rate. No widely available approved treatment.â
âMm,â you agree, pushing through another door. The air outside the lab corridor feels cooler, thinner, less like itâs actively trying to kill you. âBut great personality. Very honest virus. None of this subtle incubation bullshit. It shows up and immediately starts flipping tables.â
âThatâs one way to put it.â
âFor us?â you add. âJust an average Tuesday.â
You say it lightly, because thatâs how these things are said here. Like weather. Like traffic. Like death isnât a constant professional hazard but an inconvenience you plan around with grant cycles and sample storage protocols. You donât feel reckless about itâjust realistic. Someone has to do this work, and frankly, youâre very good at it.
You and Matt step outside through the final security checkpoint, the doors hissing shut behind you with a sound that always feels faintly accusatory. The concrete under your boots is still damp, reflecting the brutal geometry of the buildings around youâglass, steel, no nonsense. You set a brisk pace automatically. Standing still invites thinking. Thinking invites memories. Youâve learned the pattern.
âSo whatâs the angle this time?â Matt asks, lengthening his stride to keep up. âDiagnostics? Viral persistence?â
âReservoir dynamics,â you say. âAgain. Because apparently we enjoy asking questions that take decades to answer.â You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders tight against the cold. âThereâs a hypothesis about asymptomatic carriers we havenât ruled out. Yet.â
âYet,â he repeats. âAlways yet.â
You smirk. âScience is just a series of yets.â
âAnd paperwork,â he adds.
You groan. âDonât remind me. I still have field notes to transcribe from Ethiopia, and my handwriting deteriorates significantly in the presence of existential despair.â
âYou could type.â
âI could,â you concede. âBut then future archaeologists wouldnât get the full experience of my suffering.â
Matt laughs, sharp and short, breath puffing white in the air. You glance at him sidelong, cataloging the familiar lines of fatigue around his eyes. He looks tired. You probably do too. You wonder, briefly, what you look like from the outsideâreturned from a hot zone, already mentally knee-deep in the next disaster. Thereâs a flicker of something there. Pride, maybe. Or just stubbornness.
They keep asking you to do this work for a reason. You deliver.
The office buildings loom ahead, all long corridors and glass fronts that promise productivity and deliver fluorescent migraines. You angle toward them without slowing, mind already ticking through the paperwork waiting for youâsample logs, consent forms, incident reports written in language so careful it's almost all lies.
âYou ever think about switching to something safer?â Matt asks, casual again, but not fooling anyone.
You snort. âAnd do what? Allergies? Hypertension? No one needs my skill set to tell them to reduce sodium.â
He shrugs. âWorth a shot.â
You reach the door and yank it open, holding it long enough for him to slip through. âRelax,â you say. âIf Marburg takes me out, itâll at least be interesting.â
âThatâs not comforting.â
âItâs realistic,â you counter, already moving inside, already bracing for the hum of printers and the smell of stale coffee.
Paperwork waits. Viruses wait. The world, inconveniently, keeps needing you.
And you keep showing up.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Your office smells like coffee, paper and disinfectantâan oddly comforting blend, like home if home had filing cabinets and an ergonomic chair that squeaks in judgment every time you shift your weight. The overhead light hums softly, not quite as aggressive as the lab fluorescents but still determined to remind you that rest is theoretical. Outside the large window, the sky has settled into a color best described as administrative gray.
You sit hunched over your desk, sleeves rolled up, transcribing field notes. Your notebook lies open beside the keyboard, pages warped from humidity and sweat, margins crammed with arrows, shorthand, and increasingly sarcastic commentary.
Across from you, Matt is slouched in the opposite chair, one leg hooked over the other, laptop balanced precariously on his knee. Heâs squinting at the screen.
âI swear,â he mutters, âthis form is longer than my will to live.â
You donât look up. âBe honest. Your will to live was always fragile.â
He snorts. âSays the woman who added âsee previous disasterâ as an official note.â
âItâs called efficiency,â you say, fingers flying over the keys. âAlso honesty. Regulatory bodies love honesty.â
âThey love clarity,â he corrects.
You glance at him over the top of your screen. âClarity is subjective.â
You return to typing, translating chaos into something that passes for order. Dates. Temperatures. Viral loads. Observations written in a tone so clinical it almost hides the fact that you watched people die. Almost.
Every few lines, you toss another comment across the room.
âIf anyone asks, we were cautiously optimistic.â
Matt grimaces. âYouâre allergic to optimism.â
âOnly when itâs premature,â you reply. âWhich it usually is.â
Your phone rings.
The sound slices cleanly through the roomâtoo loud, too insistent. You freeze for half a second, fingers hovering above the keyboard. Thereâs a flicker of something in your chest. Not dread. Not fear.
Anticipation.
You glance at the screen.
You feel your mouth curve before you can stop it.
âWell,â you say, answering the call and putting the phone to your ear without ceremony. âThis bodes well.â
Matt straightens immediately. âThatâs not a good smile,â he says under his breath.
You lift a finger at himâone momentâand listen.
Possible exposure.
Possible outbreak.
Fever. Hemorrhagic signs.
You nod along, eyes distant now, brain already shifting gears. Differential diagnoses spool out effortlessly, a familiar, almost pleasant hum in your head. Your world narrows the way it always does when things get seriousâclean, sharp, focused.
âYes,â you say into the phone. âMm-hm. I see. Timeline?â
A pause.
âThat tracks.â
You hang up and set the phone down gently, like it might bite.
âWell,â you say, leaning back in your chair at last. âVacationâs over.â
Matt exhales slowly. âJesus. Where?â
You tilt your head, savoring it just a little. âPittsburgh.â
He blinks. âPittsburgh.â
âPennsylvaniaâs finest,â you confirm. âApparently someone decided hemorrhagic fever is now a regional attraction.â
He rubs a hand over his face. âI was supposed to visit my sister next week.â
You grin, sharp and unapologetic. âStart packing. And pray they splurge for business class this time. If Iâm going to die in the air, Iâd like legroom.â
âYou are fucked up,â he says, but thereâs something like excitement under the exhaustion now.
You turn back to your screen, already pulling up travel protocols, already rewriting the narrative in your head. Another city. Another mess. Another chance to do what you do best.
Arrogant? Maybe. But earned.
Outside, the office hums on, blissfully unaware. Inside, you feel itâthat familiar, electric sense of purpose settling into place.
Pittsburgh, then.
Lucky city.
âËâĄââËâĄ
The airport smells like sweat and floor cleaner, a uniquely punishing combination designed to remind you that joy is conditional and comfort is a privilege you forfeited when you agreed to this job. You sit slouched in one of the molded plastic chairs at the gate, sunglasses still on despite the fact that you are very much indoors and it is aggressively early.
Your head throbs in a dull, resentful rhythm. Not a migraine. Just a hangover.
The coffee in your hand is lukewarm and tastes faintly of wet cardboard. You sip it anyway, because caffeine is a coping mechanism and you have long since stopped pretending otherwise.
Across from you, Matt stares at the departure board like it's some kind of punishment.
âIâm so done with traveling,â he says, rubbing at his temples. âI need a break. Like. A real one. No outbreaks. No emergency calls. Justânothing.â
You snort, the sound sharp and unkind. âYou should pray some poor fuckers contract a hemorrhagic fever in California,â you say, deadpan. âThen we could go chill in Miami. Sun. Beach. Vaguely irresponsible public health response.â
He turns to look at you slowly. âSomeone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.â
You tilt your head, considering, then amend smoothly, âSomeone is hungover, drinking shitty airport coffee, and running on three hours of sleep between a very disappointing hookup and going home to pack.â
Matt loses it. He laughs into his cup, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. âWow,â he says. âThatâs bleak.â
âAccurate,â you correct.
âThat is a picture of a midlife crisis.â
You take another sip of the coffee and immediately regret it. Itâs acidic. Aggressive. âPlease,â you say. âI donât have the luxury of a midlife crisis. Iâm too busy.â
He eyes you over the rim of his cup. âHow much have you actually been home this week?â
You donât even hesitate. âForty.â
âHours?â
You lower your sunglasses just enough to look at him over the top. âMinutes.â
He stares. âYouâre joking.â
âI even knew better than to unpack,â you add. âJust rotated dirty clothes straight into a new bag. Very efficient. Deeply depressing.â
Matt shakes his head slowly. âYouâre feral.â
You smile faintly, because that feels about right. Around you, the airport hums with restless energyâwheels rattling over tile, boarding announcements droning on, people already tired of journeys that havenât even started. You sit there among them, sunglasses on, spine aching, caffeine barely touching the exhaustion.
Pittsburgh waits. Another city. Another problem. Another chance to be useful.
You drain the coffee, grimace, and stand. âCome on,â you say. âLetâs go save the world again. Or at least pretend we're professional.â
Matt groans but follows, and you move toward the gate togetherâhungover, under-rested, and exactly where you always end up anyway.
âËâĄââËâĄ
You walk into Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center with Matt at your side, the automatic doors parting like theyâre doing you a personal favor. The smell hits firstâbleach, old coffee, something faintly metallic beneath it all. You donât slow down. You never slow down.
Matt is half a step behind you, which is where he always ends up when youâre already reading. The report is still warm from the printer, metaphorically speaking. Fever. Hemorrhagic signs. Onset unclear. Clustering. The kind of words that make administrators sweat and epidemiologists feel perversely alive.
âFeels weirdly like sightseeing,â you murmur without looking up. âLikeâyes, here we have some unfortunate bastards who made bad travel plans.â
Matt snorts. âTwo stars on Yelp. Wouldnât recommend the amenities.â
You hum in acknowledgment, flipping the page. The font is too small, the margins too wideâhospital formatting sins that irritate you more than they should. You tuck the report under your arm as you cross the threshold into the department proper, noise crashing into you all at once. Monitors beeping out of sync. Someone arguing softly with a nurse. A gurney rattling past like itâs late for something important.
This is the part you always like. The moment before names attach to faces. Before the mess becomes personal.
âCDC,â someone mutters as you pass, not quite under their breath. You pretend not to hear it. Let them decide later whether theyâre reassured or offended.
The Chief Medical Officer meets you just inside the glass-walled administrative corridor. Gloria Underwood is exactly what her title suggests: polished, contained, and radiating the brittle calm of someone who has already made three contingency plans and hated all of them.
âThank you for coming on such short notice,â she says, shaking your hand with a grip that means business. âThis is Dr. Underwood.â
You smile automatically, the one you save for administrators. Friendly, noncommittal. You introduce yourself. Titles first. Always. âCDC.â
She gestures you forward as you walk. âThe patients are currently in the ED. Weâve isolated them as much as possible, butâwell.â Her mouth tightens. âYou know how emergency departments are.â
You do. You really do.
âIâll introduce you to the chief attending on duty,â Gloria continues. âHeâs been overseeing their care since admission.â
Youâre nodding, already half a step ahead of her explanation, when something shifts. Not sound. Not movement. Something internal, sharp and immediate, like a muscle memory you didnât know you still had.
You raise your head.
And there he is.
Robby.
Heâs standing near the nursesâ station, one hand braced on the counter, the other holding a tablet. He looks older than the version your brain coughs up firstâtired around the eyes, shoulders a fraction tighterâbut unmistakably himself. Dark hair, slightly unruly, jaw set in that familiar way that once meant concentration and now, apparently, means war.
The recognition is instant. Mutual. You see it land in his eyes the same moment it lands in your chest.
No greeting.
No smile.
Just the simultaneous tightening of jaws, like two people bracing for impact in slow motion.
She introduces you like youâre strangers. Like there isnât a history humming in the air between you, sharp enough to cut skin if anyone brushed against it. You turn toward him fully, professional smile locking into place like armor.
You give him a nod.
He gives you one back.
Sharp. Precise. The kind that feels less like courtesy and more like a challenge.
His eyes flick to Matt, then back to you. Clinical. Assessing. Cold.
Good, you think. Be cold. Letâs get this over with.
âCDC,â he says, voice flat. Not your name. Not even Doctor. Just the institution, like thatâs all you are now.
You resist the urge to arch a brow. Barely.
âDr. Robinavitch,â you reply evenly. If heâs drawing lines, you can color inside them just fine.
Gloria claps her hands once, like sheâs sealing a deal. âIâll let you get acquainted. Weâve prepared a briefing room if youâd prefer to talk away from the floor.â
âWeâre fine here,â Robby says immediately.
Of course he does.
You glance at him, measuring. âWeâll need to see the patients,â you say. âAnd the initial labs. Isolation protocols. Timeline of symptom onset.â
âWeâre already ahead of you,â he replies, a little too quickly. Territorial. You can practically smell it on him. âBlood cultures, coagulation panels, imaging. ID has been consulted.â
Matt shifts slightly at your side. You donât look at him, but you feel itâhis antennae twitching. He senses blood in the water.
âGreat,â you say lightly. âThen this should be painless.â
Robbyâs mouth tightens. Just a fraction. He gestures toward the ED bays. âTheyâre this way.â
As you walk, he starts talking. Not to you, exactlyâat you. Rapid-fire updates, delivered in that clipped, precise cadence you remember far too well. Four patients, unrelated on paper. No known travel history. Sudden onset fever, malaise, followed by bleeding gums, petechiae. One syncopal episode.
ââand before you ask,â he adds, glancing sideways, âno known exposure to anticoagulants.â
You blink slowly. Oh, weâre doing this.
âI wasnât going to ask,â you say pleasantly. âBut thank you for preempting.â
He stops short and turns fully toward you now, eyes sharp. âThen you already know itâs unlikely to be environmental.â
âOr,â you counter, âyouâre assuming too much too early.â
There it is. The old rhythm. The familiar friction. It settles into your bones like it never left.
He exhales through his nose. âWeâve ruled out the obvious.â
âYouâve ruled out what you had time to rule out,â you correct. âThose arenât always the same thing.â
Thereâs a beat. You see itâthe flash of irritation, the urge to snap back. He reins it in with visible effort.
âNoted,â he says coolly. âTheir INR was elevated on arrival.â
âI saw,â you reply. âWhich doesnât explain the thrombocytopenia.â
His jaw ticks.
Matt clears his throat gently, like someone stepping between two large animals. âIf we could review the labs togetherââ
âWe will,â Robby says, eyes still on you. âIn order.â
You smile again, all teeth this time. âIâm sure.â
You move on before he can say anything else, publicly letting it slide. Privately, you catalogue everything. The unnecessary correction. The edge in his tone. The way he stands just a little too close to the patientsâ bays, like heâs guarding them from you.
Petty. Territorial. Almost hostile.
And God help you, painfully familiar.
As you stop at the glass partition outside the first isolation room, you catch his reflection faintly superimposed over yours. Two figures facing the same problem from opposite sides of something unnamed and unresolved.
Vacationâs over, you think again, dry and sharp.
And apparently, so is the ceasefire.
âËâĄââËâĄ
The isolation room hums softly around you, a sealed-off little universe of negative pressure and fluorescent light. The air smells different in hereâcleaner, sharper, with that faint chemical edge that always makes the back of your throat prickle. Plastic curtains ripple slightly with the airflow, like theyâre breathing.
You stand at the foot of the bed, arms folded, eyes tracking the patientâs monitor with a practiced stillness. Heart rate elevated. Blood pressure holdingâfor now. Petechiae like spilled rust across pale skin. You catalog it all automatically, neatly slotting observations into the mental framework that keeps you functional and, if youâre being honest, a little smug.
Behind the face shield, your expression doesnât change. Inside, your brain is already three steps ahead and one step sideways, chewing on possibilities.
Matt stands to your left, gloved hands on his hips, posture loose in that way of his that pretends this doesnât get under his skin. Youâve worked together long enough to know better.
Thereâs a beat. The monitor beeps. Somewhere outside the room, someone laughsâa sound so out of place it almost feels obscene.
Matt leans in just enough that his voice doesnât carry beyond the plastic walls.
âYou think heâs always this pleasant?â
You donât even look at him. A snort escapes you before you can stop it, sharp and inelegant, fogging the inside of your face shield for a split second.
âHe always hated sharing the sandbox,â you murmur.
The words taste familiar. Old. Like theyâve been waiting around for the right moment.
Matt turns his head slowly, eyebrows lifting. You can practically hear the gears grinding in his brain as he replays the last⊠oh, fifteen minutes. The tension. The unnecessary corrections. The way Robbyâs presence in the room shifted the air pressure by sheer force of will.
ââŠYou know him?â Matt asks.
There it is. The question. Youâd wondered how long it would take.
You finally glance at him, eyes bright with something that is absolutely not nostalgia. You feel your mouth curve beneath the mask, a wicked little smile that has nothing to do with warmth and everything to do with weaponry.
âMed school ex,â you say lightly.
Matt blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then he lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh, shoulders shaking just a little. âOf course he is,â he says. âJesus, thatâs just your fucking luck.â
You hum, noncommittal, turning your attention back to the patient. Inside, something twistsâsharp, brief, immediately filed away.
Luck implies chance. This feels more like inevitability with a sense of humor problem.
âExplains the vibe,â Matt continues, clearly enjoying this far too much. âI thought he was just being territorial. Didnât realize he wasâwhatâmarking emotional territory from a decade ago?â
You snort again. âPlease. If heâs still marking anything from med school, he needs a tetanus shot.â
Matt grins. âSo,â he says, lowering his voice further, âbad breakup?â
You tilt your head, considering. The patient coughs weakly. The monitor answers with a sharp chirp. You file both away, steady as ever.
âDepends,â you say dryly. âNo screaming. No thrown objects. Just two people who were very right and very wrong at the same time.â
Matt makes a soft sound. âOuch.â
You shrug. âWe were competitive. Brilliant. Insufferable. You know. The usual recipe for disaster.â
âAnd now,â he adds, glancing through the glass toward the nursesâ station where Robbyâs silhouette moves past, tense and unmistakable even at a distance, âyou get to work a possible hemorrhagic outbreak together.â
You smile to yourself. âRomantic, isnât it?â
Matt laughs quietly again, shaking his head. âI swear, if this turns out to be something exotic, Iâm blaming fate. Or you. Probably you.â
âPlease,â you reply. âIf fate wanted to be subtle, it wouldnât have put him in charge of the ED.â
The smile lingers a second too long. You feel it, catch it, dismantle it piece by piece. This is not the time. Not the place. Not the story that matters right now.
Thereâs a patient bleeding in front of you. There are answers to find. Viruses donât care about unresolved history or old wounds reopened under fluorescent light.
Stillâ
As you straighten, refocusing, you canât quite shake the thought that some exposures are harder to isolate than others.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Robby hates that youâre competent.
Thatâs the first, sharp truth of it, the one he doesnât bother dressing up. Competence he can respect in theoryâadores it, even, in the abstract. Competence is predictable. Competence makes sense. Competence doesnât surprise you by walking into your emergency department wearing CDC credentials and a face you used to know with your eyes closed.
What he hates moreâwhat really needles under his skinâis how calm you are.
You move through his department like you belong there. Not like a guest. Not like an outside authority doing him the courtesy of pretending this is his house. You donât hover at thresholds or wait for permission that was never going to be denied anyway. You step where you need to step. You look at what needs looking at. You ask questions as statements, your tone level, assured, maddeningly unruffled.
No deference.
No apology.
He watches it from a careful distance, jaw tight, arms folded, pretending heâs just another attending monitoring workflow instead of a man trying very hard not to react.
Itâs familiar. Too familiar.
He remembers that confidence in a younger bodyâleaner, quicker, back when sleep deprivation felt like a challenge instead of a debt. Back when the two of you still believed medicine was mostly a puzzle to be solved instead of a slow, grinding erosion of whatever softness you started with.
Now you look⊠different.
Not worse. That would be easier.
Older, yesâbut in a way that looks intentional. Sharper around the edges. Your skin is darker than he remembers, sun-warmed, like youâve been somewhere with salt in the air and light that doesnât come from overhead lamps. Your hair is lighter too, sun-bleached at the ends, pulled back carelessly like you didnât spare a second thought for how it might look under hospital fluorescents.
You look like someone who leaves.
Like someone who gets out.
The thought irritates him more than it should.
You stop at a workstation, flipping through labs with practiced speed, fingers tapping once against the counter when something doesnât line up. He knows that gesture. Remembers it from anatomy lab, from late nights arguing physiology over terrible coffee.
You donât look at him when you speak.
âEbolaâs out,â you say, calm as if youâre discussing a mild electrolyte imbalance instead of a word that makes administrators flinch. âExposure patternâs wrong.â
Robby exhales through his nose. âAgreed,â he says, because heâs not going to argue just to argue. âNo known contact. No recent travel.â
You finally glance at him then, eyes sharp, assessing. âTravel isnât binary,â you reply. âPeople bring things with them.â
Of course youâd say that.
He shifts his weight, irritation pricking. âWeâve traced contacts. No flights. No international visitors.â
âAnd yet,â you say mildly, scrolling, âviruses remain unimpressed by our paperwork.â
There it is. The rhythm. The push and pull. He hates how easily it comes back.
You argue medicine like itâs foreplay.
The realization lands fully formed and deeply unwelcome.
âMarburg?â he offers, more to test you than because he believes it.
You shake your head almost absently. âWrong hemorrhagic profile. Timingâs off.â
âDengue?â he presses. âSymptoms line up.â
You hum, stepping closer to the monitor. Too close. He notices before he can stop himself.
âTempting,â you admit. âBut wrong context. And I donât like the coagulation cascade here.â
You lean in, studying the labs, close enough that he can smell something clean and faintly unfamiliarâsoap, maybe, or sunscreen that has no business being here. Your shoulder nearly brushes his arm.
He does not move away.
He absolutely should.
He doesnât.
Instead, he focuses on the screen, jaw tightening. âSo what,â he says, voice clipped, âyou think weâre missing an intermediary exposure?â
âI think,â you say, thoughtful, âthat something or someone's lying.â
He snorts. âThatâs comforting.â
You smileânot at him, but at the problem. He hates that smile most of all. The one that means youâre enjoying this. The puzzle. The edge of uncertainty.
âYou always liked the weird ones,â he mutters before he can stop himself.
Your eyes flick to his face, just briefly. Thereâs something thereârecognition, maybe. Or restraint.
âAnd you always liked being right,â you say softly.
Silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken things. He becomes acutely aware of how close youâre standing, of the fact that you havenât moved away. That when you think, you drift inward, narrowing your physical space without noticing.
He notices.
Pretends not to.
This is his department. His patients. His disaster to manage. And yet somehow youâve slid into it like you never left, like you belong here more than he does.
It pisses him off.
It unsettles him.
And worseâfar worseâit feels familiar in a way that makes his chest tighten, sharp and unwelcome, like a scar pulled open by habit alone.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Matt is your constant.
Not in a dramatic, soul-mate way, a way that requires speeches or loyalty tests or emotionally loaded silences. Heâs just⊠there. Has been for years. Field hospitals that smelled like diesel and antiseptic. Outbreak zones where the sun baked everything into dust and bone-deep exhaustion. Conference halls at three in the morning with bad carpet patterns and worse coffee, both of you wired on adrenaline and spite.
You and Matt run on shorthand.
You donât ask before taking his coffee. He doesnât flinch when you steal it. You trade glances that mean this is bullshit or this is bad or this is going to get worse before it gets better. Thereâs history there, sureâbut itâs the safe kind. No sharp edges. No almosts. No alternate timelines lurking like landmines.
Just trust. Competence. Survival.
Youâre standing at a workstation again, shoulders tight, scrolling through lab values that refuse to behave. Numbers blur together after a whileâplatelets low, coagulation deranged, liver enzymes flirting with disaster. You compare them against your mental catalogue of hemorrhagic fevers, flipping through invisible pages at speed.
Nothing endemic lines up cleanly.
Nothing imported should be here.
No travel. No visitors. No obvious lie in the patientsâ histories that you can pick apart and feel smug about later.
You hate when the answer doesnât announce itself.
Matt leans against the counter beside you, close enough that your sleeves brush. He watches you with the calm patience of someone who knows exactly how this spiral goes.
âYou still pretending you donât need a break?â he asks quietly.
You donât look up. âBreaks are optional,â you reply. âWork isnât.â
He huffs a laugh. âYouâve been saying that since Sierra Leone.â
âAnd Iâve been right since Sierra Leone.â
You rub at your face with the heel of your hand, then drag both palms down slowly, pressing them into your eyes until you see static. Your shoulders ache. Your jaw feels permanently clenched. Somewhere behind you, monitors beep and people move and time keeps happening, offensively unconcerned with your irritation.
You lower your hands and turn just in time to register a woman in a sharply tailored suit. Charcoal gray. Clean lines. Not a wrinkle in sight. Her hair is immaculate, pulled back in a way that suggests control rather than convenience. Her nails are manicured, pale and glossy, hands folded lightly in front of her.
âExcuse me,â she says, her voice smooth and pleasantly modulated. âIâm Noelle Hastings. Case management.â
Of course you are.
âIf you need any help while youâre here,â she continues, smiling just enough to be polite, âyou can come find me.â
You look at her properly then. Not just the suit, not just the nails. The eyes. Sheâs not only observingâsheâs assessing. Measuring. Thereâs curiosity there, sure, but itâs sharpened by something else. Recognition, maybe. Or interest thatâs a little too specific to be professional courtesy alone. Like sheâs already heard about you. Like youâve been summarized in a meeting somewhere you werenât invited to.
You give her a nod. Polite. Neutral. Weaponized civility.
âIâll keep that in mind,â you say, already turning back to the labs.
Itâs not rude. But itâs not welcoming either. Itâs the verbal equivalent of closing a door without slamming it.
She pauses for half a beatâlong enough to register the dismissalâthen recovers smoothly. âOf course,â she says, and walks away, heels clicking softly against the floor.
Matt watches her go, then looks at you.
He doesnât say anything at first. Just raises his eyebrows in a silent, eloquent what the fuck was that.
You lower your voice. âIf you need to double-check the insurance info of those poor suckers dying out there,â you murmur, eyes still on the screen in front of you, âyou know who to call.â
He snorts, covering it by pretending to cough. âGood to know. You coming here stirred up some drama, apparently.â
You glance sideways at him. âI have that effect.â
Matt raises an eyebrow at you.
You do not dignify that with an answer.
You straighten and turn back to the screen, scrolling faster now, irritation sharpening your movements. âThis makes no sense,â you mutter. âIf it were viral, Iâd expect a clearer pattern by now. Something should be lining up.â
âMaybe itâs not viral,â Matt offers mildly.
âThen what,â you snap, then immediately exhale. âNo. Sorry. I justââ
You cut yourself off and scrub your hands over your face again, this time lingering, fingers pressing into your scalp. When you drop them, your voice comes out flat and honest.
âI hate this job.â
Matt laughsânot unkindly, not surprised. âLiar.â
âBut if I didnât have this job,â you continue, staring at the labs till the numbers blur, âIâd have to take up free solo rock climbing or cave diving to get my weekly exposure to possible death.â
âThat tracks,â he says easily. âThough I was thinking high-altitude wingsuiting.â
You snort despite yourself. âPlease. Iâd obviously pick base jumping.â
âOf course you would,â Matt says. âShorter commitment. Same mortality rate.â
You glance at him then, catching the familiar grin, the lack of judgment, the steady presence that doesnât flinch when things get uglyâor when you do. The tension in your shoulders eases a fraction. Not gone. Just⊠manageable.
You turn back to the screen, mind already re-engaging, frustration morphing into something sharper, more focused. Whatever this is, itâs hiding in plain sight. And you are very good at finding things that donât want to be found.
Behind you, Robby shifts. You feel it without looking.
You donât need to.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Robby hates that youâre here.
He hates the way the ER seems to tilt toward you the moment you walk in, as if gravity has decided to be selective. Hates the quiet recalibrationânurses straightening, residents pausing mid-sentence, the subtle shift from chaos to something closer to intention. He hates that no one questions why youâre allowed to take up space at the center of things.
He watches you from the edge of the nursesâ station at first, arms folded, jaw tight, pretending to read labs while clocking every movement. You donât rush. You never rushed, even back then. You take in the room with a single slow sweep of your eyesâmonitors, IV lines, the subtle choreography of staff moving around each other without colliding. You ask a nurse a question, low and precise. You listen to the answer. You nod once.
Robby feels an old, unwelcome flicker of recognition.
Med school flashes through his mind uninvited: you perched on the edge of a desk with your coffee going cold, arguing pathophysiology. Brilliant. Infuriating. Always half a step out the door. He remembers how you used to leaveâstudy groups first, parties early, relationships eventually. Including him. Especially him.
And now here you are, years later, walking through his ER like you never left anything unfinished.
He tells himself itâs irrelevant.
You stop at the workstation next to him, scrolling through labs. Platelets low. AST creeping up. Ferritin obscene. The kind of numbers that make administrators sweat and epidemiologists salivate.
âThis all points to a viral hemorrhagic fever,â you say. âBut without travel? No exposure history? No known outbreak?â You shake your head slightly. âIt doesnât fit cleanly.â
âNothing ever does,â Robby says. âWhich is why we donât jump to worst-case scenarios without evidence.â
You look at him fully now, and there it isâthe crackle. The old tension, dusted off and humming.
âYou always did trust protocol more than pattern,â you say mildly.
âAnd you always trusted your gut over common sense,â he snaps back. âSome of us prefer not to panic the hospital over a hunch.â
You donât rise to the bait. That somehow makes it worse.
âAnd you,â you reply, voice calm, âalways hid behind protocol when your gut scared you.â
The words land clean and precise, like a scalpel finding exactly the right place. Robby feels them anywayâa tightness in his chest that he immediately labels irritation.
Because thatâs what it is. Obviously.
He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. âThis isnât med school,â he says. âWe donât get points for being dramatic.â
You tilt your head, studying him the way you used to study slides under a microscope. âNo. We get points for being right.â
Thereâs a beat of silence between you, filled with monitor alarms and the distant sound of someone laughing too loudly. The ER breathes around you, indifferent to your history.
âYou think I donât see it?â he says finally. âYou come in here like you already know the answer.â
âI come in here because people are sick,â you reply. âAnd because pretending this is something small wonât make it so.â
Robby watches your hands as you gestureâsteady, controlled. Not a tremor in sight. He remembers those hands on his once, long ago, just as steady then. He shoves the thought away with practiced efficiency.
âThis could blow up,â he says. âYou realize that.â
âI do,â you say quietly. âThatâs why Iâm here.â
He wants to argue. He wants to poke holes, demand proof, retreat into algorithms and checklists where feelings donât complicate things. Instead, all he can think about is the way his chest feels tight and unfamiliar.
Irritation, he tells himself again.
Definitely not fear. Definitely not the unsettling awareness that youâre right more often than youâre wrongâand that some part of him has always known that.
You meet his eyes, just for a second longer than strictly necessary, and something unspoken passes between you. History. Regret. A mutual understanding that neither of you is going to back down.
You turn back to the chart. âWe need to notify infection control,â you say. âAnd start thinking about how this could have happened here.â
Robby straightens. âYou donât run this department.â
âNo,â you agree. âBut Iâm not wrong.â
He hates that you say it without arrogance. Hates that he believes you.
As you move on to the next patient, Robby follows, telling himselfâagainâthat the tightness in his chest is nothing more than professional annoyance.
He is, and always has been, very good at lying to himself.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Robby makes a deliberate decision to pretend you do not exist.
This is a professional choice. A mature one. The kind that deserves a quiet medal and possibly a stiff drink later.
He busies himself with everything else.
He checks on a chest pain in Bay Three that has turned out, insultingly, to be reflux. He argues with radiology about a CT backlog that everyone insists is not a backlog while very clearly being a backlog. He signs off on labs, reroutes an ambulance, fields a passive-aggressive page from administration about âmaintaining calm messaging,â which he deletes without answering.
He does not look in your direction.
This is harder than it should be.
The ER is loud in the way only an ER can beâlayered noise, controlled chaos, the constant percussion of alarms that no one consciously hears anymore. Stretchers slide past. Someone swears softly in Spanish. The smell of antiseptic and old blood clings to everything. Robby moves through it on muscle memory alone, efficient, clipped, familiar.
And still, he is uncomfortably aware of where you are at all times.
He doesnât need to look to know youâre at the far end of the unit, bent over a workstation, talking quietly to a nurse with your head inclined just enough to signal youâre actually listening. He doesnât need to see you to know youâre asking the wrong questionsâthe ones that lead to inconvenient answers.
He rounds the corner too sharply and nearly collides with Dana.
Sheâs leaning against a supply cart, arms folded, eyes bright with the unmistakable look of someone who has just smelled gossip.
âHey,â she says, dragging the word out. âSo.â
Robby already regrets this.
âSo,â he replies flatly, reaching past her for a pair of gloves he does not need.
Dana tilts her head, gaze flicking past himâbriefly, pointedlyâtoward where you stand down the hall. âDo you, uh⊠know the very pretty, slightly insane CDC doc weâve got haunting our ER?â
Robby stills for half a second. Just half. Anyone not looking for it would miss it.
âYes,â he says. âI do.â
Danaâs eyebrows shoot up. âOh?â
âMed school,â he adds, because that is the safest possible word choice. It is factual. It is bloodless. It contains multitudes he has no intention of unpacking.
Dana hums, low and thoughtful, the way she does when sheâs assembling a narrative. âHuh.â
He resumes pulling on the gloves. âThatâs all the information youâre getting.â
She ignores that completely. âPerlah googled her.â
Of course she did.
Robby snorts despite himself. âIâm shocked. Truly. I thought she was too busy saving lives to cyberstalk federal employees.â
Dana grins. âApparently not. Anywayââ she pushes off the cart and steps closer, dropping her voice conspiratorially, ââyour friend is kind of a big deal.â
âSheâs not my friend.â
âMmm,â Dana says, the sound rich with disbelief. âSure.â
Robby peels the gloves back off and tosses them into the trash, abandoned. âWhat did Google have to say?â
Dana ticks it off on her fingers. âAll over the world. West Africa, South America, Southeast Asia. Hemorrhagic fever specialist. Field work, outbreak response, some truly alarming photos involving hazmat suits.â
Robby closes his eyes briefly.
That tracks. Uncomfortably well.
âAnd,â Dana continues, warming to the topic, âseemingly sheâs not afraid of any job. Doesnât matter how remote, how messy, how politically cursedâshe takes it.â
Robby hums, noncommittal. A vague sound of acknowledgment that reveals nothing. He tells himself this is because he is a professional and not because hearing this feels like pressing on an old bruise.
âShe never liked staying in one place,â he says instead.
The words slip out before he can stop them. Casual. Almost fond.
Danaâs eyes sharpen instantly. She smiles slowly. âAh,â she says. âSo thereâs history there.â
Robby opens his mouth to deny it.
Closes it again.
âNo history here,â he says finally.
Dana laughs. âOh, please. You didnât say âwe knew each other.â You said âshe never liked staying in one place.â Thatâs not neutral. Thatâs a sentence with emotional subtext.â
âI am surrounded by people with too much time on their hands,â Robby mutters.
âAnd yet,â Dana says lightly, âhere you are, deeply affected.â
âI am not deeply affected.â
She gestures vaguely down the hall. âYouâve walked past her six times in the last ten minutes without looking at her once.â
âThatâs called restraint.â
âThatâs called unresolved.â
Robby gives her a look. âDon't you have patients to see?â
Dana shrugs. âAlways. But this is more interesting.â
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. âThere is no dramatic backstory. We went to med school together. We argued. Frequently. She left.â
Dana blinks. âLeft⊠like the program?â
âNo,â he says shortly. âLike everything.â
There it is. Out in the open. Ugly and inelegant.
Dana softens, just a fraction. âGot it.â
They stand there for a moment, the ER surging around them. Down the hall, Robby catches a glimpse of you laughing quietly at something your colleague says, your shoulders loosening for just a second before you straighten again, all focus, all purpose.
He looks away immediately.
âWell,â Dana says, breaking the silence, âfor what itâs worth? Sheâs impressive.â
âI know,â Robby says, too quickly.
Dana smiles, satisfied. âYeah,â she says. âYou really do.â
She drifts off toward trauma, leaving Robby alone with the supply cart, the noise, and the persistent, irritating truth that ignoring you is proving far more difficult than acknowledging you ever was.
He squares his shoulders and heads back into the fray.
Unfortunately, youâve always had terrible timing.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Youâre standing at the whiteboard with a marker thatâs nearly dry, the cap balanced precariously in your other hand. The board itself is a mess of half-legible notes, arrows, dates, vitals, and question marksâyour handwriting always degrades slightly when youâre thinking faster than your hand can move.
Matt is beside you, arms crossed, head tilted, staring at the board like it might confess if he glares hard enough.
âOkay,â he says finally. âLetâs say it out loud again. Slowly. Because my brain refuses to cooperate.â
You donât look at him. You underline Nigeria for the third time instead. âAll patients are immigrants from West Africa. Nigeria specifically. Different regions. Different ethnic groups.â
âSettled here how long?â
âYears,â you say. âMinimum five. Long enough to be boring. Jobs, kids, mortgages, PTA meetings. Zero recent travel.â
Matt exhales through his nose. âNo visitors?â
âNope.â
âNo funerals back home?â
âNope.â
âNo shady cargo shipments, exotic pets, bat caves, secret ritualsââ
You flick the marker at him without turning. âDonât be reductive.â
He raises his hands. âIâm just saying, hemorrhagic fever without travel is⊠unhelpful.â
âThatâs one word for it,â you say dryly.
You add another arrow, connecting fever to thrombocytopenia, then hesitate before writing AST elevated. Your brain hums with the low, steady buzz of a puzzle refusing to resolve. You love this part. Hate it too. Mostly love it.
Matt watches you for a moment, then says, âBy the wayâyour ex?â
You pause mid-stroke. The marker squeaks faintly against the board.
âWhat about him.â
âHe looks about five seconds away from having an aneurysm,â Matt says. âIâm not a cardiologist, but I feel confident.â
You grin before you can stop yourself. Itâs sharp and private and entirely inappropriate given the circumstances.
âI know.â
Matt squints at you. âYouâre enjoying this.â
You cap the marker and step back, surveying the board like it might applaud. âImmensely.â
He stares. âOkay, I need context. How messy was the breakup?â
âPretty bad,â you say lightly.
Thatâs it. Thatâs all you give him.
Matt waits. You donât elaborate.
He snorts. âThatâs it? âPretty badâ?â
You shrug, rolling your shoulders. âWe were young. Brilliant. Insufferable. We brought out the worst in each other. Then I left.â
âThat tracks,â he says. âBut stillââ He gestures vaguely toward the chaos of the ER beyond the glass. âYouâre in the middle of a possible outbreak, working with your ex, who is very clearly guarding his department like a territorial cat with a medical license.â
You shake your head, smiling to yourself. âThis is fun.â
Matt looks at you like youâve just admitted to recreational arson. âI donât know why your definition of fun contains this.â
You snort, already turning back to the board. âThis is the most fun Iâve had since Somalia.â
He stiffens instantly. âWe nearly died in Somalia.â
You wave that off, uncapping the marker again. âNot that nearly.â
âExcuse me?â
âI mean, yes, sure, we got held at gunpoint,â you say, adding another note under possible exposures. âBut it was brief. Nobody got shot. Objectively speaking, thatâs a success.â
Matt gapes at you. âYour dopamine receptors are fucked beyond recovery.â
âProbably,â you agree cheerfully.
You keep writing as you talk, the board filling with structure as your thoughts alignâpatterns emerging, possibilities narrowing. Somewhere down the hall, an alarm goes off and is silenced just as quickly. Life goes on. People bleed. You think.
Thereâs a pause behind you. The kind that means Matt is deciding whether to say something or let it die. You donât turn around. You already know heâs going to say it.
âBy the way,â he starts carefully, which is never a good sign, âCase Manager Noelle?â
You add an arrow, underline something twice. âThe one with the murder manicure?â
âThatâs the one,â he says. âApparently she used to date your ex.â
The marker stops mid-word.
You stare at the board for a beat longer than necessary, then finish the line with unnecessary force. âOh,â you say flatly. âThatâs messy.â
Matt hums, noncommittal. Confirmation hum. The yeah-it-is hum.
âThat would explain the interest,â you add. Not angry. Not surprised. Just filing it away in the ever-growing cabinet of things I did not ask for but received anyway. You can already picture it: the sizing-up, the polite smile with teeth behind it, the quiet inventory of who you are now versus who you were then.
You roll your shoulder, trying to ease the knot thatâs been living there rent-free for years. âHuh. Small world. Medically unethical levels of small.â
Matt snorts. âYou say that like you didnât spend half your career hopping continents.â
âGlobal chaos, yes,â you say. âPersonal overlap? Rude.â
You recap the marker and finally turn to look at him. âBy the wayâdid you ever consider a career in intelligence? Because your ability to just casually background-check anyone in a five-mile radius is honestly terrifying.â
He shrugs, too easy. âIâm doing the same thing you are.â
You blink. âWhich is?â
âDistracting myself from the horrors of the job,â he says simply.
You pause, then nod. âWow. Not just intelligenceâpsychiatry as well. Man of many talents.â
Matt watches you for another second, then sighs. âYou know heâs watching you, right.â
You donât turn around. You already know.
âLet him,â you say. âIf he wants to glare himself into hypertension, thatâs his journey.â
Matt laughs under his breath, shaking his head. âYouâre really fucked up.â
You smile faintly, eyes on the board, mind already three steps ahead. Maybe heâs right. Maybe something in you is irreparably wrong.
But standing here, marker in hand, a mystery unfolding and an old ghost bristling just out of sight?
Yeah.
This is fun.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Long hours blur into one another the way fluorescent light flattens time. There is no real night in the hospitalâonly varying degrees of exhaustion. You and Matt work side by side in the glass-walled conference room that has become your unofficial war room, laptops open, paper notes spreading across the table.
CBCs. CMPs. Coags. PCR panels that keep coming back interesting in the most irritatingly nonspecific way.
You rub at the bridge of your nose and take another swallow of coffee that has been reheated so many times it has lost any claim to being coffee at all. Itâs just hot bitterness now. Familiar. Comforting, in a Stockholm-syndrome sort of way.
âOkay,â Matt says, tapping his pen against a printed lab report. âSo. Not dengue. Not yellow fever. Not Hantavirus. Not anything the U.S. is supposed to offer up domestically.â
ââSupposed toâ is doing a lot of work there,â you murmur, scrolling through another results page. Your eyes sting. You ignore it. âWe can rule out arenaviruses endemic to North America. No rodent exposure that fits. No travel history that fits anything neat and textbook.â
Matt exhales slowly. âWhich means either weâre missing something obviousâŠâ
ââŠor something imported,â you finish. âSomething that shouldnât be here.â
You glance up at him. His jaw tightens just a little. Good. You like when people catch up to you instead of slowing you down.
The differential narrows. Not cleanlyânever cleanlyâbut inexorably, like a noose tightening one careful millimeter at a time. You widen the net anyway, because you always do. Because pathogens donât care about borders and neither do you.
Your mind runs through hemorrhagic fevers the way some people run rosaries.
Ebola. Marburg. Lassa.
Unlikely, impossible, catastrophic.
You smile faintly to yourself. Impossible has never meant much to you.
A nurse knocks lightly on the glass, then pushes the door open with her shoulder. âCDC wants another consult in five,â she says. âAnd⊠uh. Dr. Robinavitch asking for you.â
Of course he is.
You gather your notes with brisk efficiency, already reorganizing the problem in your head as you walk. Matt trails after you, still muttering to himself.
The ER hum hits you like a wallâmonitors chirping, gurneys rolling, voices overlapping in that particular cadence of controlled urgency. And thereâs Robby, exactly where you expect him to be: leaning against the central desk, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly flattened on one side like heâs run a hand through it too many times.
He looks tired. Not the performative kind. The real kind that lives behind the eyes.
âYou look like hell,â he says pleasantly as you approach.
You donât break stride. âYou say that like itâs new information.â
His mouth twitches despite himself. You catch it. File it away.
Between consults, conversation sneaks in quietly. It always does. The stolen momentsâcharting pauses, hallway collisions, the brief lull before the next alarmâthose are the dangerous ones.
âYou ever been to New Orleans?â he asks, as you both wash your hands at adjacent sinks. The antiseptic smell is sharp enough to cut through the fatigue.
âGod, no,â you say. âI don't like the humidity.â
He snorts. âFigures.â
He dries his hands, then leans back against the counter, watching you with that infuriatingly attentive focus. âI did my residency there. It was chaos. Katrina aftermath. Violence, poverty, addiction. Patients who were already ghosts by the time they rolled in.â
You glance at him, look closely this time. Thereâs something older in his voice now. Something buried.
âSounds like a good way to age a decade in three years,â you say.
âThatâs about right.â He shrugs. âYou see enough of it, you start to recognize the patterns. Whoâs going to crash. Whoâs already gone.â
You rub in the sanitizer and meet his gaze. âYou donât strike me as someone who ran from that.â
âNo,â he says quietly. âI stayed.â
Of course he did.
You feel the familiar itch under your skinâthe one that comes when someone brushes too close to something real. You counter instinctively, the way you always do.
âI did the opposite. I chased outbreaks across three continents,â you say lightly, as you both start walking again. âRefugee camps. Border clinics. Places where the electricity was optional and the PPE was mostly optimism.â
He glances sideways at you. âSounds glamorous.â
âOh, extremely,â you reply dryly. âNothing says romance like treating patients by headlamp and negotiating with warlords for access to clean water.â
He huffs a laugh. âSo thatâs how you ended up CDC.â
âYeah,â you say. âApparently I have a talent for running toward fires and pretending itâs a career choice.â
He stops walking. You do too, because suddenly the air feels different. Charged. Youâre standing closer than necessaryâclose enough that you can feel the heat off him, smell soap and something familiar, indefinably him beneath the hospital sterility.
âIt makes sense,â he says. Thereâs no teasing in his voice now. âYou donât belong anywhere small.â
You raise an eyebrow. âCareful. That almost sounded like admiration.â
He doesnât look away. âIt was.â
The moment stretches. You are acutely aware of your pulse, of the fact that you havenât slept properly in days, of how dangerously easy it would be to lean in half an inch and see what happens.
You straighten instead. Of course you do.
âWell,â you say, tone breezy, armor snapping back into place. âIt makes sense you ended up in the ER. You like impossible problems and broken people.â
A corner of his mouth lifts. âAnd you donât?â
You smile thinly. âI like solvable ones.â
âLiar,â he says softly.
Your chest tightens, just a fraction. Annoying. You step past him, deliberately brushing his arm as you goânot quite an accident, not quite intentional enough to admit to. You feel his attention follow you like a hand at your back.
âTry not to kill anyone while Iâm gone,â you say over your shoulder.
âNo promises,â he replies.
You donât look back. You donât have to. You can feel the tension humming between you, unresolved and newly complicated, threading itself into the long hours ahead.
Some outbreaks you chase.
Some you pretend not to notice until theyâre already everywhere.
âËâĄââËâĄ
Youâre sitting hunched over the exposure timeline again, elbows on the counter, fingers smudged with ink where youâve been tapping the page too hard. The timeline makes senseâmostly. It always does until it doesnât, until one detail tilts and suddenly the whole thing becomes a crime scene instead of a document.
Matt is slumped in the chair beside you, head tipped back at an awkward angle, mouth slightly open. Out cold. One arm dangles uselessly, the other still loosely clutching a half-empty coffee like muscle memory alone is keeping it from hitting the floor. He looks terrible. You find that reassuring. Misery loves company, and exhaustion is the great equalizer.
Youâre mid-underline when a presence registers at your side.
Noelle Hastings leans lightly against the countertop beside you, careful not to touch anything important. She smells faintly expensiveâclean, sharp, deliberate. Her suit is still perfect. Her nails still immaculate. She looks like someone who has never had to sleep sitting upright in an ED chair while alarms scream in surround sound.
âDo you need anything?â she asks pleasantly.
You donât look up. âA lie detector would be nice.â
Thereâs a beat. Then she laughsâpolite, measured, exactly the right amount of amused.
âIâm afraid thatâs not in my purview,â she says.
âShame,â you reply, already back to the page. âWould really streamline a lot of conversations.â
She watches you for a moment, eyes flicking briefly to the timeline, then to Matt snoring softly beside you. âI was just wondering,â she says carefully, âdo you and Robby know each other?"
There it is.
You feel it like a muscle pulling too tight. You keep your voice even. âMed school.â
Her eyebrows lift a fraction. âAh. It just seemed like you two were⊠close.â
You look at her then. The careful phrasing. The tentative curiosity dressed up as concern. You straighten slowly, spine aching, patience wearing thin.
âNurse Hastings,â you say coolly, âIâm not here to gossip about my personal life. Or the personal lives of your coworkers. There are lives at stake, and Iâd appreciate it if you didnât interrupt my work.â
The silence stretches. Her smile tightensânot offended, exactly, but no longer warm.
Before she can respond, Matt stirs beside you, blinking blearily as he sits up. âHey,â he cuts in, voice rough. âLunch break?â
You donât hesitate. âYes.â
You grab your notes, tuck them under your arm, and stand before Noelle can say another word. Matt is already on his feet, steering you gently but decisively toward the exit like a handler removing a problem animal from the enclosure.
Once youâre out in the hall, the noise of the ED swallowing you again, he exhales. âHad to get you out of there before I needed to bail you out of jail.â
You shoot him a look. âI was perfectly civil.â
âYou were three seconds away from homicide-by-tone,â he says cheerfully.
You fold your arms. âI donât like people asking about my personal life. Especially a chapter I thought was long over. Especially when said chapter is now sharing a department with me.â
He studies you as you walk, expression too perceptive for your liking. âYouâre not as unaffected about the whole thing as you pretend to be, then.â
You stop short and glare at him. âOh, fuck off, Matthew.â
He grins, entirely unrepentant, and keeps walking.
âËâĄââËâĄ
The days keep fracturing into small, survivable pieces.
A hallway conversation here. A shared silence there. The kind of intimacy that grows slowly, unacknowledged, because acknowledging it would require stoppingâand neither of you seems willing to do that.
You catch Robby late one night leaning over the charge desk, shoulders hunched, one hand braced against the counter like the building itself is the only thing holding him upright. The ED is loud in that particular nocturnal way: alarms sharper, voices lower, tempers thinner. A trauma bay curtain flutters.
He looks up when he senses you, not when he hears you. You clock that. Of course you do.
âYouâre still here,â he says.
You glance at your watch. âTime is a social construct.â
âCDC doesnât believe in sleep?â
âWe believe in naps taken sitting upright with our eyes open,â you reply. âIt builds character.â
He snorts, then immediately sobers. âWhereâd you come from before Pittsburgh?â
âEthiopia,â you say, shrugging out of your jacket. The word feels heavy in your mouth. âAddis, then a few rural clinics farther out. Rift Valley fever cluster. Livestock, humans, the whole ecological mess.â
His eyebrows lift. âYou just⊠got back from that and walked into this?â
âYes,â you say mildly. âI like my stress layered.â
He watches you for a beat too long. Thereâs something in his expression that wasnât there beforeâless irritation, more calculation. As if heâs reassessing the scale of you, and finding it inconveniently larger than expected.
âYou ever stay anywhere long enough to buy furniture?â he asks.
You consider that. âI owned a chair once.â
âThat bad, huh.â
âIt was an ugly chair,â you add. âSo no great loss.â
He shakes his head, lips twitching despite himself. âMeanwhile I canât leave this place for twelve hours without everything trying to catch fire.â
You glance past him at the boardâpatients stacked, acuity climbing, resources stretched thin like overworked tendons. âYou run it like a war zone.â
âI run it like a dam,â he says. âAnd every so often something hits hard enough that I have to decide what Iâm willing to let flood.â
There it is again. That glimpse beneath the surface.
You lean back against the counter opposite him, deliberately invading his space just enough to feel the heat of him, the tension humming low and constant. He notices. You can tell by the way his shoulders square, by the faint flare of irritationâor maybe something elseâin his eyes.
âYouâre territorial,â you say, conversational. âYou hate it when outsiders come in and start rearranging your battlefield.â
He exhales through his nose. âYouâre not an outsider.â
âOh?â You arch a brow. âYou couldâve fooled me.â
âI mean,â he corrects, jaw tightening, âyou donât act like one.â
Thereâs something almost petulant in the way he says it, and it makes you want to smile and kick him under the table in equal measure.
âYou donât like that I know your nursesâ names now,â you say. âOr that they listen to me.â
âThey listen to everyone,â he mutters.
âThatâs a lie,â you say cheerfully. âThey listen to competence.â
His gaze flicks down to your mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up. Itâs such a small thing. It lands anyway.
âYou donât exactly ask permission,â he says.
âNo,â you agree. âI find it slows things down.â
Silence stretches between you, thick and oddly intimate. Someone calls his name from across the department. He ignores it.
âYou ever miss it?â he asks suddenly. âWhere you just were. Ethiopia. The running.â
You think of dust and heat, of the way fear smells the same everywhere, of the quiet satisfaction of containment achieved by inches. You think of how hard it is to stop moving once youâve built your life around momentum.
âSometimes,â you say. âMostly I miss knowing exactly what Iâm up against.â
He nods slowly. âHere,â he says, âitâs always personal.â
Your eyes meet. Something unspoken flickers between youârecognition, maybe. Or warning.
A few hours later, you find him in the break room, sleeves rolled again, staring into a cup of coffee.
âYou look like youâre contemplating violence,â you tell him.
âI am,â he says. âAt this coffee.â
You take the cup from his hand without asking, taste it, grimace. âThatâs fair.â
Your fingers brush his as you hand it back. Not accidental. Not entirely deliberate either. His breath stuttersâso briefly you might imagine it if you werenât trained to notice physiological responses under pressure.
âYou do that a lot,â he says quietly.
âDo what?â
âGet close,â he says. âThen pretend itâs nothing.â
You tilt your head. âComes with the job. Spatial awareness erodes when you spend your life in crowds.â
His mouth curves, slow and sharp. âOr you just like pushing boundaries.â
You step closer. Now youâre well within them. âYou donât seem to mind.â
âI do,â he says. Then, after a beat, âI just donât stop you.â
The air feels charged enough to spark. Youâre acutely aware of the lineâhow thin it is, how easy it would be to cross. How complicated it would make everything.
You step back first. Of course you do.
âTry to get some sleep,â you say lightly. âYouâre no good to anyone if you drop.â
He watches you retreat, eyes dark. âYou too.â
You donât promise. You never do.
As you walk away, you can feel him still there, still watching. Territorial. Petty. Protective in a way thatâs starting to feel less about the ED and more about you.
That hum beneath it all grows louder.
And for the first time in a while, youâre not entirely sure you want it to stop.
âËâĄââËâĄ
You realize it at the same time.
Not in some dramatic, cinematic wayâno swelling music, no sudden confessionâbut in the quiet, mundane pause that settles between you when the ED briefly exhales. A lull. A held breath. The kind of space where thoughts slip out before you can properly barricade them.
Youâre both standing near the ambulance bay doors, the night air leaking in cold and metallic every time they open. Heâs rubbing at the back of his neck, posture loose in the way of someone whoâs been carrying too much responsibility for too long. Youâre leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand, bones tired in a way sleep wonât fix.
He watches a gurney roll past, then saysâtoo casually, too lightly, like heâs asking about the weatherâ
âStill single?â
You feel the question land. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just⊠precise. Surgical.
You donât answer right away. You let the beat stretch, because you refuse to give him the satisfaction of immediacy.
âStill married to the ER?â you counter.
He huffs a laugh, but itâs short-lived. âGuess thatâs a yes.â
âGuess thatâs a mutual pathology,â you say. âWork-induced emotional atrophy.â
âChronic,â he agrees.
You glance at him sideways. Heâs not smirking now. Not guarded. Just⊠open in a way that feels unsettling.
âWhen was the last time you had a life?â he asks.
You think of Ethiopia. Of hotel rooms that all look the same. Of colleagues you only ever know in crisis. Of friendships that exist in text messages and years-long gaps.
You shrug.
He watches you carefully. âThat bad, huh.â
âYou?â you ask. âAnyone waiting at home wondering when youâll come up for air?â
He shakes his head once. âJust the cat. And even heâs learned not to expect much.â
Something in your chest tightens. Annoying. Inconvenient.
âCongratulations,â you say. âWeâre both wildly unqualified for normal human attachment.â
âYet,â he adds.
You look at him then. The lines around his eyes. The fatigue. The stubbornness. The way he takes up space like heâs bracing against being pushed aside.
âDonât get optimistic,â you warn.
He smilesânot the sharp one, not the defensive one. Something quieter. More dangerous.
The animosity between you shifts. Not gone. Never gone. Just⊠refined. Sharpened into something that feels less like rivalry and more like recognition.
You step closer without meaning to. Or maybe you do mean to, and youâre just tired of pretending otherwise. The hum between you deepens, settles lower in your body, warmer now.
âYou ever think,â he says softly, âthat we built our lives this way on purpose?â
âSo no one could take them away?â you offer.
âSo no one could get close enough to matter,â he counters.
You scoff lightly. âSpeak for yourself.â
His gaze flicks to your mouth again. This time he doesnât hide it.
âAm I wrong?â
You donât answer. Because the truth is inconvenient. Because the truth is standing right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your clothes, smell the faint trace of coffee and antiseptic and something undeniably human beneath it.
A monitor alarms somewhere. A nurse calls his name. The world intrudes, as it always does.
He straightens first, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex. You hate that you notice. Hate that you miss the unguarded version already.
âDuty calls,â he says.
âAlways,â you reply.
As he turns away, he pausesâjust long enough to glance back at you.
âThis conversation isnât over,â he says.
Your smile is slow, knowing. âNone of ours ever are.â
He disappears back into the chaos, leaving you with the echo of his presence and the uncomfortable realization that the line between you didnât vanish.
It just moved.
And for the first time, youâre not entirely sure which of you crossed it.
I'm really craving writing something about Robby with heavy angst or hurt/comfort and a hopeful ending maybe. But I'm out of ideas and in a bit of a writing slump so drop your ideas in my askbox please đ„č
Michael Robinavitch is good at distance. Clean exits. One foot already out the door before anything has the chance to hurt.
To him, you are gentle hands in chaos, a calm voice in the ER, a warm distraction he doesnât let himself get attached to.
Robby lets you go. He always does.
Except this time, he doesnât stop wanting.
Word count: 14K
Rating: Teen and up
Tags/Content warnings: bipolar disorder, mental health crisis, reader is a psychiatrist, emotional withdrawal, miscommunication, jealousy, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, second chances, emotional intimacy, a little bit of Robby groveling, alternate POV, no use of Y/N
The ER never sleeps.
Monitors chirp and complain in uneven rhythms, gurney wheels rattle over seams in the floor. The fluorescent lights flatten everything into the same exhausted shade of pale. You step into it and feel the familiar click inside your chest, like a switch flipping on. Focus sharpens. Noise becomes useful. Chaos lines itself up and waits for orders.
Youâre the psych consult tonight.
The patient is young, younger than you want them to be, mascara smudged into gray bruises under her eyes. Empty pill bottle in a plastic bag on the counter. Overdose scare, uncertain intent, lots of crying, lots of apologies. She keeps saying she didnât mean to make a fuss. That she just wanted everything to stop buzzing.
You pull a chair close, sit so your knees are level with hers. You make your voice soft on purpose.
âYou donât have to be brave in here,â you tell them. âYou can be honest. Weâll take care of the rest.â
She looks at you like youâve handed her a life raft and asked nothing in return. Her breathing slows. You feel it happen in your body too, that subtle settling when someone finally exhales near you. You catalog symptoms, risk factors, protective factors, while another part of your mind hums brightly, pleased. This is the part youâre good at. This is the part that feels clean.
Behind you, the room shifts. Someone clears their throat. You donât turn right away, because you already know who it is.
Robby has a presence that registers even when you donât look at him. Sleeves rolled up, forearms marked with the faint ghosts of old scars and dusted with dark hair, posture relaxed in a way that suggests he could snap to attention in half a second. He leans against the doorway, gives you space. He always does.
You finish the assessment. You explain the plan. Observation, psych admit, no one is mad, no one is disappointed. When the nurse comes to take the patient upstairs, she squeezes your hand like she might never let go.
âYou saved my life,â she whispers.
You smile gently and do not correct her. You learned a long time ago that sometimes people need the story more than the truth.
When you stand, Robby straightens with you. He waits until the curtain is pulled back into place, until the noise of the ER rushes in again.
âYou know,â he says, dryly, âyou have a way of making people feel like theyâre not broken. Itâs irritating.â
You snort despite yourself. âIâll try to be more condescending next time. For balance.â
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, something thoughtful passing over his face before he masks it with a smirk. âDonât. The department would collapse.â
You should feel tired. Youâve been up too long. Your brain should be cottony, your limbs heavy. Instead, everything feels lit from within. Colors are too vivid. Sounds arrive with crisp edges. Ideas stack themselves neatly, one after another, like theyâve been waiting all day for permission.
You tell yourself itâs just a good night. A productive night. You do not call it anything else.
The hours bleed together. You consult on another patient, then another. You and Robby orbit each other effortlessly, trading glances, half-smiles, the occasional raised eyebrow. He backs you up without comment when someone pushes. He steps in smoothly when you need the room redirected. You catch yourself laughing more than usual, words coming quick and sharp, your mind sprinting happily ahead of your mouth.
At one point, you realize you havenât eaten since yesterday afternoon. You feel fine. Better than fine. Electric. That should've been your first clue.
âCome on,â Robby says eventually, nudging a coffee toward you. âAt least pretend to be mortal.â
You take a sip and grimace. âThis is terrible.â
âAnd yet,â he says, watching you over the rim of his own cup, âyouâre still drinking it.â
You grin. You canât seem to stop grinning.
By the time the shift finally thins out, itâs past indecent. The sky outside the ambulance bay windows has turned that particular shade of deep blue that means night is coming whether you like it or not. Your body hums like a live wire. You are acutely aware of Robby standing close, of the warmth radiating off him, of how easy it would be to lean in.
You donât. Not yet.
The move, when it comes, is almost laughably small.
Youâre in the break room, ostensibly to grab your bag. He follows you in, door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. The room smells faintly of disinfectant and hospital coffee. He leans back against the table, blocking your path without quite meaning to.
âYou okay?â he asks, quieter now.
You tilt your head, consider lying, consider telling the truth, choose a third option. âIâm great.â
He huffs a laugh. âThat wasnât the question.â
You step closer, close enough that you can see the tiredness etched around his eyes, the way his mouth softens when he isnât performing for the room. Your heart thumps, fast and eager, like itâs been waiting for this exact moment.
You reach out and straighten the collar of his scrubs. Itâs an excuse. Itâs also not.
He stills. Looks down at your hand, then back up at your face. The air between you tightens, unmistakable.
âThis is probably a bad idea,â he says.
âAlmost certainly,â you agree.
Neither of you moves away.
Later â after the door to his apartment has closed, after clothes have been discarded without ceremony, after youâve fallen into bed like this is the most natural thing in the world â you tell yourself itâs fine. Easy. Two adults, both exhausted, both consenting. No promises. No future tense.
Sleeping together is simple. It doesnât ask questions.
Itâs only afterward, when heâs breathing slow and steady beside you, one arm heavy across your waist, that your mind finally stutters. The bright edge dulls just enough for something colder to slip in.
You stare at the ceiling, tracing invisible cracks in the dark. Your thoughts skitter, rearranging themselves into something sharper, more brittle. You know this feeling. Youâve charted it in other people. Youâve lectured about it. Youâve hidden it carefully, filed it away under professionalism and competence and just being really good at your job.
This is going to cost me later, you think, not without a flicker of dark amusement.
Your pulse is still racing. Sleep feels optional. Consequences feel abstract.
You close your eyes anyway, already half a step ahead of yourself, already aware that youâre standing at the top of something steep and smiling into the drop.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Robby tells himself itâs uncomplicated.
Thatâs the story he sticks with, at least at first. Two adults, overlapping schedules, mutual exhaustion, a shared talent for not asking for more than is offered. Clean. Efficient. Very on brand for him, really.
You start sleeping together in the same way most things start: without announcement. Thereâs no conversation about it, no awkward negotiation. One night becomes several. He learns the particular cadence of your knock, the way you always pause half a second before letting yourself into his apartment, like youâre giving him an out he never takes.
You donât linger in the mornings. Neither does he. Coffee, scrubs, keys. Sometimes a brief smile that feels private and illicit, sometimes just a quiet understanding that youâll see each other in a few hours anyway. Heâs good at this. He has practice.
And then thereâs the rest of it. The parts that arenât supposed to matter.
You start showing up when youâre not scheduled. He tells himself itâs coincidence. Heâs lying, but gently. You sit at the far end of the bar nursing a seltzer while he eats something fried and terrible, and you talk about nothing in particular. Patients who stuck with you. Colleagues who drive you both insane. You have a way of listening that makes him feel like heâs saying something worth hearing, which is inconvenient.
Sometimes you come over and donât even make it to the bedroom. You sit on his couch, knees almost touching, shoes kicked off, the TV murmuring to itself. Those nights confuse him more than the others. Those nights feel intimate in a way he hasnât agreed to.
He notices the shift before you say anything.
Itâs small. Subtle. Youâre still there, still kind, still competent as hell. But youâre quieter. You laugh less at his dry remarks. You hesitate before touching his arm, like youâre checking yourself. At work, you keep a fraction more distance. Enough that no one else would clock it. Enough that he absolutely does.
He tells himself not to read into it. Heâs very good at that too.
Then one night, you ask him to sit with you. Not in the way you usually do, half-curled into the corner of the couch. Upright. Intentional. He has the brief, absurd thought that heâs about to be fired.
You look tired. Not ER tired. Something deeper.
âIt was fun,â you say, and your voice is steady. Practiced. âBut I need to stop.â
The words land cleanly. No wobble. No apology.
He blinks once. Lets them settle.
âOkay,â he says.
Thereâs a pause. He waits for the rest of it. The justification, the careful phrasing, the exit ramp. It doesnât come. You just look at him, open and kind in a way that makes his chest do something annoying.
âYou didnât do anything wrong,â you add, as if reading his mind. âI just⊠need to stop.â
He nods. Heâs very good at nodding at the right moments. âGot it.â
Part of him expects himself to argue. To ask a question. To push, even lightly. He doesnât. Heâs proud of that. Heâs built an entire career on not chasing people who have already decided to leave.
âFriends?â he asks, because thatâs the polite thing to do, not because heâs sure he means it.
You smile, soft and grateful. âYeah. Friends.â
You leave not long after. No dramatic lingering. No second-guessing. He watches you put your shoes on, the mundane normalcy of it all pressing oddly heavy against his ribs. At the door, you hesitate, then lean in and press a brief kiss to his cheek. Itâs almost professional.
âSee you around,â you say.
âSee you,â he answers.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
At work, he does what he always does. Heâs competent. Heâs funny at the right times. He doesnât let anything bleed into patient care. When he sees you across the ER, you exchange the same looks you always have. Easy. Colleague to colleague. If anything, youâre more careful now.
He tells himself itâs done.
And mostly, it is.
Still, thereâs something that lingers. Not pain, exactly. More like a bruise he keeps pressing without quite meaning to. A low-grade awareness. He finds himself clocking the way you tilt your head when youâre thinking, the extra half-second you take before answering a question. He wonders, occasionally, what he missed. Not in a dramatic way. Just a quiet, persistent curiosity.
One night, long after a trauma has been wheeled upstairs and the ER settles into its late-shift lull, he watches you walk away down the corridor. Your back straight, your stride purposeful. Already elsewhere.
He exhales. Squares his shoulders.
Clean exits, he reminds himself. Thatâs the point.
And yet, the space you leave behind feels oddly louder than the chaos ever did.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Youâre back in the ER weeks later, and the place hasnât missed you.
It never does.
The doors sigh open and shut with their usual indifference. The overhead lights are still too bright, the air still smells faintly of antiseptic, coffee, and adrenaline. Someone laughs a fraction too loud near the charge desk. A monitor beeps in an arrhythmic way that immediately raises your blood pressure for no good reason. You roll your shoulders once, like you can physically shrug off the last few weeks of your life.
You tell yourself youâre fine.
Youâre here for a psych consult. No more, no less. In, assess, document, out. Clean lines. Boundaries. You are very good at boundaries now. You had to get good at them, because manic you has absolutely no sense of self-preservation and sober you is the one who has to mop up afterward like a responsible adult.
You spot him before you mean to.
Robby is leaning against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, posture loose in that way that reads as effortless competence if youâre into that sort of thing. Which you are not. Obviously. Youâre above that. Youâve grown. Youâve learned. You are definitely not tracking the way his sleeves are rolled up or how his jaw looks when heâs half-smiling.
And he is smiling.
At Noelle.
Noelle, the case manager. Late forties, always perfectly put together, hair in a neat low bun, soft voice that somehow cuts through the noise of the department. Sheâs good at her job. You like her. Which is inconvenient, because right now she has her hand lightly resting at Robbyâs elbow, fingers curled in a way that is unmistakably familiar.
Not flirtatious in a sloppy way. Worse. Comfortable.
Theyâre standing too close. Close enough that you can tell theyâre sharing something not meant for the rest of the room. He dips his head slightly when she speaks. She smiles up at him, small and private, and he huffs out a quiet laugh you know too well.
Your brain helpfully supplies a highlight reel.
That laugh, aimed at you, late at night, over takeout containers and bad television. His hand at your back when you passed him in a hallway. The way he leaned in when he wanted to say something that mattered.
You stop walking.
Itâs not dramatic. No one notices. You just⊠stall, mid-step, like your body needs a second to buffer.
Oh.
Thatâs new.
The sting is sharp enough to surprise you. It flares hot in your chest, sudden and unwelcome, like touching a burner you were sure had cooled. You blink once, then again, as if that might physically clear the feeling out of your field of vision.
This shouldnât hurt.
You ended it.
You ended it kindly, decisively, without drama. You remember that part very clearly. You remember how calm you sounded. How reasonable. How you told him it was fun, but you needed to stop.
Manic you had made the choices. Sober you had delivered the verdict.
And now sober you is apparently⊠jealous?
You scoff internally. Of course you are. God forbid your brain do anything normal.
You straighten your spine and keep walking.
Focus. Work. You are here for a reason that has absolutely nothing to do with Robby or Noelle or the fact that your chest feels tight in a way you donât like. You locate the tablet in your hands like a lifeline. Twenty-two-year-old male, overdose scare, unclear intent. You read the name twice without absorbing it.
Behind you, Robbyâs voice carries.
ââIâll follow up with psych after they clear him.â
Noelle hums. âYou always do.â
Thereâs warmth in it. Affection. Your jaw tightens.
You donât turn around.
You plant yourself at the workstation and pretend to read. Your mind, however, is doing that thing where it spirals in tight, unhelpful circles.
So this is happening. Of course it is. Why wouldnât it be? You end things, the universe immediately supplies a replacement. Efficient. Ruthless. Honestly kind of impressive.
You tell yourself youâre being unfair. You donât know anything. Maybe theyâre just colleagues. Maybe the elbow touch is nothing. Maybe youâre projecting because your brain chemistry is held together with medication and spite.
Still.
The ache settles in low and persistent, like a bruise you didnât realize you had until someone pressed on it.
You catch your reflection in the dark screen of a powered-down monitor. You look⊠normal. Composed. Professional. No outward signs of the internal chaos.
Good. Thatâs what youâre best at.
The psych resident finds you a few minutes later, apologetic and flustered, and you slide into the role easily. You ask the right questions. You listen. You nod. You make a joke dry enough to pass for gallows humor instead of a coping mechanism. The patient talks. You document.
For a while, it works.
Then Robby passes behind you, close enough that you catch his cologne, familiar and infuriating. He pauses.
âHey,â he says.
Just that. Hey.
You look up despite yourself.
âHey,â you reply, because you are nothing if not polite.
His eyes flick briefly to the tablet in your hands. âPsych consult?â
âYeah.â
He nods. Thereâs a momentâjust a fraction of a secondâwhere something unreadable crosses his face. Then Noelle appears at his side, seamless as gravity.
âRoom three is ready whenever you are,â she tells him.
âPerfect,â he says. He glances back at you. âGood seeing you.â
You give him a small smile. The professional one. The one that doesnât give anything away.
âLikewise.â
They walk off together.
You watch them go, then immediately hate yourself for it.
Get it together.
The rest of the shift blurs. You finish the consult. You sign your note. You answer questions youâve answered a hundred times before. All the while, the ache hums under your ribs, quiet but insistent, like a warning light youâre pretending not to see.
By the time you leave, itâs dark out.
Home is silent in that way that feels heavier than noise. You kick off your shoes and drop your bag by the door. The couch looks too inviting. You sink onto it and donât move.
Sleep comes too easily.
Thatâs the first sign, you know. The dangerous one. Manic you doesnât sleep. Manic you vibrates. This version of you sinks, heavy and slow, like gravity has been turned up a notch without your consent.
You tell yourself youâll just rest your eyes.
You wake up hours later, disoriented, the room dim and quiet. Your phone is on the coffee table, face down. You donât check it. The thought of interacting with another human being feels exhausting in a way thatâs almost physical.
Getting up feels impossible.
Your body is heavy. Your thoughts are cotton-wrapped and sharp at the same time. The familiar fog creeps in at the edges, uninvited but recognizable.
Ah. There you are.
You stare at the ceiling and let the depression settle like dust, coating everything. You catalog the facts clinically, because thatâs how you survive this.
Mood dropping. Energy low. Anhedonia knocking politely but persistently.
You breathe in. Out.
Tomorrow, you tell yourself. Tomorrow youâll adjust. Tomorrow youâll compensate. Tonight, you lie still and let the ache exist, low and quiet, humming your name in the dark.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Depression doesnât arrive all at once.
It seeps.
It settles into the corners of your life quietly, like dust you donât notice until itâs everywhere. You still shower. Still show up. Still do your job. You just do it all with a kind of muted heaviness, as if someone turned the saturation down on the world and forgot to tell you.
Work helps. Until it doesnât.
Youâre two days into what youâre calling a âlow-grade episode,â which is psychiatrist-speak for I am not actively a danger to myself but I am also not okay. Youâve been sleeping too much, eating whatever is closest, and answering questions on autopilot. Your brain feels slow, like itâs wading through molasses. The sharpness you usually pride yourself on is dulled, wrapped in cotton.
You tell yourself this is temporary.
You tell yourself a lot of things.
Caleb notices on day one.
Of course he does.
He doesnât say anything at first. Thatâs his gift. Caleb doesnât barge into your emotional space with concern disguised as interrogation. He just⊠adjusts. Quietly. Seamlessly. Like heâs done this before. Like he knows the shape of your bad days as well as you do.
He starts timing his consults to overlap with yours.
You clock it the second time it happens. Youâre standing by the psych workroom, rereading the same paragraph in a chart for the third time, when you hear the soft whir of his wheelchair behind you.
âWell,â he says mildly, âeither weâre the most efficient psych team in this hospital or the universe is really committed to togetherness right now.â
You snort despite yourself. It comes out tired, but real.
âDonât flatter yourself,â you say. âIâm pretty sure itâs the universe.â
He smiles, the small, knowing kind. âObviously.â
He doesnât ask how youâre doing. Not directly. He just launches into a story about a consult that went sideways, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and impeccable timing. You listen. You nod. You even laugh once, quietly, and it feels like a small victory.
Later, when youâre walking down the hall together, he finally does it.
âHey,â he says, casual as anything, eyes forward. âYou still okay riding this one out on your own, or do you need backup?â
The question lands gently. No pressure. No assumption.
You consider lying.
Youâre very good at lying.
But Caleb isnât asking because he's supposed to. Heâs asking because he wants to help.
âI have an appointment with my psychiatrist,â you say instead. Honest, if incomplete. âSoon. Iâm just⊠trying to get through to the other side without setting anything on fire.â
He hums. âA solid goal. Big fan of the no-fire approach.â
You glance at him. âYou donât have to keep checking in, you know.â
âI know,â he says easily. âBut I want to.â
There it is. The quiet Iâm here for you, wrapped in normalcy. You feel something warm and painful bloom in your chest.
âThanks,â you say. Your voice is softer than you intend.
He shrugs one shoulder. âPerks of being your friend. I get to hover without being weird about it.â
âOh, youâre still weird,â you tell him. âJust⊠endearing.â
âIâll take it.â
You move through the ER together, the chaos parting around you like a familiar tide. You reach the door first and automatically hold it open for him, stepping back so he can pass through. Itâs muscle memory, born of years of friendship, of knowing exactly how much space he needs, when to slow down, when to wait.
âChivalry is not dead,â he says dryly as he rolls past.
âPlease,â you reply. âI do this for everyone. Iâm very generous.â
You round the cornerâ
âand there they are.
Robby and Noelle, again. Standing close. Heads bent together. Sheâs holding a clipboard this time, gesturing at something on the page. Heâs listening, intent, one hand resting casually on the counter.
It shouldnât matter.
It still does.
You stop walking.
Just for a second. Barely perceptible. But inside, something hollows out, scooped clean and echoing. The ache from before deepens, spreading in a way thatâs hard to localize. Your chest feels empty and too full at the same time, like your organs forgot how to arrange themselves properly.
You stare at them and wonderâbriefly, clinicallyâif this is jealousy or just your brain misfiring.
Is this about him?
Or is this just the depression tightening its grip, flattening everything into a dull, aching absence?
You honestly donât know anymore. And that might be the worst part.
Caleb notices the pause.
Of course he does.
He doesnât follow your gaze. Doesnât look at Robby or Noelle. Doesnât comment. He just slows, subtly matching your pace, giving you a moment to recalibrate without drawing attention to it.
You breathe in. Out.
Okay. Keep moving.
You force your feet forward. The moment passes. The ER noise swells again, reclaiming you.
âConsult in four,â Caleb says, like nothing happened.
âRight,â you reply. âLead the way.â
As you walk, the exhaustion settles deeper into your bones. Youâre grateful for Calebâs presence, for the way he anchors you without demanding anything in return. Youâre also so, so tired. Tired of managing your own brain. Tired of wondering which feelings are real and which are chemical trickery. Tired of being the responsible version of yourself all the time.
But youâre still here.
Still moving. Still working.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Robby notices the pattern before he admits it to himself.
At first, it registers as background noise, the way everything does in the ER. Coffee cups appearing on the counter near behavioral health. Two heads bent together over a chart. You and Caleb moving through the department like a matched set, his wheelchair gliding smoothly beside your measured stride.
Normal. Collegial. Nothing to see here.
Except it keeps happening.
Morning consults turn into shared coffee breaks. Quick check-ins stretch into quiet conversations tucked into corners of the ER where the noise dulls just enough to feel almost private. Caleb says something and you laughâactually laugh, head tipping back slightly, shoulders loosening in a way Robby hasnât seen in weeks.
He tells himself it doesnât matter.
Jealousy implies ownership, and he has none.
You ended things. Cleanly. Kindly. He remembers the exact cadence of your voice when you said it. Calm. Resolved. Like you were reading out a diagnosis youâd already accepted. He respected that. He prides himself on respecting boundaries. On clean exits.
So whatever this tight, ugly twist in his chest is, it canât be jealousy.
It must be something else.
Irritation, maybe. Displacement. Some kind of residual ego bruise. He latches onto those explanations because theyâre easier to swallow than the alternative.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
He doubles down on Noelle.
Not consciously. He just⊠stays longer. Says yes when she asks if heâs coming over. Lets her kiss him without pulling away, lets her hands slide familiar paths over his back. He goes through the motions with the same competence he brings to everything else.
She notices anyway.
Theyâre in her apartment, the lights low, the TV on but muted. Sheâs sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching him from over the rim of her mug.
âYouâre a million miles away lately,â she says, not accusing. Just observant.
Robby leans back, scrubs still on, fingers laced loosely over his stomach. He stares at the ceiling for a second, searching for a version of the truth that wonât complicate things.
âI usually am,â he says finally, blunt and unadorned.
She winces a little. Not dramatic. Just enough to register.
âThatâs not what I meant.â
âI know,â he replies.
Silence stretches between them. He doesnât rush to fill it. He rarely does.
She exhales. âYou donât have to do this if you donât want to.â
Do what, exactly? Sleep with her? Pretend to be present? Try to feel something he canât quite access?
âIâm not unhappy,â he says, because thatâs technically true.
She studies him for a long moment, then nods, unconvinced but pragmatic. âOkay.â
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Back at work, itâs worse.
He sees you everywhere now. Or maybe youâve always been everywhere and he just didnât notice the shape you took up in the room until it shifted.
Youâre leaning against the counter with Caleb, coffee balanced precariously in one hand, listening intently as he talks. Your posture is different with himâless guarded, somehow. Like you donât need to brace yourself for impact.
Caleb says something and you snort, a sound that catches Robby off guard. Itâs unguarded. Easy.
Something in his chest goes tight.
Wrong-footed. Thatâs the word for it. Like stepping where you expect solid ground and finding air instead.
He watches the way you angle your body toward Caleb, the way your hand rests briefly on the back of his chair as you move past him, familiar and thoughtless. He tells himself itâs nothing. That this is what normal, healthy professional relationships look like.
Still.
He doesnât like the way it makes him feel.
He turns away, focusing on a chart, but the image lingers. You laughing. You lighter than youâve been in weeks. You not looking at him at all.
And thatâunexpectedlyâthatâs the part that stings the most.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Your depression worsens quietly, which almost feels like a betrayal. Youâre used to catastrophe announcing itself. Sirens. Fire alarms. Manic decisions with consequences you can point to later and say, see, thatâs where it all went wrong.Â
This is different. This is fog.Â
You take a leave of absence because the idea of showing up anywhereâhospital, grocery store, your own showerâfeels like trying to wade through wet cement while people shout encouragement from the sidelines. You sign the paperwork in a haze, your signature looking foreign, like it belongs to someone who still believes in linear time and future plans.
Now the days blur together. Light comes in through the blinds at the wrong angles. The clock insists time is passing, though you suspect itâs lying.
Caleb and your sister Lanie take shifts checking on you. They donât call it that, of course. They call it âhanging outâ or âstopping byâ or, in Lanieâs case, âmaking sure you havenât decided to become a Victorian orphan in a garret.âÂ
You appreciate it. You think. You know, intellectually, that this is what love looks like when it puts on sweatpants and brings soup. Emotionally, it all feels like itâs happening to someone else. You watch it from a distance, like a movie you didnât pick, or one of those public awareness videos they make teenagers watch in health class. This is what untreated mood disorders can look like. Cue somber music.
Lanie shows up first today. You know itâs her because she knocks once and then lets herself in like the concept of privacy is a suggestion, not a rule.
âHey,â she says softly, like sheâs entering a church or a crime scene. Possibly both.
Youâre on the couch, cocooned in a blanket you donât remember getting. The TV is on but muted, some daytime show where everyone looks aggressively awake.
âHey,â you say back. Your voice sounds flat to your own ears, like itâs been sanded down.
She sets her bag down and immediately clocks everything. The untouched glass of water. The pill organizer. You can practically hear her running a mental checklist, the same one sheâs been running since the words bipolar disorder stopped being theoretical and started being yours.
âYou eat anything?â she asks, casual in tone, surgical in intent.
You consider lying. Lying feels like effort. âA cracker,â you say. Then, because honesty has become oddly important lately, you add, âTwo, actually. Overachiever.â
She gives you a look. Not angry. Not disappointed. JustâŠsad, in a way that makes your chest tighten.
âOkay,â she says. âWeâll build on that. Soupâs on the stove.â
Of course it is. Everyone keeps feeding you soup, like youâre a medieval invalid or a Victorian child with delicate nerves. You half-expect someone to bleed you with leeches.
Caleb comes later. He always texts firstâOn my way. You alive?âas if humor might keep the worst outcomes at bay. He sits on the armchair across from you, leaning forward, elbows on knees, the posture of someone ready to bolt if things go sideways.
âYou take your meds?â he asks, not looking at you, eyes fixed on the coffee table like the answer might be etched there.
âYes,â you say. âI am nothing if not compliant.â
âGood,â he says, still not looking up. âProud of you.â
That lands strangely. Pride feels like it belongs to another species. Youâre proud of toddlers for using the toilet. Youâre proud of dogs for not eating the couch. Being proud of you for swallowing pills feelsâŠwrong. And yet, a tiny part of you curls around it, desperate and embarrassed.
They hover without hovering. Lanie fusses in the kitchen. Caleb scrolls on his phone, pretending not to watch you breathe. You feel like an exhibit in a very boring zoo.
Your life feels distant. Flattened. Like youâre watching yourself through thick glass. You recognize the shape of thingsâyour couch, your sisterâs voice, Calebâs concerned frownâbut the emotional subtitles are missing. Or maybe theyâre there and youâre just too tired to read.
You think, not for the first time, that this is the crash they warned you about. The other side of the altitude. Mania had felt electric, brilliant, inevitable. This feels like the bill coming due.
âHey,â Caleb says gently. âYou with us?â
You blink. âDepends on what you mean by that.â
Lanie snorts from the kitchen. âSheâs in a mood.â
A mood, you think. If only it were that simple. If only you could slap a label on it and move on.
âIâm fine,â you say automatically, because thatâs what you say when you donât have the language for I feel like Iâve been unplugged from my own life and Iâm not sure when or if the power comes back.
No one believes you. They donât argue, though. They just stay.
And you let them, because somewhere beneath the fog, beneath the cynicism and the detached commentary, thereâs a small, stubborn part of you that knows this is survival. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just soup, pills, knock-on-the-door love.Â
Even if it feels, right now, like watching yourself from the outside, wondering how the movie ends.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Noelle ends things quietly.
Or rather, he does, by leaving without ever saying the words out loud. By answering texts slower. By offering professional neutrality where there used to be warmth. By convincing himself that restraint is maturity and that absence is kindness. He tells himself itâs for the best with the same steady certainty he uses when he intubates someone who might not forgive him later.
He does not convince himself very well.
He thinks about you constantly. In the pauses between patients. In the half-seconds before sleep, when his guard is lowest and his brain turns treacherous. You appear uninvited, not doing anything dramatic. Just standing there, or leaning against a counter, or looking at him like youâre trying to decide whether to trust the ground beneath your feet.
Against his better judgment, he goes to your apartment.
He tells himself heâs just checking in. He tells himself he wonât stay long. He tells himself a lot of things that sound reasonable if you donât look too closely.
The hallway smells faintly like someoneâs dinner and old carpet cleaner. He stands outside your door longer than necessary, hand hovering, heart doing something stupid and adolescent in his chest. He hasnât rehearsed what heâs going to say, which should alarm him. He always rehearses.
The door opens not long after he knocks.
Caleb is the one who answers.
Robby registers the wheelchair first, because his brain is wired for logistics, then the rest of himâbroad shoulders, tired eyes, the kind of face that has learned how to soften itself on purpose. Caleb looks at him with polite surprise that edges quickly into something more guarded.
âOh,â Caleb says. âHey, Michael.â
Robby blinks. âHi.â He clears his throat, suddenly aware of his hands, his coat, his entire body existing in space.
Caleb glances back over his shoulder, into the apartment. The door is open enough for Robby to see the living room, the couch, a blanket pooled on it like someone slid out of it rather than stood up.
The scene is painfully domestic. Shoes by the door. A mug on the table. A low lamp instead of the overhead light. It hits Robby square in the chest, sharp and unexpected.
He has the absurd, intrusive thought: So this is what her life looks like when Iâm not in it.
His next thought follows immediately, unwelcome and persistent. Are they together?
He hates that he wonders. He hates that the question arrives fully formed, complete with implications. Relationship? Sex? Something steady enough to justify this kind of quiet intimacy? He tells himself it could be nothing. Friends. Family. Support. But the way Caleb stands there, comfortable and protective, makes it hard to believe itâs nothing.
It cannot be just sex. Not with the shoes. Not with the soup smell drifting from the kitchen.
Caleb shifts his weight. âDo you want to come in?â
Robby hesitates, then nods. âYeah. If thatâsâyeah.â
Inside, the apartment feels smaller than he remembers. Or maybe you do.
Youâre sitting on the couch, knees drawn up, wrapped in that blanket. When you look up, he feels it immediatelyâhow hollowed out you seem. Like someone scooped something essential from behind your eyes and forgot to put it back. Your shoulders slope inward, defensive, exhausted. You lookâŠquiet. Not the sharp, reactive quiet you wear at work, but something flatter. Emptier.
For a second, he canât breathe.
âHey,â he says softly, like raising his voice might break something.
âHey,â you reply. Your voice is even. Too even. It skims the surface of the word without sinking into it.
Caleb clears his throat. âI was actually just heading out,â he says, glancing between the two of you with an ease that feels practiced. âIâll check in later.â
You nod. Slowly. âOkay.â You pause, then add, almost as an afterthought, âIâm gonna be fine. Lanieâll probably come over after work.â
The words are reassuring in structure, but thereâs no conviction in them. Robby hears it instantly. The flatness. The way fine is doing a lot of heavy lifting.
Caleb looks at you for a long moment, like heâs measuring something invisible. Then he nods. âText me if you need anything.â
âI will,â you say. Whether you mean it or not is unclear.
Caleb leaves, the door closing softly behind him.
The apartment feels louder without him. Not noisierâjust more exposed.
Robby stands there, suddenly unsure where to put himself. He stays near the door, like heâs giving you an escape route. Or himself one. âI didnât mean to⊠intrude,â he says. âI justâ I wanted to see how you were doing.â
You shrug, a small, economical movement. âNow you have.â
He almost smiles at that. Almost. The dryness of it. The familiar edge. Itâs a relief, in a strange way, to recognize something of you still intact.
âYou look⊠tired,â he says instead.
You tilt your head. âYou look guilty.â
That gets a soft huff of a laugh out of him despite himself. âYeah,â he admits. âThat tracks.â
He takes a tentative step closer, then stops, respecting an invisible boundary he can feel but not see. He notices things he wishes he didnât: the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hands rest limply in your lap, the untouched glass of water on the table.
He wants to fix this. He knows he canât. Both thoughts exist at once, uncomfortably.
âI shouldnât have disappeared,â he says finally. His voice is quiet, careful. âI told myself I was doing the right thing.â
You donât respond right away. You look at him, really look at him, like youâre deciding how much energy this conversation deserves.
âDid it work?â you ask.
He swallows. âNo.â
The word hangs between you, fragile and honest.
He canât stop thinking about you. Standing here, seeing you smaller than you were, hollowed out and still stubbornly yourself, he realizes with a dull ache that disappearing didnât protect either of you. It just delayed the impact.
He stays where he is. He doesnât reach for you. Not yet.
For once, he knows better than to rush.
The question slips out of him before heâs fully decided to ask it.
âAre youââ Robby hesitates, then commits, because retreat feels worse. âAre you and Caleb sleeping together?â
The moment the words leave his mouth, he knows heâs made a mistake. Not because the question itself is obscene or unreasonable, but because of the way your posture changes. Itâs subtle. Your shoulders draw back, your chin lifts a fraction. Not defensive. Dismissive.
You look at him like heâs overstepped something sacred.
âI donât think you get to ask those questions,â you say.
Your voice isnât loud. Itâs not angry. Thatâs almost worse. Itâs flat and precise, like a line drawn in permanent marker.
Robby feels heat crawl up the back of his neck. Right, he thinks. Of course I donât. He opens his mouth to apologize, to explain himself out of it, to say something self-deprecating and disarming the way he usually does, but nothing lands in time.
He shifts his weight, suddenly aware of how large he feels in the small space, how much air he seems to be taking up. âOkay,â he says quietly. âFair.â
Thereâs a pause. The room hums faintlyâthe refrigerator, the city outside, the sound of his own pulse in his ears.
âWhatâs going on with you?â he asks instead. He keeps his voice careful, like heâs approaching a skittish animal. âI meanâreally.â
You stare at him for a beat. Then you laugh.
Itâs short. Humorless. A sound stripped of warmth.
âWhatâs going on with me,â you repeat. âWow.â
Robby braces himself, unsure for what.
âIâve had bipolar disorder for the last twenty years,â you say, pleasantly. âBut itâs nice you finally noticed.â
The words hit him like a blowâtoo much, too fast. He blinks, genuinely stunned, his brain scrambling to reorient itself around this new, massive piece of information that suddenly makes everything click into a pattern he canât unsee.
âTwentyââ He stops. Swallows. âI didnât know.â
âIâm aware.â
His mouth opens, closes. Think, he tells himself. Say something that doesnât make this worse.
âWhy didnât you tell me?â he asks finally. The question comes out softer than he expects, threaded with something dangerously close to hurt.
You tilt your head, studying him like a specimen. âYou never asked.â
âThatâs notââ He stops himself. Because it is true. He didnât ask. Not really. Not in a way that invited anything heavier than banter or half-truths.
âYou never cared to get to know me,â you continue, still calm, still devastatingly even. âNot like that. I was easy. I was fun. I was a nice distraction after a long shift.â
Each sentence lands carefully, deliberately. Youâre not lashing out. Youâre presenting evidence.
âYou werenât interested in the version of me who sits in her apartment for weeks,â you go on. âBarely eating. Sleeping all day. Canceling everything. The unsexy parts. The parts that donât laugh at your jokes.â
Robby feels something tighten in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Guilt, yesâbut also recognition. The uncomfortable awareness that if someone had laid those pieces out in front of him earlier, he might have stepped around them rather than aknowledge them.
âIââ He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. âThatâs not fair. I did care.â
You look at him then, really look at him, and for the first time since he arrived, thereâs heat in your eyes. Not anger exactly. Something sadder. More final.
âDid you?â you ask. âOr did you care about the version of me that made things lighter for you?â
He doesnât have a clean answer. He hates that about this moment.
âI didnât know how bad it was,â he says quietly. âI still donât. But I want to understand. If thereâs anything I can doââ
You interrupt him with a small shake of your head. âNo.â
He stops short.
âI am not your responsibility,â you say. âAnd I am definitely not your charity case.â
âThatâs not what I meant,â he says quickly, a little too quickly. âI justâ I donât like seeing you like this. I donât like that I didnât know.â
Your mouth curves into something that might almost be a smile if it werenât so tired. âThatâs the thing, Robby. Liking it isnât the same as being able to sit with it.â
The room feels unbearably intimate now, every object too sharp, too present. The blanket. The glass of water. The space on the couch beside you that he doesnât dare fill.
âYou should go,â you say.
The words are simple. Final.
He stares at you, searching for any sign of hesitation, any crack he can slip through. There isnât one.
âOkay,â he says, because there is nothing else heâs allowed to say.
He moves toward the door slowly, reluctantly, like heâs afraid sudden motion might undo something fragile. His hand pauses on the handle.
âFor what itâs worth,â he says over his shoulder, voice low, âI wasnât pretending. Not about you.â
You donât answer.
The door closes behind him with a soft, definitive click, and Robby stands in the hallway for a long moment afterward, staring at the wood grain like it might explain where, exactly, he went wrong.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
You come back on a Wednesday.
Robby clocks it the way he clocks everything important without meaning to: the shift change hum smoothing out, the ER settling into its usual controlled chaos, the faint smell of antiseptic and coffee, and thenâthere you are. Whole. Upright. Laughing.
It shouldnât feel like a punch. It does anyway.
Youâre standing at the nursesâ station with Dana and two travel nurses, elbows loose, posture open, head tipped back just enough that your smile flashes wide and unguarded. Youâre wearing your old scrub jacket, the one with the frayed cuff you never replaced, hair pulled up in a way that suggests you didnât overthink it this morning. You look⊠lighter. Not healedâhe knows better than thatâbut present. Back in your body.
Robbyâs chest tightens so sharply he has to pause by the trauma bay curtain and pretend to check the board. He doesnât move closer. He doesnât wave. Heâs very good at not doing things. Heâs made a career out of it.
You breeze past ten minutes later, nearly colliding with him in the hallway.
âSorryââ you start, then look up and register him. Thereâs a half-second hitch in your expression. Not fear. Not anger. Just recognition, neutral as a chart note.
âHey,â you say, easy. Kind, even.
âHey,â he answers, equally easy, equally fake.
You smell like hand soap and citrus gum. He files that away for no good reason at all.
You donât stop. You donât slow down. You keep moving, already calling over your shoulder to a resident about labs that need chasing. He watches you go, shoulders squared, stride confident, like the floor beneath you has decided to hold.
Okay, he thinks dimly. So thatâs how this is going to be.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Over the next few shifts, youâre everywhere and nowhere. Laughing with nurses. Teasing a med student. Leaning against the wall with your arms crossed, listening more than you speak. The brittle edge is gone. The careful quiet remains, but itâs purposeful now, like youâve put it there yourself.
Robby becomes acutely aware of how often he notices you. The cadence of your voice drifting across the department. The way your laughter lifts and then cuts off cleanly, controlled. He hates that he knows this about you. Hates that it feels like losing something all over again.
Then thereâs Caleb.
Robby spots him near the ambulance bay, his chair angled just so as he waits for a porter. Youâre with him, bent slightly at the waist, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he pulls you into a hug. Itâs unselfconscious. Familiar. The kind of contact that doesnât ask permission because it already has it.
Caleb grins up at you. âYou gonna disappear again, or can I get used to having you around?â
You snort. âRude. I sent texts.â
âTwo,â Caleb says. âBoth said âsorry.ââ
âEfficient,â you counter. âAnyway, my sisterâs making dinner tonight. Youâre invited.â
Calebâs smile softens, hesitant. âI donât want to intrude.â
You wave it off. âPlease. I feel like an intruder myself after ghosting everyone for two months.â
Two months.
Robby swallows. He hadnât counted. Of course you had.
You squeeze Calebâs shoulder before stepping back, already pivoting toward your next task. Caleb watches you go, fond and protective in a way that makes something hot and stupid flare in Robbyâs chest.
He looks away first.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
By the third shift, the tightness isnât going away. Itâs not sharp anymore. Itâs worse than that. Itâs a constant, low-grade ache that sits just under his sternum, like pressure from the inside. He tells himself itâs fine. That this is normal. That seeing someone you cared about doing better without you is supposed to feel like this.
He tells himself a lot of things.
The breaking point comes quietly.
Youâre at the med room sink, sleeves rolled up, washing your hands with methodical care. He stops just outside the doorway, hesitates, and thenâbecause apparently he enjoys poor life choicesâsteps inside.
âCan I talk to you?â he asks.
You glance over, turn off the water, dry your hands. You donât look trapped. You donât look pleased. You look⊠braced.
âOkay,â you say. Not yes. Not now. Just okay.
He leans back against the counter, suddenly hyper-aware of the fluorescent lights, the hum of the fridge, the way his badge feels too heavy around his neck.
âIââ He clears his throat. Tries again. âI wanted to apologize.â
You nod once. You donât interrupt.
âI fucked up,â he says, because thereâs no point pretending otherwise. âI handled things badly. I didnât mean to disappear like that, orââ He exhales. âI wasnât thinking straight.â
That earns him a small, humorless smile.
âI know,â you say.
The words land gently. Somehow thatâs worse.
âI miss you,â he adds, and hates himself a little for how naked it sounds. âAnd if youâd give me another chanceââ
You lift a hand, not sharp, just firm.
âRobby.â
He stops.
âI said clearly that I need distance,â you say. Your voice is calm, steady. Practiced. âI wasnât vague. I wasnât playing hard to get. I meant it.â
âI know,â he says quickly. âI justââ
âIâm just getting better,â you continue, not unkindly. âAnd Iâm not up for being some project to make you feel better. Or a distraction.â
The words sting because theyâre accurate. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.
âYouâre not doing well yourself,â you add. Thereâs no accusation in it. Just observation. The same tone you use with patients when youâre telling them something they donât want to hear but need to anyway.
For a second, he considers arguing. Saying heâs fine. Saying he can do better. Saying all the things that usually work.
Instead, he laughs softly, under his breath. Dry. A little self-aware.
âYeah,â he says. âThat tracks.â
You study him for a moment. He hopesâstupidlyâthat you might soften. That you might say something like someday, or maybe later, or I just need time.
You donât.
âI care about you,â you say. âBut I need this to be clean.â
Clean. Decisive. Surgical.
He nods. Once. âOkay.â
There it is. The exit. The one heâs always so good at.
âTake care of yourself,â you say.
âYou too,â he replies, automatically.
You turn back to the sink. The conversation is over. He stands there for half a second longer than necessary, then pushes off the counter and leaves before he can say something regrettable.
Back in the hallway, the ER swallows him whole. Monitors beep. Someone calls for a consult. Life barrels forward, indifferent as ever.
Robby moves through the rest of his shift on muscle memory alone. He doesnât look for you again. He doesnât need to.
Later, as he signs out and grabs his coat, he catches sight of you through the glassâlaughing again, this time with Caleb, your hand resting briefly on the back of his chair as you lean in to say something private.
His chest tightens.
This time, he lets it.
Some things, he thinks, arenât meant to be fixed. Some things are just meant to be survived.
And apparently, heâs still working on that part.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Robby starts therapy the way he does most necessary things: reluctantly, over-caffeinated, and convinced he could probably manage without it if everyone would just stop looking at him like that.
The waiting room smells faintly of lemon disinfectant and old magazines. He sits with his knees angled outward, elbows on his thighs, scrolling his phone without absorbing a single word. He has the distinct, irrational urge to flee. He does not. This feels important in a way he doesnât like.
When the therapist calls his name, Robby follows her down the hallway like a man headed toward a mildly unpleasant but unavoidable procedure. Which, he supposes, is not inaccurate.
He hates it.
He hates the questions that sound simple but arenât. He hates the long silences that make him feel like heâs failing an exam he didnât study for. He hates the way she tilts her head when he minimizes things, the gentle, infuriating patience with which she circles back.
âSo when you say youâre âfine,ââ she says, pen hovering, âwhat does that usually mean?â
He snorts before he can stop himself. âThat Iâm functional.â
âAnd how is that different from actually being okay?â
He stares at the carpet. Itâs patterned in a way that suggests someone tried very hard to make it soothing.
âGive me a minute,â he mutters. âIâll get back to you.â
He leaves every session wrung out and vaguely annoyed and uncomfortably lighter, like something he didnât realize heâd been carrying has been set down without his permission. He keeps going anyway. That part surprises him.
The second thing he doesâthe thing that takes more courage, somehowâis talk to Caleb.
It happens in the hospital cafeteria, of all places. Robby spots him near the windows, coffee balanced precariously in one hand, phone in the other. He almost keeps walking. Old habits die hard.
Instead, he pivots.
âHey,â Robby says, stopping short, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. âYou got a minute?â
Caleb looks up, eyebrows lifting. Thereâs a pauseânot hostile, just cautious.
âSure,â Caleb says. âWhatâs up?â
Robby gestures vaguely. âCan I sit?â
Caleb nods, moves his coffee aside. Robby sits, immediately aware of how stiff his posture is, how carefully heâs calibrating his tone like this is a difficult patient interview instead of a personal conversation he absolutely cannot chart.
âI wanted toââ He exhales. âI wanted to apologize. To you.â
Caleb blinks. âOkay.â
âI was⊠not great,â Robby continues, dry and understated, because thatâs the only way he knows how to say things that matter. âAnd I think I misread a lot. About you. About her. About what was actually happening.â
Caleb studies him for a long moment, then nods slowly. âYeah,â he says. âYou did.â
That stings. Fairly.
âIâm in therapy,â Robby adds, as if that explains everything. âSince recently.â
Calebâs mouth quirks. âThat sounds like it sucks.â
âItâs the worst,â Robby agrees promptly. âI highly recommend it.â
Thereâs a beat. Then Caleb smiles, small and genuine.
âFor what itâs worth,â Caleb says, âshe noticed. You know. The way you were. The way you werenât.â
Robby swallows. âI know. Now.â
They sit in companionable silence for a minute. Itâs not absolution. Itâs not forgiveness. Itâs⊠context. And somehow that feels like progress.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
After that, things shiftâslowly, almost imperceptibly.
The first time you speak again, really speak, itâs clinical.
Youâre down in the ER for a psych consult, hair pulled back, expression focused. Robby gives you the patient rundown, concise, respectful, careful not to step on your territory. You ask a clarifying question. He answers without hedging.
âThanks,â you say, meeting his eyes briefly.
âOf course,â he replies.
Thatâs it. No weight. No history. Just two professionals doing their jobs.
And yet.
Over the next few weeks, he finds himself attuned to you in a new wayânot the aching, wanting awareness from before, but something quieter. More grounded. He notices when a patientâs tone sharpens in your direction, when a voice lifts just a little too high. He adjusts without thinking, shifting his stance so heâs between you and a man pacing too close, his body angled just enough to be a barrier without being a challenge.
âYou okay?â he murmurs to you once, low and unobtrusive, as the patient rants.
You glance at him, surprised. Then nod. âYeah. Thanks.â
Of course you notice. You always do.
Afterward, in the hallway, you linger.
âYou didnât have to do that,â you say gently.
âI know,â he answers. Then, after a beat, âI wanted to.â
You regard him for a long moment, something unreadable passing over your face.
âYou seem⊠different,â you say finally.
He huffs a quiet laugh. âIâm paying a lot of money to feel worse before I feel better.â
That gets a real smile out of you. Small. Careful. But real.
The things between you arenât fixed. He knows that. Thereâs still distance, still caution, still the echo of hurt that doesnât evaporate just because someone is trying now.
But thereâs something else too.
An opening. Narrow. Delicate.
Like a hand extendedânot demanding, not desperate. Just there, offered.
Robby doesnât rush it. Heâs learning, finally, that some things canât be forced. Some things have to be earned in increments so small theyâre almost invisible.
For the first time in a long while, heâs willing to try.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
You notice it slowly, the way you notice weather changing when youâve been inside too long. Not a moment, not a grand gesture. Just pressure shifts.
Robby starts being there.
Not in a way that announces itself. Not in the way men usually do when they decide they are being Good or Supportive or Concerned, like theyâre bracing for applause. Itâs quieter than that. Almost irritatingly subtle.
It starts with food.
Youâre halfway through a consult in behavioral health, fluorescent lights buzzing like they always do, when he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed and watches you finish charting. He doesnât interrupt. That alone is suspicious.
âYou eat today?â he asks, casual, like heâs asking the time.
You donât look up. âDepends on what you mean by that.â
He snorts. âI hate when you do that.â
âI had coffee,â you say. âThat counts as a food group.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
You glance at him then, eyebrow lifting. Heâs still in scrubs, a faint smear of something dark at the cuff of one sleeve, hair flattened from having shoved a cap on and off too many times. He looks tired. He always looks tired. So do you. Trauma bonds come in many forms.
âIâm fine,â you say. Automatically. Reflexively. The way you tell patients theyâre safe when youâre not sure they are.
He doesnât argue. Doesnât lecture. Doesnât do the attending thing where concern sharpens into control.
He just says, âThereâs a turkey sandwich in the fridge with your name on it. Literally. I wrote it.â
âYou labeled ER food?â you ask.
âI protected ER food.â
That makes you smile despite yourself. Itâs small and treacherous and gone before you can interrogate it properly.
Later, you find the sandwich. Wrapped carefully. Your name written in his unmistakably aggressive block letters, like heâs afraid cursive might weaken its authority. You eat half of it standing up, the other half later, because your stomach is a fickle, temperamental thing and youâve learned not to provoke it.
You donât thank him. Not out loud.
He starts bringing you coffee next.
Decaf.
You notice that immediately, because you are both a psychiatrist and a deeply suspicious person.
You eye the cup like it might explode. âThis is decaf.â
âI know,â he says easily.
You take a sip anyway. It tastes⊠good. Which is rude.
âYou remember about my meds,â you say.
He shrugs, like this is nothing, like he doesnât remember everything. âYou said caffeine messes with your sleep. And your mood. And you get the tremor.â
You blink at him. Once. Twice.
You do not love the way something in your chest tightens at that. Not romantically. Not exactly. More like the uneasy recognition of being seen when you werenât trying to perform.
âThat was one time,â you say.
âThat was three times,â he corrects. âAnd once you tried to convince me it was âproductive hypomania,â which is not a thing.â
âIt absolutely is a thing.â
âIn Silicon Valley,â he says. âNot in your brain.â
You roll your eyes, but you drink the coffee. All of it. Which feels like letting him win, but youâre too tired to care.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Sometimes, after shifts that leave your skin buzzing and your thoughts ricocheting too fast to be comfortable, you go out for drinks.
You establish the rules out loud the first time, because clarity is a coping skill and also because you donât trust either of you not to blur things accidentally.
âThis is platonic,â you say, finger raised. âExplicitly.â
âCrystal,â he says. âPainfully so.â
âYouâre not allowed to psychoanalyze me.â
He smirks. âYouâre not allowed to psychoanalyze me.â
âThatâs impossible.â
âIâm willing to take the risk.â
You sit at opposite ends of the booth. On purpose. You order something light. He orders something darker and stronger. You clock the way he nurses it, slow and deliberate. You approve. You hate that you approve.
You talk about work. About the kid who came in manic and terrified and certain God was speaking through the IV pump. About the overdose that wasnât a suicide attempt but scared everyone anyway. About how exhausting it is to hold people at the edge of themselves.
âYou ever get tired of being the calm one?â he asks, fingers tapping the condensation on his glass.
You consider lying. You consider deflecting. You consider making a joke.
âYes,â you say instead. âConstantly.â
He nods. Doesnât push. Doesnât ask you to unpack it. Just lets the word sit there between you, heavy and honest.
Sometimes you wish he would cross the line.
That thought sneaks up on you when youâre not paying attention. When he hands you a coat you forgot because you were distracted. When he waits for you to finish a consult even though he could leave. When he texts you at two in the afternoon on your day offâDid you sleepâand you stare at the screen longer than is strictly necessary before answering.
You imagine it, occasionally. What it would be like if he reached across the table. If he asked. If he wanted.
Your brain, unhelpful as ever, supplies vivid hypotheticals. Intensity. Heat. The kind of closeness that feels like relief and danger in equal measure. You know that pattern. Youâve lived it. Youâve diagnosed it. Youâve treated it.
You also know how fast your world tilts when you mistake intensity for stability.
So you keep the line where it is.
You appreciate him for respecting it. Truly. Sincerely. It feels safe in a way that doesnât itch. A rarity.
And stillâon quieter days, on days when your thoughts slow down just enough to let feelings catch upâyou wonder what would happen if you didnât have to be the careful one.
Then you finish your drink. You stand. You thank him this time. He walks you to your car without touching you, without expectation, without pressure.
Real connections take time, you remind yourself.
Youâre good at time. Youâve learned the hard way that rushing never ends well.
Even if part of youâdry, cynical, chaoticâwonders how long you can keep pretending you donât feel the shift at all.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
He knows.
Not in a diagnostic way. Not in the way colleagues know when they start subtly adjusting their tone or watching you like you might shatter. He knows the way someone knows a tide by watching the shoreline long enough.
You donât have to tell him when youâre slipping into an episode. You donât announce it. You donât even fully register it yourself at first, because insight is always the first thing to wobble. What you notice instead is that the world gets louder or thinner or unbearably sharp around the edges. Sleep becomes optional. Thoughts line up like racehorses behind your eyes. Or everything goes dim and heavy and you feel like gravity has been personally offended by your existence.
He clocks it anyway.
Itâs the text messages first.
You up?
Have you slept?
Did you eat or are we pretending again?
You stare at your phone from your couch, legs tucked under you, apartment dark except for the glow of the TV you havenât actually been watching for three hours. Youâre buzzing, jittery, brain firing like itâs been plugged into the wrong voltage.
Define slept, you type.
Three dots appear immediately.
Iâm coming over.
You start to protest. You really do. You get as far as You donât have toâ before thereâs a knock at your door, firm and familiar. Of course there is. He never asks when he already knows the answer.
He doesnât comment on the state of you when you open the door. On the too-bright eyes, the restless hands, the way your speech is just a little too fast, like youâre trying to outrun yourself. He just looks at you, calm and solid and infuriatingly grounded.
âYouâre spiraling,â he says gently. Not accusing. Not alarmed. Just factual.
âIâm fine,â you say, because of course you do.
âSure,â he says. âShoes. Coat.â
âIâm notââ
âYou are,â he interrupts, already reaching for your jacket. âOr youâre going to stay here and sleep. Pick one.â
You bristle automatically. Control issues are a personality trait at this point. âYou donât get to boss me around.â
âI absolutely do,â he says, unbothered. âYou let me.â
You hate that heâs right.
Sometimes he drags you out of bed instead. Those are worse. Those are mornings where depression has its hands wrapped around your ribs and even breathing feels like an administrative task.
He sits on the edge of your bed, voice low, steady.
âYouâve been horizontal for sixteen hours,â he says. âThatâs not rest anymore. Thatâs hiding.â
âIâm conserving energy,â you mutter into your pillow.
âFor what,â he asks, dry. âHibernate season?â
You groan. âYouâre cruel.â
âIâm right.â
He doesnât yank you up. He doesnât rush you. He just stays. Talks about nothing. About a ridiculous case from the ER. About a new place that does breakfast all day. About how youâre going to hate it but eat it anyway.
Eventually, inevitably, you move. Because somehow itâs easier when heâs there, anchoring you to something outside your own head.
He never flinches.
Not when youâre talking too fast, jumping topics, vibrating with ideas that feel brilliant and exhausting all at once. Not when youâre quiet and hollowed out and answering questions with shrugs. He adjusts. Thatâs it. Like heâs been doing this forever.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
You start leaning on him before you realize thatâs what youâre doing.
Itâs subtle. You tell yourself itâs fine. Practical. Efficient. You trust him to be steady because he is steady, and because you areâcharitablyâvariable. You donât spiral into guilt about it the way you normally would. You donât catastrophize. You just⊠let him.
And then one day, it hits you that youâre not the only one leaning.
You notice the thousand-yard stare first. Because youâve seen it before. On soldiers. On patients. In mirrors you try not to look at too closely.
Heâs sitting at the nursesâ station, charting, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. The ER hums around him and he looks like heâs somewhere else entirely.
You slide into the chair beside him. âYouâre dissociating.â
âIâm multitasking,â he says flatly.
âMm,â you hum. âYouâre in 2005 right now, arenât you.â
He exhales sharply. âLow blow.â
âYou love my blows,â you say. âCome on. Weâre getting a drink.â
âItâs Tuesday.â
âAnd youâre haunted,â you counter. âPut on your jacket.â
You make it a mission to make him laugh on bad days. You treat it like a sport. Competitive. Ruthless. You use sarcasm, exaggerated impressions, deliberately terrible jokes. You tell him about the weirdest psych consult of the week in dramatic detail until he snorts despite himself.
âThere it is,â you say triumphantly when his mouth twitches. âI win.â
âYouâre exhausting,â he tells you.
âAnd yet,â you say, raising your glass, âyou keep me around.â
You start bringing him food, too.
Actual food. Things with nutrients. Things that didnât come from a vending machine or a drive-thru at two in the morning.
You show up at his place once with a container of pasta and take one look at his kitchen and sigh deeply.
âYou live like a feral raccoon,â you tell him.
âThatâs hurtful,â he says. âRaccoons are resourceful.â
âYou have three forks,â you say. âAll dirty.â
He watches you move around his kitchen like you belong there, unpacking food, reorganizing things without asking. Something in his expression softens.
âYou didnât have to do this,â he says quietly.
âI know,â you reply. âEat.â
He does.
Later, lying awake in bed, you catalog it the way you catalog everything. The balance. The reciprocity. The way neither of you runs when the other is a mess.
It scares you a little.
Not because itâs bad. Because itâs real. Because you trust him to be steady when you are anything but, and he trusts you to pull him back when he drifts too far away.
That kind of thing doesnât just happen.
And you are painfully, professionally aware of how much it matters.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
It starts after a shift that goes sideways in the quiet, insidious way he hates most.
No big trauma. No clean adrenaline. Just loss layered on top of exhaustion, a family that wonât look at him anymore, a patient he canât stop replaying because the outcome feels personal even when it isnât. By the time he clocks out, his hands feel too far away from the rest of him.
Heâs staring at his locker, trying to remember why he opened it, when his phone buzzes.
Come over, you text.
Or I can come to you. Dealerâs choice.
He exhales through his nose. A small thing. A release he didnât know he was holding.
Your place, he types back. Mine smells like regret and old coffee.
Shocking, you reply. Iâll order food.
He expectsâhe always expectsâthat this will be a one-off. A bad day solution. Temporary scaffolding. He tells himself heâs not the kind of man who gets habits confused with needs.
He is wrong.
Your apartment is dim when he arrives, lit mostly by the television already murmuring to itself. Something old and familiar is on, one of those shows neither of you has to pay attention to in order to follow. You open the door in soft clothes, hair pulled back, eyes tired in a way that mirrors his own.
âYou look like hell,â you say, fondly.
âPot, kettle,â he replies, stepping inside.
You donât ask what happened. Thatâs one of the rules that forms without either of you saying it out loud. He takes his shoes off, drops himself onto the couch like gravity finally remembered him. You hand him a drinkânot too strong, because you pay attentionâand sit down beside him, close enough that your arm brushes his.
He notices that. He always notices that.
You talk about the show first. About how the protagonist is insufferable. About how the writing went downhill after season three. He argues. You counter. Itâs light and familiar and requires absolutely nothing of him except presence.
The food arrives. You eat straight from the containers, knees nearly touching now. At some point, you lean back and kick your feet up onto the coffee table, your shoulder resting against his arm like itâs always been there.
It happens again the next week.
And the week after that.
Sometimes itâs your place. Sometimes his. Sometimes you text first. Sometimes he does, though it takes him longer to admit he wants to. Itâs always the same elements: stupid TV, takeout eaten too late, arguments that spiral into laughter.
âYou have terrible taste,â you tell him one night, waving a fork at him for emphasis.
âYouâre just pretentious,â he shoots back. âNot everything has to be emotionally devastating to be good.â
âYou say that like itâs a flaw.â
He laughs before he can stop himself. A real laugh. The kind that surprises him with its own sound.
He doesnât mark the moment it becomes normal.
Thereâs no internal announcement. No warning bell. Just the quiet realization, one night, that heâs reaching for his phone automatically after a rough shift, thumb hovering over your name like itâs always been the obvious choice.
He knows things now without remembering learning them.
The warmth of you beside him, solid and grounding. The cadence of your laughâshort and sharp when something genuinely amuses you, softer when youâre tired. The way your profile looks in the blue glow of the television, nose catching the light, eyes focused on the screen even when youâre half-lost in your own head.
He watches you more than the TV, he realizes one evening, and looks away quickly when you catch him.
âWhat?â you ask.
âNothing,â he says, too fast.
You narrow your eyes. âThatâs suspicious.â
He shrugs, feigning innocence. âJust admiring your objectively wrong opinion about this movie.â
You snort and lean closer, shoulder pressing into his arm. He feels it everywhere.
He doesnât think of it as falling for you. That would imply momentum, inevitability, something heâs actively doing. This feels quieter than that. Like settling. Like rest.
He knows your moods now, too. The way your energy shifts, the subtle tells that mean tonight is a low-demand night. He follows your lead without comment. He likes that you never apologize for it. He likes that you donât explain unless you want to.
And somehowâsomewhere in the middle of all thisâhe realizes youâre doing the same for him.
Dragging him out of his own head. Feeding him actual food. Making him laugh when the weight starts to settle too heavily in his chest. You donât flinch from his silences. You donât try to fix him.
It scares him a little.
Not because it feels fragile. Because it doesnât.
Because he canât remember the last time he felt this unguarded with anyone. Because heâs stopped noticing the line between invitation and expectation. Because when he leaves your place late at night, the quiet feels wrong in a way it never used to.
He doesnât name it.
He just shows up again the next night, and the next, carrying takeout and a half-formed joke, already anticipating the sound of your laugh in the glow of the TV.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
You keep orbiting each other.
Thatâs the word your brain lands on eventually, because circling sounds too predatory and dancing sounds like youâre enjoying it more than you are. Orbiting implies gravity. Mutual pull. Also a refusal to crash.
Robby keeps it strictly platonic. Meticulously so. No lines blurred. No lingering touches that could be misread. No drunken confessions. No accidental kisses that only happen in fiction and bad decisions.
You are grateful for that.
You also hate it.
Because quiet moments sneak in anyway, slipping through the cracks like they donât care about your careful rules.
Sometimes you squeeze his hand when you notice his gaze going distant, that flat, unfocused stare creeping in. You donât comment. You donât ask. You just ground him with pressure, thumb brushing once against his knuckles. He always squeezes back. Once. Twice. Enough to say Iâm here again.
Sometimes you lean your head on his shoulder while youâre watching something stupid neither of you is invested in. He goes still every time, like heâs afraid to spook you. His shoulder is solid. Warm. Comfortingly unremarkable in a way that makes your chest loosen.
Sometimes your meds hit you harder than expected. Your body gives up before your brain does. You fall asleep half-slumped against him, mouth slightly open, dignity fully abandoned. You wake later to a blanket tucked around you with care, the lights dimmed, the TV volume lowered just enough that it wonât wake you.
He never mentions it.
That might be the worst part.
Tonight, youâre sitting next to him after a shift that scraped you raw in small, cumulative ways. Too many consults. Too many people crying. Too many moments where you had to be the calm center while something in your chest rattled like loose change.
Youâre exhausted in the bone-deep way that has nothing to do with sleep.
Robby is beside you, long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the couch. The TV hums quietly, casting everything in blue-gray light. You can feel his presence more than youâre looking at him. Familiar now. Expected.
And then it hits you.
Not like lightning. Like clarity.
He feels like your safe place.
The thought lands and stays. Doesnât spiral. Doesnât panic. Just⊠exists.
Heâs who you want to see when youâre struggling. Who your mind reaches for when things tilt. He saw you unfilteredâthe mania and the depression, the medication changes, the side effects, the appointments, the routines you cling to like railings on a bad staircase.
He saw all of it.
And he never flinched.
Never made you feel embarrassing or dramatic or burdensome for being ill. Never treated your stability like a favor he was granting you.
Your chest tightens. In a good way. In a terrifying way.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shift closer.
Slow. Careful. Like approaching a skittish animal, except the animal is your own courage.
You drift sideways and rest your head against his shoulder.
He startles. Just a little. You feel it in the way his muscles tense, the way his breath catches. He looks down at you, eyes flicking to where your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his T-shirt, like youâre holding on without realizing it.
For one awful second, you think youâve misjudged everything.
Then he doesnât hesitate.
His arm comes around you, solid and sure, pulling you closer until his chin rests gently against the top of your head. It feels instinctive. Protective. Like heâs been waiting for permission he didnât know he needed.
You exhale. Your body settles into his like it recognizes the shape of him.
You stay like that for a while. Long enough that your thoughts quiet. Long enough that the world feels manageable again.
Then you sit up.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
You look at him, really look this time. The familiar lines of his face. The softness around his eyes that doesnât make it into work. The way heâs watching you now, attentive and a little wary, like he knows something important is coming.
Your voice comes out quiet. âCan I ask you something?â
âAnything,â he says without hesitation.
Your heart stutters. Typical.
You swallow. âWhat if⊠what if I wanted to try again.â
His brow furrows. âTry what?â
You gesture vaguely between the two of you, suddenly acutely aware of how ridiculous your hands look flapping in the air. âUs.â
He freezes.
Itâs subtle, but you catch it. The way his breath stills. The way his eyes search your face like heâs afraid this is a trick question.
âWhy,â he asks finally. âWhat changed?â
You donât overthink it. You lean forward and frame his face with your hands, thumbs brushing lightly along his cheekbones. He inhales sharply but doesnât pull away.
âYou did,â you say simply. âYou became my constant. My safe place. You saw me at my worstâreally saw meâand you didnât flinch. You didnât try to fix me or run. You stayed.â
Your voice wobbles despite your best efforts. Rude.
âYouâre compassionate,â you continue, words spilling out now that youâve started. âAnd kind. And sometimes a little too petty for your own good.â
He huffs a laugh despite himself.
âBut youâre there,â you finish softly. âWhen it matters.â
You hesitate, then add, quieter, âI know Iâm a lot. The meds, the appointments, the episodes. I get it if thatâs too much.â
He chuckles, low and warm, shaking his head slightly. âYou say that like I donât get weekly therapy.â
Your lips twitch.
His hands come up to cover yours, thumbs running slow, absent-minded strokes over your skin. He doesnât move away. Doesnât move closer. Just holds you there, steady as ever.
âYou donât scare me,â he says gently. âYou never did.â
Something inside you loosens. Not all at once. Just enough to breathe.
You shift closer before you can overthink it. Before your brain can start drafting a riskâbenefit analysis or a contingency plan or a twelve-point list titled Reasons This Is A Bad Idea (Medically Reviewed).
One knee presses into his thigh. Solid. Real. Anchoring.
You register the heat of him first, the way his body responds immediately, like this proximity has been waiting in the wings longer than either of you want to admit. Your heart is beating a little too fast, but honestly, it always is. You lean in anyway.
You kiss him.
Itâs not dramatic. No grand sweep. Just your mouth on his, deliberate and unhurried, like youâre testing something fragile to see if it will break.
He makes a sound.
Itâs soft. Broken. The kind of sound that doesnât belong to someone who spends his days barking orders in a trauma bay. It slips out of him like it wasnât meant to be heard at all.
And then he kisses you back.
Fully. Like heâs been holding himself still for so long that now heâs afraid if he doesnât move, heâll disappear. His hand comes up, firm at your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth is warm and searching, not frantic, just⊠hungry in a quiet, devastating way. His breath stutters against your lips.
You think, distantly, Oh. So thatâs what that was.
Thereâs yearning in it. Longing thatâs been carefully folded away and labeled Not Allowed. You taste it. Feel it in the way he kisses you like heâs memorizing the moment.
And then there are tears.
You feel them first, warm against your fingers where your hands have slid up to his face without you consciously deciding to do that. One drop, then another, tracking down his cheek and onto your skin.
Your brain freezes.
Because this was not on the bingo card.
Before you can ask anything, he moves. Abrupt. Desperate in a way that still somehow manages to be careful with you. He basically drags you into his lap, arms locking around you like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he doesnât hold on hard enough.
He kisses you deeper. Slower. Like heâs finally letting himself stay.
You kiss him back, because of course you do. Because you are not made of stone, despite rumors to the contrary. But your clinical brain is already clawing its way back, waving a little red flag.
You pull back just enough to breathe.
âHey,â you say quietly, forehead resting against his. Your thumb brushes under his eye, catching another tear. âWhy are you crying?â
You expect deflection. A joke. A brush-off. That infuriating male tendency to pretend nothing is happening while it's actively happening.
Instead, he exhales, long and shaky, like heâs been holding that breath for years.
âIâm used to having one foot out the door,â he says. His voice cracks on the word used. âAlways. Even when things are good.â
Your chest tightens. Rude.
He swallows. His grip on you firms, not possessive, just⊠grounding. âAnd thisââ He gestures vaguely, like language is failing him, which is new. âThis feels safe. Like I can finally stay.â
Something inside you goes very still.
Youâve spent years dissecting attachment styles, trauma responses, avoidance patterns. You could write a paper on this moment. You could name it. Pathologize it. Explain it away.
Instead, you cup his face again, thumbs warm and steady against his skin.
âWell,â you murmur, dry and soft and just a little bit smug because apparently you are insufferable even in moments of emotional vulnerability, âgood. I hate people loitering halfway.â
A laugh escapes him, breathy and wet and surprised. He presses his forehead to yours again, eyes closed now, like he trusts you not to disappear.
You kiss him once more, gentler this time. No rush. No edge. Just warmth and choice and the quiet, terrifying knowledge that youâre both still here.
And for once, neither of you is looking for the exit.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
He looks at you and something in his chest goes soft in a way that feels dangerous.
Your face is gentler than heâs ever seen it, the sharp edges smoothed down, your expression open and unguarded as he pulls you closer. His hands come up almost without permission, framing your face like heâs afraid if he doesnât touch you, youâll disappear. Your skin is warm under his palms. Real. Present.
He leans in, forehead brushing yours, his mouth hovering a breath away from yours. His voice drops, instinctively quiet, like this is something sacred and fragile.
âIâm sorry,â he whispers against your lips. âFor how everything happened. For before. Forââ He exhales, the words tripping over each other. There are so many apologies in him they feel endless. âI shouldâve done better. I shouldâveââ
You shush him gently, fingers curling into the back of his neck.
âRobby,â you murmur. âWe maybe fucked up a little. Both of us. Itâs neither here nor there.â
It lands like permission.
Relief washes through him so fast it makes his head spin. Of course youâd say it like that. Of course youâd dismantle months of guilt with one pragmatic sentence and a soft look.
You kiss him again before he can respond.
And again.
And again.
Each kiss is unhurried but intent, like youâre mapping something out together. His brain struggles to keep up. Thereâs warmth pooling low in his stomach, yes, but more than that thereâs this dizzying sense of being chosen. Of being allowed.
He kisses you like heâs been waiting to do it properly. Like heâs making a point of staying. His hands slide from your face to your back, fingers splayed, pulling you closer until thereâs no ambiguity left about where you belong right now. His breathing grows shallow, his thoughts pleasantly useless.
God, he thinks faintly, this is going to ruin me.
You pull back just enough that he can see your eyes. You look a little dazed too, which he privately finds incredibly validating.
âHey,â you say gently. âYou have to promise me something.â
His stomach tightens. He nods anyway. Immediately. Probably too fast.
âYou canât just bolt if it gets hard,â you say. No accusation. Just truth. âI need someone who can stay.â
Something in him stills completely.
This is the moment, his brain supplies helpfully. This is where you either lie, or you decide to be brave.
He leans in and presses his mouth to yours, soft but sure, speaking the promise against your lips so you feel it as much as you hear it.
âI wonât,â he says. âI promise.â
He means it in a way that feels terrifyingly permanent.
The emotion hits him sideways, sharp and overwhelming, and before he can stop himself he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Your skin smells like soap and laundry detergent and something distinctly you. His arms wrap around you fully now, no half-measures, holding you like heâs afraid the world might try to pull you away.
âI love you,â he whispers, the words slipping out before he can second-guess them.
The second they leave his mouth, panic flares. Brilliant. Excellent timing. Gold star for emotional restraint, Robinavitch.
You go still in his arms.
For a fraction of a second, heâs convinced heâs ruined everything. That heâs finally said the thing too soon, too honestly, without an exit plan. His chest tightens, bracing for impact.
Then you shift.
You bury your nose in his hair, breathing him in, and when you speak your voice is quiet but steady.
âI love you too.â
It hits him like a physical force.
He exhales a shaky laugh into your shoulder, something loosening in his chest that he didnât realize had been locked down for years. His arms tighten around you just a little, reflexive, protective.
He thinks, dimly, that heâs not used to being seen like this either. But for the first time in a long while, the instinct to run doesnât come.
gotta say I'm a big fan of joy and ogilvie asking when lunch is, just like dennis did in season 1, and when dennis goes to throw a cereal bar? he only throws one to joy.
beautiful. joy is allowed to eat. ogilvie is permitted only to starve.
Oh my god thank you so much đ It's one of the nicest things anyone ever said to me regarding my work. I write mostly for my mental health and I'm so glad my work makes people happy. If you want to sent another ask with you favorite quotes I'd love to read through them đ
