went into sterling point with such low expectations expecting another corny het romance show with a side of lesbians with minimum screentime and development but i was actually SO surprised by how good this show actually is like damn. i was so hooked in the first episode that i binged it all in one night.
my favorite part is how all the characters feel so real. i understood everyone's perspective by the end of the series, and i couldn't tell you a single one i hate or even dislike at all. and also the lesbian representation was shockingly really good. i feel like they got a decent amount of screentime compared to the het ships and their development was really well-written.
i feel such a kinship with oona like that's genuinely my twin. my lesbian daughter. couldn't even be mad at her when she was avoidant attached because my avoidant attached self would've done the exact same thing unfortunately.
TLDR: pleaseeee watch sterling point if you can, you won't regret it. and i would love to get a season two of this series & more lesbian rep like this in the future !!!!
summary: peterâs new arachnid senses often leave him disorientedâhibernating and waking up in places he doesnât recognise. itâs a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: no bnd movie spoilers (feel free to read if you haven't seen bnd), FLUFF, clingy! peter parker, comfort, light banter, arachnid! peter, peter goes through it, yearning
Peter hates most of the new developments that arrived with the enhanced levels of his arachnid halfâand migraines are definitely top of the list. Particularly the ones that start early in the morning, muffling his senses and rendering him a zombie slob for the entire start of the day. He stirs in his sleep, a soft, pounding ache burrowed in the back of his skull. It's an irritating sensation, one he's already grown familiar with, worsening the overheating, the sensitivity that comes with his overloaded senses, the pull of nerves behind his eyeballs.
His nose burrows deeper into a comforting scent, arms tightening around something soft. Letting out a dragged sigh, low against his throat, the pain fades into something barely noticeable. A sort of relaxed relief that hasn't hit him in years, with his entire body growing slack and heavy, the kind that only comes after a restful sleep. One he hasn't achieved sinceâhis gaze peers open, blinking heavily as his eyes adjust to his surroundings.
The first thing he catches sight of is a familiar bundled sight of hair, and the curve of a shoulder. He must be dreaming. The sunlight stings the sensitivity of his eyes, and he blinks harsher in an effort to recollect himself. His brows furrow as he loosens a hand, parting from his tight grip to run his fingers gently over the loosened hair.
He wasn't dreaming. Somehow, he was laying in your bed, hugging you like an oversized koala.
"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.
You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edgeâand tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.
The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbsâa dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.
What has he done?
"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.
Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyesâbefore meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.
"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasnât stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"
Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?
âIâmâso, so sorry.â His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. âI donât know whyâor howâoh god. Was I hugging you? How did I evenâIâm so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.â
Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.
Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.
"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."
"NoâI swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bedâI can't believe I just said that."
Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he couldâaside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?
He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes heâs used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousnessâand he canât dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.
His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.
âYouâre a cuddler.â You hum in acknowledgment.
He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teethâcompletely at a lost for words.
He has no clue on what heâs supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.
Thereâs no coming back from this, and it wasnât even in his control. He hadnât meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment wasâhe had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.
âHey.â Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadnât even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shutâas his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.
Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. Heâs sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expressionâhe nearly keens.
âI got you. You're safe.â You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. âYouâre safe here.â
His Adamâs apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorryâfor all of it. That he hadnât gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right nowâthat this was all he needed if he wasnât so weak. If he wasnât cursed.
âSorry.â Thatâs all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.
Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.
âYouâre all good, Spidey.â Your voice is warm, comforting. âAside from hogging the blankets, it wasnât half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.â
His lips part, a laugh caught in his throatâhalf shattered, half hopeful.
âCould youâI donât know, explain to me what happened?â He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. âI canât believe I lost controlâI donât remember anything.â
Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."
A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.
"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.
Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.
Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burnerâapron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.
"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.
He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple yearsâbearing a youth that is almost frightening.
He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.
You didn't know where to beginâif you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?
Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's lifeâmuch less a hero's.
You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phoneâwhen you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.
"Don't go." He whispers.
Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.
"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.
He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."
You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiarâit churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.
He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.
"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so pleaseâyou have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."
His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.
"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't wantâI just need you."
He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just lookedâfragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.
"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "âI won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."
The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.
"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.
"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulderâyour cheeks grow impossibly hot.
You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.
Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobeâdigging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirtsâchoices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.
You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuseâyou never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.
Apparently, today was its much-needed day.
Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, youâre relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.
Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throatâconvincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.
"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"
He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.
Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suitâassuming the costume even had a zipper.
Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his backâand the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.
Okay, sure. You could work with that.
He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.
Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your handsâtrusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yoursâacting as a human barrier to you and the outside worldâas you dress him in something soft and clean.
He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at restâmakes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm youâre used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.
You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.
"Spidey." You whisper.
He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighterâburying himself deeper into your skin.
"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.
His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believeâbut he is able and willing to listen to you.
"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."
His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."
"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so pleaseâhelp me out a little, Spidey."
His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into youâbut you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.
"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."
It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside himâequally tired as he is.
You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappearsâhe'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.
It gets demolished within seconds.
As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundryâbut your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.
You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.
Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tightâSpider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.
"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.
His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."
You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.
"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."
His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.
"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.
If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show itâonly burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with itâleaving him looking impossibly young.
"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.
Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.
âDo you have anyone?â You ask gently. âSomeone I need to call?â
Itâs heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.
"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.
If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.
You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."
Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"
His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillowsâbut you hear it. âWanted to come home.â
Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? Itâs almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that controlâthat responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The pastâthe memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed âpauseâ the moment he lost you.
He shouldâve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He shouldâve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.
He did none of what he was supposed to doâand he didnât even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. Thereâs him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadnât completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.
"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartmentâyou weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."
His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his bodyâmessing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.
You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.
"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.
He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.
The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.
It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"
"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be soâ" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."
The two of you were together, so it shouldnât have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found himâhe feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.
You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows drylyâlicking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"
"I meanâthis entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto meâ"
"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."
You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."
"Yeah, summed upâminus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."
"That's not true." You hum.
He blinks slowly, processing your words.
"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know youâre under a lot of public scrutiny butâit doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a heroâ" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."
He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhereâanywhere but you.
"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.
The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"
"You'reâ" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. âYou werenât scared of me?â
He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silenceâwith his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifelineâwas stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.
It was him at his most selfishâdoing what his instincts pleadedâno, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.
âI think youâre a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.â You answer truthfully. âYou were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.â
"Iâ" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."
Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartmentâI think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."
"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."
"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."
His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his ownâfor a laugh to sound that broken.
"This is hard. I'm not supposed toâ" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."
Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of itâthe familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.
Itâs only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.
"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.
You blink, and he follows the movementâstaring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.
"That wasâwow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."
His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I justâI wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."
"Habitâyou crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"
He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "Noâno. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used toâum..."
His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."
Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."
"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."
You watch him, and you sense it againâthat chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gazeâand how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.
He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.
"Spidey." You call out.
He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartmentâthat you were right in front of him.
"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."
He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."
Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.
You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.
You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilitiesâbut could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lipsâas if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?
Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.
You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee thatâs his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.
"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."
"Ohâ" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."
Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."
"Why?"
"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.
You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."
His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"
"Tons better. You could try it againâI'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.
"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.
"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."
You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?
You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it offâonly to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.
Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lipsâit's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacredâa truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thingâa precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.
Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choicesâat the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. Youâwho his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.
"Peter. Peter Parker."
likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3!!
marvel masterlist - coming soon! (do let me know if you'd like to be added to a peter parker taglist, i may be making one as i have more fics coming up for him <3).
THERE'S NOTHIN' MORE WE COULD GET OUT OF HERE, BABY DRIVE âźâË
a doctor walks into a strip club not expecting to find his most timid patient
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
PAIRING michael robinavitch x stripper!reader
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI fem!reader, shy!reader (on occasion), strip-club setting, private/lap dance, er!barbie mention if u squint, depression themes, burnout, reader wears skirts, partial nudity, social anxiety, sexual shame and insecurity, fear of emotional intimacy, i make robby wear his glasses all da time⊠sue me, doctor/patient meet cute, minor head injury, needles/sutures, objectification and male-gaze framing, jack is a lil sleazy in this for narrative purposes, reader calls robby michael!, sex-worker/client power dynamics, references to marital infidelity (not between mcs), alcohol and smoking, clothed grinding, authority/instruction kink, praise kink, lots of pet names, light condescension/dumbification, dom!robby, hair pulling, clothed clitoral stimulation, fingering, multiple orgasms / overstimulation, age gap, car sex, brief mention of oral sex (f receiving), non-graphic mention of maternal suicide
WC 14k
Today has been a shit day to be Michael Robinavitch.
And yes, Robby understands â hard not to, with the department he runs thrumming behind him like a hive full of grief â that he is hardly the sorriest soul within earshot. Blood hits the floor. Heartbeats quit. Lives learn, fast and loud, that the Almighty can be blunt as a brick to the face.Â
In this place, Robby has witnessed enough human catastrophe to know that his own shit day should rank somewhere below minor inconvenience.
Knowing it, unfortunately, doesnât ease the drag.
Because thereâs this fucking tiredness that lives in him now by strata, each year pressed flat beneath the next, until whatever came before has been fossilized beyond recognition.
He remembers only fragments of that earlier man, someone who laughed without effort, someone who did not hear his name and immediately feel another small portion of himself being requisitioned.Â
They ask, and he gives. They ask again, and he gives again. That is the work. That is who he is. The two have grown around each other so completely that separating them would require cutting into bone.
But usually, the work of the emergency department can still pull him above the fatigue. Adrenaline is useful that way.Â
Today has offered no such mercy.
Hence, shit.
Just a steady procession of petty failures. Interruptions. Demands. Death by thumbtacks. Laughable, except there is barely enough of him left to puncture.Â
At six, a pipe bursts over radiology and turns half the department into a damp, swearing migraine, ceiling tiles sagging with dirty water while everyone responsible for maintaining the building becomes mysteriously unreachable.Â
At seven, a confused patient pulls the fire alarm because nobody will let him smoke beside the oxygen tanks which, if nothing else, demonstrates a level of commitment to a terrible idea that Robby almost respects.
Almost.Â
At eight, he discovers that the overnight attending (cough, Jack, cough) has left him a waiting room packed to capacity, two unsigned charts, and one impressively hostile email from the hospitalâs administrative assistant whose pink signature and tiny heart-shaped bullet points do nothing to soften the phrase âongoing efficiency deficits.âÂ
And by ten, his coffee has been knocked out of his hand, his lunch has been stolen from the refrigerator, and Whitaker has called out sick.Â
That leaves Robby down a physician and picking up whatever cases he can cram into the narrow spaces between one thing and the next.
Curtain Seven holds an uncomplicated eyebrow lac.
Practically a gift. A tiny, finite problem for a man whose entire life currently feels composed of open tabs and unfinished sentences.Â
Five minutes to assess, ten to irrigate and close, two more to recite the standard warnings about dizziness, vomiting, confusion, unequal pupils, and the many creative ways a minor head injury can become his problem again by midnight.
In and out. Straightforward. Painless, at least for him.
Then back to the several other problems already elbowing for space inside his overtaxed brain.Â
But the moment Robby pulls back the curtain, straightforward goes comprehensively to hell.Â
Medically speaking, it is exactly as the chart advertised. A small cut above your eyebrow. Manageable. Routine. Boring, even.Â
You are none of those things.
You sit perched on the edge of the gurney as though you have been placed there for safekeeping and warned not to touch anything. Spine stick-straight, hands gathered neatly in your lap.
Your cardigan is a soft color he doesnât have a name for, but he thinks itâs pretty, buttoned almost primly to your collarbones, tiny pearl buttons marching down the front.
Your skirt spills modestly over your crossed knees, sheer tights covering the rest of your legs, and a pair of neat ballet flats dangle just above the floor.
One toe traces a nervous little semicircle through the air before you catch yourself and hold still.Â
At the sound of the curtain, you turn, and your eyes find him immediately, enormous and worried and so wholly fastened to his face that doe-eyed no longer feels like a figurative term.
Robby nearly takes a step back.Â
He has not eaten. That must explain the dizziness.Â
He clears his throat and looks down at the chart, seeking temporary asylum among the intake notes. His eyes catch on your name. Pretty name. Naturally. Pretty woman, pretty name, the universe apparently committed to the theme.Â
He says it aloud and glances up to confirm the pronunciation. You nod quickly, almost eagerly.Â
âIâm Dr. Robinavitch,â he tells you, then relents before you can attempt the full four syllables. âDr. Robby, if you like.âÂ
That earns him another look â good grief.
Itâs a look that should be reserved for lifeboats at three a.m., that trembling instant when you realize the sea might still let you live. You shouldnât waste that on a man built mostly of leaks and patch jobs.
âHi, Dr. Robinavitch,â you say softly. âItâs lovely to meet you â well, I suppose it isnât, really. Lovely, I mean. Iâd rather not be in the emergency room.â Your mouth sours at your own words. âSorry, that was rude. I donât mean Iâd rather not meet you. Just not like this. With this ââ A limp hand flutters at your face. ââ whole facial fiasco.â
Itâs strangely funny, hearing his full name from your mouth. Most people seize the abbreviation when offered. But you cradle Robinavitch like fine china, intent on returning it intact.
âRight. That,â he says, taking a few measured steps closer. âCan you walk me through what happened?âÂ
Robby can practically see the debate flicker across your features. Truth in one corner, lie in the other, both taping up their knuckles. The lie comes out swinging first, something vague and graceful rising in your eyes, but your conscience cheap-shots it before the bell.
âI, um, ran into a door.âÂ
âAnd how did that happen?â
He has the answer assembled before you can give it to him, because there are only so many roads that lead a grown woman directly into a stationary object.
Too much wine, perhaps. A phone held three inches from your nose. Some spectacularly avoidable mishap born from distraction, intoxication, or the particularly lethal combination of both. People do not generally collide with doors while demonstrating excellent judgment.Â
You duck your head, and your thumb drifts to one of the pearl buttons on your cardigan, nudging it back and forth in its buttonhole, rubbing over the thread until the tidy cross-stitch has gone soft and fuzzy at the edges.Â
Not a new habit, Robby thinks. The button has been loved nearly to death.
âDo I have to tell you the exact details?â you ask, already shrinking from the question. âBecause I would really prefer not to.â
That does not help your case. Something irresponsible, then.
âI would prefer it if you did,â he prods. âI need to know if anything threw off your balance before impact. Vertigo, alcohol, low blood sugar, a sudden loss of consciousness. Anything like that.âÂ
He keeps the rest to himself, the way his own interest is tunneling deeper, a quiet animal gnawing through wood to find the soft center.Â
âNo, um, nothing like that,â you insist. âI was reading while I walked and I just⊠didnât look up soon enough.â
Robby blinks. âYou were reading.â
Itâs not a question, really, only a small correction entered into the file he had already begun assembling in his head.
So he was wrong.
Entirely, which perhaps he shouldâve anticipated. He was just trying not to judge a book by its cover. But your cover is proving remarkably faithful to the contents.Â
Without meaning to, Robby begins sketching the rest of you around it. You work somewhere quiet, he decides. A library, maybe, or some obscure university office tucked behind a corridor nobody visits without an appointment, surrounded by tidy shelves and coworkers who instinctively soften their voices around you.Â
You pack your lunch the night before in a regiment of matching containers. Drink tea, not coffee, probably something floral and faintly medicinal. Buy pens only after testing how smoothly they move across paper. Say sorry when other people bump into you.Â
Probably apologized to the door afterward, too.Â
A laugh falls out of him before he can decide whether itâs appropriate, soft at first, then edged with genuine amusement. âMustâve been a hell of a book.âÂ
âYou know, I donât think doctors are supposed to derive entertainment from their patientsâ poor spatial awareness,â you mutter, lashes lowering the instant the words escape, as if the joke were a spark you need to smother before anyone sees the smoke.Â
A small, stubborn curve clings to the edge of his mouth as he cants his head in concession. âFair point. Youâre right, and I apologize.â
The words are properly contrite. The twinkle in his eyes says heâs enjoying every second anyway.
Then he moves closer, and the witty spark in your eyes gutters out on cue. He catches the exact sputter of your breath â one skipped beat, a sharp sip of air â as he settles between your knees and towers over where you sit, broad shoulders eclipsing your view of anything but him.Â
âLetâs take a look,â he murmurs.Â
As soon as his thumb brushes the corner of the bandage, you begin talking.Â
âIt probably looks worse than it is. I mean, I havenât actually looked, because I thought that might make me feel faint, which is ridiculous because Iâm not squeamish, usually, except with my own blood, apparently, and I did clean it, I promise, I just wasnât sure if hydrogen peroxide was still considered good or if everyone decided it was bad while I wasnât paying attention ââ
âHydrogen peroxide is still considered good,â he cuts in, trying to drape calm over your runaway syntax.
Robby eases the tape away slowly, one inch at a time.
The wound beneath is nothing: a shallow scrape, the faintest puff of swelling. Still, annoyance sparks anyway, a quick, irrational flare. Ridiculous. A red skid mark above your eye â insignificant, yes, but on that face it feels like graffiti on marble.
The reaction inside him is almost comically paternal, a stern memo from some inner guardian demanding the universe exercise better stewardship over its delicate masterpieces.Â
Robby cradles your cheek with latex-clad fingertips, pressing gently around the scrape to check for deeper swelling. You flinch, shoulders stiffening, mouth pursing around a startled hiss.Â
âTender there?â Robby asks, the lines of his eyes tightening with concern.Â
Your lip disappears beneath your teeth, eyes darting up through thick lashes. âA little. Sorry.â
âDonât apologize.â His thumb drifts along the unbruised ridge of your cheekbone, touch light as breath.Â
Honestly, with the number of apologies flying between you, he ought to be wearing a mason jar on a string around his neck â your coins on one side, his on the other, rattling like wind chimes every time either of you says the word.Â
âI just donât want to make your job harder by⊠yâknow being uncooperative.â
He stifles another laugh.
The idea is so backwards itâs almost endearing.
Patients usually fight him like toddlers at bath time. If you were any more compliant, youâd offer to suture yourself up while reciting after-care instructions.Â
âYouâre a dream compared to the gentleman who tried to bite me for even suggesting stitches.â
Also, a dream in other respects, but heâll keep that to himself.
âStitches?â you echo, pupils flaring wide as if youâve spotted the needle already.
Robby raises both gloved hands in the universal easy there gesture. âYes, stitches. Two, maybe three. Weâll numb the area, you wonât feel a thing. Promise.â
Your gaze flicks from his gloves to his face, searching for any hairline crack in the reassurance heâs offered.
Robby feels suddenly exposed, half-convinced youâre also reading the shallow crowâs-feet and the faint gray at his temples, those watermarks that say used but serviceable even on his best days.Â
However, whatever you see must satisfy you; the tension in your jaw eases, and you exhale through your nose, giving him a small, firm nod.Â
âMâkay. Should be fine,â you murmur, offering a tentative half-smile that wobbles at the edges.Â
âWill be,â he corrects, voice dipping to the same rhythm as the cotton pad he draws along the cut. Outward strokes, clearing dried blood.Â
The antiseptic smell billows up, but it falters against the subtler warmth of you. Clean skin, faint lavender shampoo, sun-warmed wool, the sweet trace of whatever lip balm you worried away earlier.Â
He sets the cotton aside, swaps it for the syringe of lidocaine, and pitches his voice to the same hush one might use coaxing a skittish foal.
âTiny pinch coming â deep breath with me.âÂ
You obey promptly. The needle slips under the skin. He feels the faint give, watches your lashes flutter but not fall.
âGood,â he praises. âHalfway done with the worst part.â
While the numbing spreads, he cups your jaw with his free hand, thumb tracing an idle circle well clear of the scrape. He doesnât know why he does it. Canât stop either. An anchoring touch, perhaps. Nothing more.
Your pulse beats quick beneath the glove, bird-wing frantic, yet you keep still, eyes trained on his like youâve decided theyâre the safest coordinates in the room.Â
Thread, needle, forceps. He moves through the motions with ritual care, narrating each step.
âLittle poke,â he says as the curved needle dips. âPulling through, just a tug.âÂ
You tense, then relax when the promised pain never arrives. He snips the tail, smooths a fresh swab over the line of the suture, and starts the next pass. Two stitches.
Then, for safety, a third, fine as spider silk, barely visible against your skin.Â
âAll right, last one. Another deep breath.â
Your inhale is shaky but obedient. He mirrors it, slow and exaggerated, so you can match pace. In those three shared seconds the world shrinks to the hush of fabric, the faint click of instruments, the muted roar of blood in his ears.Â
The final knot seats neatly. He studies the trio, a tiny constellation guarding the fragile universe of your eye, and feels a swell of pride, as though heâs fitted diamonds into marble rather than nylon into flesh. A dab of antibiotic, a butterfly dressing laid with careful hands.Â
âGorgeous work,â he jokes, meaning the repair but, embarrassingly, meaning you as well. âYouâll hardly know itâs there in a week.âÂ
Your shoulders sag in a relief so tangible he could cup it in his palms. He steps back only after giving your cheek one last feather-light pat.
âBravest patient of the night,â he declares, peeling off his gloves with a snap and dropping them into the bin.
A slow exhale pours out of you, followed by a smile so earnest it could power streetlamps.Â
âI barely felt a thing,â you say, eyes tracking him as though heâs some rare object and youâre afraid to blink it away. âThank you, Dr. Robinavitch.â
âYou did great.â He feels the need to add that one. Heâs not sure why. Surely not because you instantly perk up at the praise. âDonât get it wet tonight. And, um, starting tomorrow, cleanse only daily with diluted baby shampoo, blot dry, tiny dab of ointment. This will all be in the instructions youâll be given. These stitches come out in about six days. Any signs of streaking redness, increasing tenderness, yellow drainage, or sudden headache, you come back in. Deal?â
âDeal,â you say, quick nods punctuating every syllable.
He reaches for the handle, then pauses. âOh, and the book stays closed anytime your feet are moving, yeah?âÂ
You clutch the strap of your bag and give him a tiny, chastened nod. âRight. Yes. Books and walking are officially divorced.â
Robby hasn't been able to stop thinking about you.
He isnât entirely sure why, and in the interest of preserving what remains of his peace, he has elected not to investigate. Ignorance is bliss, after all, and bliss is already more than a man with his age, schedule, and accumulated wreckage ought to expect.
Romance is not something he can sustain. He has made peace with that, mostly. Fleeting companionship is different.Â
A drink, a laugh, the uncomplicated relief of a warm body beside his for seven weeks or so. He is good at beginnings. Endings even more so, particularly when he can arrange them before a woman begins leaving things in his bathroom or asks him to describe the future as though he has ever possessed one.
Love and similar things demand room he does not have. Time he cannot promise. Parts of himself he suspects have already been spent elsewhere.
And you seem like you deserve more than a man whoâs only confident in the temporary.
Which is all theoretical anyway. Seventeen minutes is not enough time to determine whether a woman is interested in you. You gave him no indication you wanted him. And he has no intention of making a fool of himself by looking for one retroactively.Â
More importantly, life is not generally so obliging as to place the same stranger in his path twice.Â
It has been four days already, and his memory has begun eroding in all the wrong places.Â
You are still there, technically, but less in full and more in fragments. Your face keeps blurring at the margins no matter how often he finds himself, coincidentally, trying to call it back.Â
He remembers your nails. Neat, he thinks. Maybe rounded. Something careful about them, as though you spent time making sure even your hands caused no offense. The cardigan was pale, soft enough that he remembers wanting to touch the sleeve, although now it is cream, now pink, now some color he suspects you never wore at all.Â
Your mouth resists him most.
Presented as a still, it flat-lines. He only revives it by remembering kinesiology rather than anatomy, the subtle concavity when you spoke, and then, abruptly, the entire feature reanimates, pulsing with life he canât keep.Â
The thought of you persists, even here, in a room thick with stale cigar smoke that rasps over his tongue like powdered charcoal.
Robby presses his thumb into the bridge of his nose until color sparks behind his eyelids. Creams and pinks.
He refocuses on Jack, who has sprawled comfortably into a low leather chair. A cigar glows between his fingers, the ember brightening each time he makes a point to Mateo and Parker, orange-red, then dull, then orange-red again.
How he allowed himself to be dragged here, of all places, remains unclear. Jackâs talent for weaponized rationality probably played a role.
It began innocently â one drink, Robby, come on â then snowballed into youâve been a hermit for half a year, and ended with Jack beside Robbyâs car holding his keys hostage until he agreed to accompany them.
At no point had anyone mentioned that the âquiet place Mateo knowsâ employed women in six-inch heels. And by the time he clocked the neon, tacky signage, the silhouette of a woman wrapped around a pole, he was already wedged in the back seat between Parker and a cooler.
Jack catches him staring and lifts his brows. âTry to look less like youâre waiting for the health department to arrive.âÂ
Robby exhales through his nose. âGive me two more whiffs of this carpet and Iâm calling them myself.âÂ
âYouâve been here twelve minutes, pal.â Jack taps ash neatly into the tray beside him. âLoosen up. Have a drink. Let a pretty woman remind you that the human body occasionally does things other than crash and burn.â
âIâm well acquainted with its full range of functions, thanks,â Robby says, finally lifting the glass heâs ignored all night. The ice has surrendered to a sad film of water, flavor leached out before he even tasted it.Â
Parker tears her attention from the stage, lashes still raining glitter, and pins him with a look that borders on pity. âWith all due respect, Robby, I think you may have forgotten a few of the more recreational applications.âÂ
Robby tracks the path her eyes abandoned, just in time to glimpse a quicksilver blur twining up the pole before the lights swallow it whole.Â
He hasnât forgotten. He has simply not mistaken remembering them for needing them, or so he has been telling himself since his last fling ended four weeks ago. There was sex, plenty of it, an indisputably recreational application that, for forty-five minutes at a time, returned his body to something other than a piece of shiftwork machinery.
Then it was over, the loan period expired, and the instrument went back on the surgical tray.
Jack salutes Parker with his glass in agreement.
Robby swings his gaze between them, unimpressed. âIâm old enough to remember when that kind of commentary wouldâve at least been whispered behind my back.âÂ
âNight crewâs a different animal, man. After midnight, weâre all equals.â Mateo lifts one shoulder, entirely unrepentant.
Robby snorts. âNo, we arenât.â
âAnd that attitude right there ââ Mateo lifts a finger and aims it straight at him ââ is exactly why Jack dragged your ass out tonight.â
Robby inhales to fire back, but the song ends on a hard cut, swallowing his comeback in a wave of cheers. Silver lights bleed instantly into velvet red, and an anticipatory murmur travels across the room with remarkable speed. Glasses thunk onto tables. Spines straighten as though tugged by the same invisible string.
A man near the front actually elbows his friend into silence, eyes fixed on the curtain.
A familiar woman steps out.
Or, more accurately, Robbyâs eyes insist she is familiar, and his mind arrives several seconds later, scrambling for an explanation.Â
Robby has seen that happen often enough. A limb arranged at an angle the body was never designed to hold. Blood arcing with such absurd force it looks less like injury than special effects. The first look rejects it. The second begins the unpleasant work of believing.Â
He trusts the second look because panic is an unreliable witness, because fatigue smears whatâs real, because a person under strain will borrow a strangerâs face and fasten it onto any recognizable outline if recognition feels safer than confusion.Â
So that is what this must be. A trick of light. A bad angle. His weary mind reaching backwards four days and dressing an unfamiliar woman in the remnants of you.
But the second look is the same as the first.Â
The woman remains you. A vision rendered in arterial red, lace curling over your body in ornate filigree, satin bands drawing the eye down the sleek length of your legs to crimson stilettos that land against the stage with sharp, ceremonial clicks.
Light pools in the soft hollow of your waist, slides over the swell of your hips, catches on the bounce of cleavage held in scalloped cups.
He could still call it resemblance, perhaps, if not for the small interruption above your eyebrow. The cut. The one he irrigated, aligned, closed. His handiwork sits there like a signature on a painting, ruining every alternative.
A bolt of percussion fires through his veins. One huge, discordant thud that reverberates all the way up into his skull.Â
âJesus,â Parker whistles, lounging into her elbows. âAlright, I see why sheâs got regulars.â
Robby does too, though agreement seems a flimsy response to whatâs happening.
Youâre⊠wrong word, wrong word, wrong word.
Pretty is flowers in glass jars and daylight and picnic tables. Sexy is no better, insufficient and boyish, a word that is used in locker rooms and bad dating apps.
What you are now is something closer to magnetic, maybe.Â
You draw the room toward you molecule by molecule, the way the moon hauls entire oceans across the earth without asking permission. Even Robby, professional skeptic, finds his spine tilting, happy to pretend the leash isnât there while secretly begging you not to drop it.Â
A flush climbs his neck, prickling beneath the starched edge of his shirt, so he sneaks a finger inside for air.
Jack notices, turning just enough to smirk around the rim of his glass as if to say told you so. But he doesnât know the real reason Robby feels suddenly suffocated.
Robby shrugs deeper into the leather, posture telegraphing cool indifference like a man impervious to heat.
He isnât. And heâs even less impervious to the whiplash of matching this siren to the shy patient who sat in his ER.
The woman in the ER had nearly apologized herself into a corner over the possibility that saying hello wrong might make her rude. This woman keeps a hundred people waiting on one slow turn of her hip and does not apologize to any of them. Four days ago, you could barely hold his gaze without softening it with a timid smile. Now you meet the eyes of strangers one by one, choosing them, releasing them, granting each man the brief narcotic thrill of being singled out before moving on fast enough that none of them can confuse attention with ownership.
It should feel like performance. A costume, a trick of lighting, confidence painted on as carefully as whatever dark color shines across your mouth. Except nothing about it reads false.Â
You are not pretending to command the room any more than you had been pretending to be nervous with him. Both things are true, somehow, two states held inside the same body without either invalidating the other.
Schrödingerâs woman, collapsing into whatever form the environment demands.
The possibility unnerves him more than a lie would: that he never really sees all of anyone, that patients arrive in pieces and leave with the rest of themselves still undisclosed. That the same could be said for him.Â
At work heâs precision incarnate, voice pitched to steady the hands of interns and family members alike. Off the clock, the same voice canât convince him to answer texts or fold laundry thatâs been clean for a week. Heâs the doctor who tells grieving spouses to hydrate, then forgets to eat until his vision tunnels. Two truths, both real, both incomplete.Â
On the next pass your eyes collide with his, momentum juddering so fiercely the rest of you almost follows.
Almost.
You decant the shock into a languid pause while your hand trails over the valley of your waist. The crowd drinks it in as pure seduction, none the wiser. Robby is. He witnesses the recognition bloom hard behind your pupils before you bury it. For a second he was seeing Curtain-Seven-You blinking up through the polish, startled to discover her doctor reclined with a sweating glass and a stare he canât pretend away.
One blink later the mask reseats itself. The woman he sutured melts back beneath the gloss-hard shell of the woman steering the room by its collective bloodstream.
You prowl towards the pole.
The knot of men ringing the stage is already rowdy, but your proximity behaves like accelerant. One slaps the rail, another looses a lewd invitation, all of them bending forward to peak at the whisper-thin scrap stretched over your ass.
Robbyâs molars meet with a crack at the wet, barking laughter of appreciation that follows.Â
You appear unbothered, palm sliding up chrome, spine unwinding as you lift onto the lethal points of your heels, a slow ascension that leaves the pack panting.
You draw one leg behind you and tip forward, lace disappearing between parted thighs as you roll downward.
His hand lifts to his mouth, knuckles pressing against his teeth, and then he bites down because Christ, because fucking hell, because apparently the human body still does plenty other than crash and burn.Â
His, for one, springs to attention violent enough that he has to shift in his chair and pass the movement off as a casual adjustment, pretending the sudden pressure behind his zipper is nothing more than a quest for better lumbar support.Â
Rising inch by inch, you draw yourself back up.
A gentle press of your wrist sets you spinning once unhurried around the pole. Your gaze rides the rotation, finding one patron, then another, gifting each a fraction of electric eye contact that has wallets loosening like reflex.Â
When the orbit swings you toward Robby, you turn your chin a breath away, letting your hair curtain the sight of him, withholding the current he suddenly realizes he wants more than air.Â
âWell?â Jack suddenly murmurs, nudging him with the side of his arm. âShe doing anything for you?â
âShe appears to be doing something for everyone,â Robby replies, dryly, lifting his glass as though the roomâs collective reaction has nothing whatsoever to do with his own.Â
âMaybe you should find out what she does one-on-one,â Jack says mildly, like heâs suggesting another round. âPrivate dances are a thing here, Iâm told.âÂ
âI think Iâve seen enough,â Robby replies, aiming for bored and landing somewhere closer to strained.Â
He has not seen enough, not even enough to satisfy the first sharp edge of curiosity. A dozen questions are now cracked open where one used to be. Enough is nowhere in sight.
You never look at him again.Â
The song winds down. The room stands for you. Applause swells while you gather the scattered bills with calm hands, then slip behind the curtain without so much as a backward glance.
Good, Robby tells himself. Better this way.
The lie rides home with him in the passenger seat.
The first vintage car Robby bought had already been abandoned once. He found it beneath a collapsing canvas cover behind a house outside Pittsburgh, all four tires sunk into the earth.
He traced the rain-carved rivulets of rust down its fenders as the homeowner, beer resting on a potbelly, bragged about a future overhaul spoken in the casual, uninterested tone of a man whoâd rather let weather finish the job.Â
Robby bought it before he had anywhere sensible to keep it. And for two long years Robby spent his evenings and weekends nursing seized pistons free, lathing corrosion off gears, feeding the straight-six new gaskets and hope until it almost sounded like itself again.Â
He called it a hobby, later upgraded the label to cheaper than therapy, but never once spoke the truest thing â that some stubborn, eight-year-old corner of his heart was trying to prove that abandoned didnât automatically make a thing unworthy of rescue.Â
âHi, Dr. Robinavitch.â
Robby straightens, throat clearing more than once. âHi. Itâs⊠nice to seeing you again.â
A poor choice of words.
He knows it from the way the sentence seems to remain in the room after he has finished speaking.
Nice to seeing you again here, he means. In the emergency department, fully clothed in a yellow sundress, purse clasped between polite hands. Not nice seeing you again since the strip club, where heâd gone home afterward and wrapped his fist around his cock like some middle-aged sleazeball with no better use for his imagination.Â
Surely you will assume he means the emergency room. Any reasonable person would.Â
âUm, I followed all your instructions. For the aftercare, I mean.â Your hand rises halfway toward your eyebrow before seeming to think better of it. âIt looks all right, doesnât it?â
The upward tilt at the end gives you away. Robby recognizes the bid for praise, though he is less prepared for how instinctively he wants to satisfy it.Â
It is profoundly disorienting to see you like this, returned to his most timed, sweet patient.
âIt looks great,â he promises, lips tipping into a smile he canât stop. âSeems you did everything right.âÂ
Relief melts your shoulders, an overlarge reaction to a modest bit of validation. Robby feels an equally outsized glow at having caused it.
Drawn in, he shortens the distance between you, leaning over the gurney to parse the neat ladder of scabbed flesh.
âAny redness, swelling â any drainage? Fever? Swelling?â
âNo.â
âKept it dry?â
âMostly.â
âMostly?â
You blink up at him. âI showered.â
âEveryone showers,â he points out.
The answer comes out drier than intended, though not unkindly. You seem to consider this, lips parting and then closing again, as though reviewing the entire history of human bathing for a more defensible response.
Robby waits and dislikes how charming he finds the hesitation.
âRight, well, yes,â you concede at last, cheeks warming. âBut some people are better at keeping their faces out of the water than others.â
He nearly lets the grin escape. âAnd which category would you place yourself in?â
Then he makes the mistake of letting the sentence form an image. Water coursing over cheekbones, pooling in clavicles, dress adhering to the soft body beneath.
He does not need to imagine much. His memory has become inconveniently exact where your body is concerned.
The swell of your breasts, full and heavy. He has seen the smooth plane of your stomach, the dip at your navel, the round flare of your hips, the way that scrap of satin vanished between the fat curve of your ass when you bent over and held the room there with you.
The sundress feels suddenly fraudulent, a modest little curtain drawn over a body his mind has no trouble stripping bare.
âUh⊠the less-graceful division.â A nervous little smile flickers and dies.Â
âWell, fortunately, shower water isnât acid,â he teases, sliding a latexed thumb beneath the healing seam. âOnce the wound has had a day or two to seal, brief contact is generally harmless. Prolonged soaking, scrubbing, contaminated water â those would concern me. Your inability to lean backward does not.â
There is really no reason for him to be here today. The department is fully staffed, plenty of nurses, plenty of docs. Suture-snipping is a five-minute chore, and anyone with gloves and passable vision could handle it.Â
Langdon even volunteered â âIâll take the stitch removalâ â surely looking for something easy to do in between back to back GSWs. But Robbyâs eyes caught your name on the board, and before the words could stop themselves, heâd stepped in.Â
âIâve got it.â
He didnât think it was rude. More curt, maybe. Decisive. Perhaps carrying the implication that Langdon should fuck off and find a different patient. He recovered by invoking continuity of care. He knows how the wound looked initially. He can assess healing against the baseline.
All true points.
And plus, Robby likes to finish what he starts. Thatâs what he told himself about the car, too, during that second frost-bitten winter, when the engine still wouldnât turn over and more pragmatic voices egged him toward the scrapyard.Â
It justifies the way he looks at you now. He intends to finish with you as well. Finish what, though? A repair? A detour? He canât name it yet, only feels the torque of wanting to see the job through.
âDoes removing them hurt?â
âNot usually.â Robby adjusts the goose-neck lamp above you. âThereâs some pulling. Maybe a sting if the skin has started growing around one of the knots. Compared to the laceration itself and the anesthetic injections, this should be the easy part.â
You nod and brace yourself, chin tipped up, lips pressed into a thin determined line. Your fingers close around the edges of your handbag, knuckles tightening. Robby is not sure why you havenât set it aside. Perhaps you expect to flee halfway through.Â
Robby angles the forceps and offers a calm, âTry not to tense.â
A terrible instruction, really. You go rigid beneath his hand.Â
He places one gloved hand along your temple, thumb resting just above your cheekbone, and brings the scissors to the first knot.
The surgical scissors dip, catch, snap. He eases the filament clear.
Your nose wrinkles.
âYou okay?â
âYeah. Just⊠felt weird.â
âThatâs the official technical term.â He huffs a laugh, swiping a finger at the injury. âLook at that â one down, two to go.â
He snips the second knot, giving his hands more concentration that the task requires. You study a blank patch of wall beyond his shoulder. Robby trains his eyes on the shears, the tray, anywhere but the soft sweep of your lashes.Â
Each time your lines of sight drift close, you both twitch a millimeter off course. An awkward pas de deux so perfectly in sync it reeks of rehearsal.
âSo, um.â You exhale like youâre stepping off a ledge. âIs the plan to keep acting like you didnât see me?â
For a breath the tiny blades hover, silver comma in the sentence. Robbyâs hand moves again before the moment can form into trouble.Â
âI assumed that was what you preferred.â
Snip. The last blue thread lifts away. Robby drops it into the tray and peels his gloves.Â
âWell â yes. Usually,â you admit, eyes tracing anything but his. âItâs just awkward now, and Iâm sure itâs awkward for you, too, and I feel like I put you in a strange position by being here.âÂ
Robby inspects the thin pink line left behind, then cleans away the faint crusting with a square of saline-dampened gauze.
The edges have knitted neatly enough that he decides against Steri-Strips, though he smooths a small bandage over it for protection anyway.Â
âYou came here for medical care,â he says, pressing the adhesive down with his thumb. âYou didnât put me in any position. You had stitches that needed removed, and Iâm a doctor.â
âI know, but you didnât know what I did before, and then you saw me doing it, and now you have to do this while we both pretend you havenât seen significantly more of me than is appropriate. That feels like a strange position.â Â
He stares at you.
âTo be fair, Iâm the one who came into your, um, place of work and saw you like that. You didnât bring any of it in here.â He gives a stiff chuckle, then rushes, âNot that I make a habit of visiting those kinds of places.âÂ
You face falls, though only by degrees, nothing he could accuse himself of causing if he wanted the escape, only a tiny collapse around the eyes before they drop to your lap.
Shit.
âRight,â you murmur. âI understand.âÂ
He does not think you do. You understand what his tongue accidentally suggested: that he considers himself separate from men who go to strip clubs and, by extension, considers you separate from women deserving uncomplicated respect.Â
âI only mean it wasnât planned,â he corrects quickly. âOn my part. Not that thereâs anything wrong with where you work.âÂ
You push yourself off the gurney too quickly, knees nearly catching its metal frame.Â
âYou donât have to explain, Dr. Robinavitch.â The title returns with enough formality to put several safe feet between you. âReally. I understand.â You smooth the skirt of your dress, though there is nothing wrong with it, eyes darting toward the curtain. âI should go, anyway. I have another appointment.â A pause. âAm I all right to leave?âÂ
A firm no hovers on his tongue.
He could claim the adhesive hasnât fully bonded, that follow-up education on UVA vs UVB protection is suddenly urgent. Hell, he could ask about nausea, tinnitus, sleep patterns â whatever buys an additional thirty seconds so he can reel his arrogance back in rather than watching you walk away with it.
âYes, you can go.â Robby steps back, creating a polite corridor of air even while every muscle in him strains to close it again. âThe wound is closed. No signs of infection.â
You nod, murmur another thank-you, and leave with the brisk determination of someone escaping a small fire.Â
He tosses the gloves, scans the room to be sure nothingâs missing, and steps into the hall.Â
By Friday, you have almost convinced yourself that Dr. Robinavitchâs opinion does not matter.Â
Because it doesnât, really. Why would it? You donât know the man. You donât even know his first name. You only know how he looks in navy scrubs and how he looks in a dark green hoodie with the sleeves shoved to his forearms and you know how he blinks behind askew glasses when the universe throws a curveball.Â
None of that grants him jurisdiction over your self-worth, you remind yourself â for the sixth, seventh, eighth time in the last hours (which is absolutely a rational number of times for something that totally, unequivocally does not bother you)
You have no idea what his favorite color is, what he does on his days off, whether he reads before bed or falls asleep with the television on, whether he has friends who tease him or children who call him when they need something fixed. He could be boring. He could be unbearable.Â
He is functionally a stranger, and the opinions of strangers should pass over you without leaving a mark.
Except there had been a moment during that first visit when he had not felt like a stranger at all.
Some tiny aperture had opened in your mind, no more substantial than a daydream caught between blinks, and through it had been an entire future built from nothing. He would maybe ask for your number. You'd manage polite astonishment, of course, pretending the last ten minutes hadn't been an obsessive loop of ask me, ask me, ask me.
Then coffee. Maybe dinner. Conversation that would wander past the pleasantries and into the real questions. Everything happening in the normal order, the one other people seemed to enter without needing a script.
A man likes a woman. He asks her out. She says yes.
There would be no transaction or discussion of time or disclaimers about boundaries or fees. Just interest migrating, cell by cell, toward intimacy.
That little fantasy had been naive. Nothing in your life had ever been handed over with both palms open. You had fought for every apartment, every paid bill, every small square of stability you could defend as yours, and even stripping had begun less like a choice than as the only unlocked door in a hallway full of deadbolts.
It was never meant to be forever.
Forever had looked a little quieter when you pictured it, something involving the degree you had worked for, maybe kitten heel shoes that wouldn't destroy your arches, perhaps a desk with a small green plant you would remember to water because in this imagined life you were also the kind of woman who remembered such things.Â
Instead, your diploma yellowed discreetly on the wall while your student loans siphoned off money earned in rhinestones and six-inch heels, the sort of circular joke capitalism might have written after three drinks: you had gone into debt to become qualified for work that could not support you, then used supposedly disreputable work to pay for the qualification.Â
But the work does keep you housed.Â
It keeps the electricity on and the refrigerator stocked and (miracle of miracles) lets the rent clear without taking the rest of your life with it. As survival strategies go, it beats overdraft fees and lukewarm Ramen by a mile.
And plus, you are good at it.Â
A song lasts three minutes, sometimes four, and for that small illuminated span your life became beautifully finite.
Eight counts, a mark beneath your stilettos, the angle of your chin timed to the bass. Nothing accidental, nothing capable of catching you unprepared. Under the lights you swell to mystic size, pure glitter and gravity, and the house confuses being watched with being known.
You give them a body, a smile, the suggestion of closeness. Not one thing more.
âSomeoneâs askinâ for you.â Candy â six feet of sunset-red hair, glitter-lidded eyes, and a cigarette behind her ear â materializes at your elbow.
She worries a cocktail straw between teeth painted Revlon Fire & Ice, shifts weight onto one stiletto and fixes you with a look.Â
Candy had been at the club long enough to remember three owners, two renovations, and at least a dozen girls who had arrived with stage names chosen in the parking lot and disappeared before anyone learned their real ones.Â
She was not material, she would have corrected anyone who suggested it, largely because she considered children loud and motherhood an elaborate pyramid scheme.
Still, she had taken one look at you on your first night and decided you were hers to keep alive. Somebody had to.
You glance toward the hallway. âWho?â
âDidnât ask. Tall. Glasses, maybe.â She stabs her straw toward the lobby, cherry lipstick parting in a half-smirk. âOr not. Lightingâs shit out there.â
âWell, that narrows it down,â you say with a laugh, tightening the cap on your mascara.Â
Through the mirror Candy tips her chin, curls spilling forward like spent matchsticks. âTrust me, honey, you wonât miss him. Sticks out like a sore thumb in there. Real stuck-up face. Could be handsome under all the disapproval.âÂ
âReassuring,â you murmur, sliding the tube into your makeup bag. âAll right. Iâll go talk to him.â
You step away from the mirrorâs glare, padding down the corridor that smells of hairspray and stale Mojitos.
Being requested has long since stopped surprising you.
The frequency still does, perhaps, because it happens more to you than to most the girls and you cannot quite identify the mechanism, what small thing you do that makes men single you out from an entire room of beautiful women.
You suspect it might be the distance, the impression that some essential part of you remains elsewhere. Men enjoy a locked door when they believe money might furnish the key.
So a summons from the floor means little, a private-room request, which you're sure is to follow, even less.
The steeper the fee, the holier they feel. And your fees are steep.Â
You have learned the taxonomy by now: the overexcited ones who can barely sit still, the grabby ones who pretend they misunderstood, the married ones who turn their rings inward, the unmarried ones who act as though that makes them virtuous.
Odds are Tall-Maybe-Glasses will slot into one category or another. They always do.
What you find is not remotely what you expect.
Even under the clubâs shit lighting you recognize him instantly, despite the bodies cutting between you, despite every reasonable part of your brain insisting there must be hundreds of men in Pittsburgh with broad shoulders and glasses, hundreds who own dark green long sleeve shirts and jeans, hundreds capable of sitting stiffly around a drink they must regret ordering.
But only one of them blinks at disaster the way he does.
Only one is Dr. Robinavitch, and he is already looking directly at you.
You consider turning around and pretending Candy found the wrong girl. Too late. You feel her surfacing already, that other side he seems uniquely equipped to excavate. The fumbling girl who never knows where to put her hands and whom you have worked very hard to keep out of this room.
By the time you reach him, whatever elegant greeting your usual persona here might have offered has abandoned you completely.
âDr. Robinavitch,â you say, stopping before him with your arms held awkwardly at your sides. âWhat are you doing here?âÂ
âYou can call me Michael,â he says, holding your gaze. It looks like he almost regrets saying that, but he continues on. âWeâre not at the hospital.â
It is a nice name. Simple, strong, well-suited to him. It belongs in kitchens lit gold before sunrise, in slow Sundays and coffee cooling on the counter, in a voice calling up the stairs that breakfast is ready. It belongs to people who know him well enough to shorten it when they are teasing and draw out every syllable when they are cross.
âMichael, then,â you say, testing the shape of it while pretending it does not make him seem suddenly, inconveniently more human, then repeat, âWhat are you doing here?â
Michael lifts the glass to his lips, the ice chiming. âHaving a drink.â
âThought you didnât frequent places like this.â
Itâs cheap. Petty, even. You know it the second you say it, but that sentence has been bruising beneath your skin all week, tender every time you press at it.
Michael looks down into his drink. âI deserved that.â
Your posture slips by a degree, less certain of itself.Â
âI wasnât trying to make you feel bad,â you say automatically, then wince because that is plainly untrue. âWell, I was. A little.â Your finger finds the edge of the bar, worrying at it. âBut only because you made me feel bad first, which is childish, I know, and not that it even matters because you donât owe me anything, I justâŠâ Stop. Breathe. Locate the point. You make yourself meet his eyes again. âCould you answer the original question honestly, please? Because the drinks here are terrible.â
You have never been particularly good at cruelty, not sustained cruelty, anyway.
When you were eight, you once cried harder than your cousin after shoving him off a swing because he had called you stupid, then spent the rest of the afternoon bringing him popsicles and checking his scraped knee as though guilt itself might cauterize the wound.
Even now, one flicker of remorse in someone's face and your anger begins eating its own tail.
âI wanted to see you. To apologize.â His mouth pulls taut, irritation aimed inward. âI didnât know where else to find you.â
âOh.â A rogue strand of hair is tucked away, buying you a second to breathe. âWell, thatâs⊠nice. Unnecessary, but nice.â You give him a shrug. âItâs okay. I know you didnât mean it the way it sounded. Iâm just a little sensitive sometimes, apparently.â
âNo. Youâre not too sensitive. I was insensitive.â He pauses, as though deciding whether to risk the rest. âAnd Iâd like the chance to ââ
A hand lands lightly at your elbow.
âThere you are.â A voice interrupts. âYou free for a private?â
The club rushes back in all at once. Damp skin. Sugared alcohol. A bartender shouting over the room as ice spills hard into a metal sink.
You turn and find one of your regulars smiling down at you. Married category. Grabby-hands category. Frequent overlap.
He is broad through the middle, expensive watch flashing at his wrist, his face polished into the benign affability of someone who says my wife doesnât understand me like he has personally discovered marital dissatisfaction.
Once, after three bourbons, he had shown you a photograph of said wife and two daughters without the faintest sense of irony. Beautiful family. Matching white shirts on a beach somewhere, everyone squinting happily into the sun.
Then he had tucked the phone away and laid both hands on your thighs despite having been told twice not to.
You had removed them one finger at a time.
He had called you feisty.
Those are the moments that blur the professional laminate of the job, makes you wonder whether a woman who participates in other people's dishonesty are still allowed to want honest things for herself.
Your mouth opens, closes. âI â uh.â The word sticks, unfinished promise in Michaelâs gaze tugs at you, but the house cut doesnât wait. A practiced smile slips into place. âAbsolutely. Room threeâs free. Go grab a seat, Iâll be right behind you.â
Before the man can move, Michaelâs voice cuts in.
âIâll take that room instead â at double your usual rate.â
You lashes jump. âSorry, what?â
âI need a private moment with you,â he clarifies. âWhatever it costs, Iâll double it and add another hundred.â
The regular bristles, shoulders squaring. âPal, you canât just buy my slot.â
âThatâs exactly what Iâm offering.â Michael swings his gaze to you. âTriple.â
You start to shake your head. âMicheal, thatâs not procedure. I have to ââ
âTake care of customers, I know. So let me be the customer.â He trails off on customer, like he's only now realizing that buying your time might require more than throwing numbers into the air.
âRich boys and their wallets.â The man scoffs, the sound thick with bottom-shelf whiskey and wounded vanity.
But he does unclamp his fingers from your forearm, wiping the phantom scorch across faded denim as if your skin left a welt.
The grumble from Mr. Grabby fades behind you, leaving you alone with Michael again.
Michael and that unreadable face, solemn eyes and a tightly ironed flat mouth, giving away nothing. Refusing to hint at what he expects to happen when you breathe in a smaller room together.
You sift his features one last time, hoping for a spark, for motive, or leak of feeling, but the shelves are bare tonight, so you assemble a customer-service smile, flash the bouncer your wristband, and angle your chin toward the corridor.
âUm â this way, please.â
He ducks in behind you, almost too big for the narrow hall, one shoulder skims peeling latex paint, the other nearly takes out a exit-sign wire. His fists stay buried in his pockets.
Neon leaks through the frosted door ahead, flooding everything in pink-blue prisms. When you step inside and catch your reflection in the mirror, you look like a broken candy heart flashing on and off in a vending-machine light show.
âClock starts when the door shuts,â you say, palming the latch.Â
âThen shut it.âÂ
Baritone honey pours over you and a tide of goosebumps rise in its wake. You're grateful for the anonymity the lighting provides, hiding the way your mouth parts like you've never heard a command before.
Snick.
The door seals and silence rushes in, puffing outward until it fills every corner of the room.
He lowers himself into the narrow armchair, long legs arranged with care, spine straight, hands folded together over his lap. No ring on his left. Still no ring, because yes, you checked again, and yes, you had checked the first time you met him too. You tell yourself it's not a weird thing to notice. People notice hands.
âOkay, thereâs a couple rules before we start.â Your voice nearly snags as you move in front of him, every shift of your sequined costume scattering red flecks over his face. âFirst, no touching unless I initiate. If I do, you let me lead.â You lift another finger. âSecond, stay seated unless I tell you to move. And third⊠anything said or done here disappears when the timer goes off.â
He nods.Â
Normally, this part requires almost no thought. Muscle memory takes over and your mind slips away into its little palace of useless thoughts. What you will eat after work. Whether Candy ever returned your lip liner. How many payments are left on your student loans.Â
You think about anything but the man in the chair.
But tonight, when you tap the music to life, the little door in your head refuses to open. It remains here, aware of him, aware of yourself through his gaze, awareness folding over awareness until the whole thing feels less like performance than standing between two mirrors and watching the image multiply.
Still, your body knows where to go.
You skim two fingers along the wall, static skittering beneath their pads, and then you turn.
Your left knee softens, weight melting into the floor through the arch of your foot as your shoulders roll into the first down beat. Three slow steps carry you neatly between his knees.
One hand plants on the chair-back above his head, the other glides down your own thigh, tracing its curve until only a sliver of air remains between your skin and his, rule one perserved by the narrowest margin.
Michaelâs shoulders iron themselves to the seatback, eyes flicking up to yours, down, immediately back up, panicked by the prospect of settling anywhere too long. His thumbs sneak under the armrests, improvised restraints for hands that clearly no longer trust themselves.
You let one painted nail trace the shallow notch of his collar and feel the shiver it pulls it loose.
Then you turn again, hips sweeping slowly over his lips before planting your hands on his knees and folding forward until his exhale punches hot against the back of your thighs.
âListen ââ He stalls, throat clicking around the word like itâs too wide to pass, âI never meant to belittle you. Before. In the ER.âÂ
A soft, warning little âmm-mmâ escapes your lips as you lift one hand before he can continue, pivoting back toward him as you sink into the space between his parted knees, palms gliding slowly up the hard planes of his thighs.
âYou're wasting very expensive minutes, Dr. Robinavitch.â
âMichael,â he corrects automatically, then drags in a breath. âBut you need to know...â He blows the sentence out through flared nostrils, gathers the rest like loose change and dumps it at your feet. âI never thought less of you. If anythingâ â he swallows, pride shrinking a size â âIâm far too invested in what you think of me. So Iâd really prefer it if I didnât leave here with you convinced Iâm some condescending asshole.âÂ
Your fingers tighten just enough to gather a pinch of his trousers. âWhy?â
His brows crash together. âWhy what?â
âWhy are you so invested in what I think of you?â The words tumble out softer than you intend, but thereâs no stuffing them back inside now.Â
âI donât know,â he admits. âI just⊠do.â
You answer by rising onto your toes, sliding forward until your knees plant on either side of his thighs and gravity pulls you down, snug, perfectly aligned. You can feel how hard heâs trying not to rock up into you; the tension turning his thighs into steel beneath your calves.Â
You cup the back of the chair with one hand, the other drifting to the nape of his neck, fingertips teasing the short hair there while your hips settle, testing his restraint like a match teasing gasoline.Â
âDid you really come here just to apologize?â
âYes.â It lands flat and Michael's gaze flinches sideways. You can practically hear the second half of that lie thrashing in his throat, begging for a more believable host.
âI donât know that I believe you.â Your hips tip forward in a languid circle, coaxing a muted groan that reveals far more than his answer did.
His mouth parts around the sound and an impulse sparks â close the distance, lean in and test whether his kisses are as buttoned-up as every other part of him. But kissing would not be part of the dance. A kiss would be yours, not the performer's, and you've already bared more of yourself with him than intended.
âDo you think I have ulterior motives?â His eyes flick down to your lips then snap back up as though caught.
Your nails trace the neat seam of his shirt, an excuse to keep touching him while you marshal courage. âI think a man who shells out triple the rate has some motive. Whether that's ulterior or not is still up in the air.â
A sharp beep-beep-beep interrupts the charge in your chest.
âTime.â
You don't move right away, hands now resting on the broad shelf of his shoulders as if checking for something you forgot. A heartbeat passes before you ease back, letting air slip in.
âIf thatâs⊠all you needed, apology accepted. Promise.â Your voice skips like a stone. âIâll justâ grab the door.âÂ
Before you can slide from his lap, his hands move to your waist.
The touch is tentative for all of half a second, waiting, perhaps, for you to remind him of rule one.Â
When you donât, his hands forming a firmer pressure into your sides. âThatâs not all I needed.âÂ
Heat sparks under his thumbs, soldering whatever resolve you had to stand up.
âWhat does that mean?â
âIt means ââ A muscle jumps in his cheek. âI did come here to apologize. I just didnât anticipate wanting... considerably more than your forgiveness.â
Your inhale stalls mid-rib. âSuch as?â
âFirst,â he murmurs, leaning in until his breath ribbons across your mouth. His lips graze, barely, a static spark you could almost pretend you imagined. âI want to kiss you. Will you let me do that?â
Your body tilts toward him on instinct, gravity picking sides, but you slam the brakes a centimeter from his mouth.Â
Heat still flares across your cheeks as you remind both of you, âI donât kiss customers.âÂ
His hands ease from your waist. âOkay.â
âThatâs it?â you blurt, half-expecting the bargaining to start.
He blinks, brow pleating. âDid you expect a fight?â
He almost looks hurt by the idea.
But that's almost exactly what you were primed for. Just like that the negotiation table collapses, all your rehearsed rebuttals clattering to the floor while he simply pockets his desire and honors the line. No counteroffer, no charm as defense, nothing.
Heâs the first customer whoâs ever heard no and decided the period at the end was permanent, and the respect tastes oddly like defeat.
âYou could ask me again when Iâm not working.â
âCould I?â
Your pulse jumps at the invitation you just opened and you curse your mouth for racing ahead of your fear, yet the idea of him wanting you outside this neon fishbowl sends a ridiculous bloom of warmth through your body.Â
âIf you still want to,â you say, pretending cool confidence while your mind is screeching please say yes, please say yes.Â
âI will.â
âYou canât know that.â
âNo,â he concedes. âSo tell me when youâre not working and give me the opportunity to find out.â
âAnd if you change your mind?â
âI wonât,â he says, voice trimmed of hesitation. His stare pins you in place. âBut if it makes you feel better, Iâll wait until then to say I told you so.â
Three Thursdays later, Michael Robinavitch still hasn't cashed in his told-you-so, even though he earned the right to say it several times over (turns out he's far too charitable for that), but you've learned two things about him all the same.
The first is that his kisses are anything but buttoned-up.
You learned this after your first date, which began at a little restaurant with linen napkins and candles guttering inside cloudy glass jars and ended with the servers stacking chairs around you.
Michael asked you questions with the same concentration he gave everything else, chin tipped into one hand, eyes fixed on your face as though every silly tangent might eventually prove significant.
And there were tangents.
The glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to your childhood ceiling in accurate constellations, the library card you considered your first real possession, the disastrous apartment with the radiator that screamed at three every morning and a kitchen drawer that came completely free of the cabinet if you pulled too hard.
In return, he told you about the cat who bullied him awake before sunrise, the grandmother who still called to ensure he was eating properly, the years heâd spent letting work devour every other part of his life.Â
By dessert, he was no longer merely the doctor from the ER or the man who had paid you to dance for him.
He was Michael. You were you.
Somewhere between stealing bites of his chocolate cake and defending tiramisu as a perfectly respectable morning food, the invisible Plexiglas box marked Stranger slid right off its hinges and vanished.
And then after he drove you home, he stood outside your apartment door, beneath the jaundiced porch light and asked, âWill you let me kiss you now?â
A gentleman right until you said yes.Â
Then both hands framed your face, broad palms swallowing your cheeks, and his mouth came down with startling hunger.
Michael did not kiss so much as take possession of every breath you tried to draw, lips parting yours, tongue sweeping in with an appetite that turned your knees watery and your fingers useless.
The take-home box slipped from your hand and landed upside down between your shoes.
Neither of you noticed.
The second thing you learn is that the restored car taking up half his garage is less an object than a private history he has kept alive by hand.
He has loved it patiently, replaced what failed without resenting the failure, returned to it year after year with a consistency few people have managed to draw from him â or so you've been told, courtesy of Candy, who knows a girl whose brother is dating someone with a cousin who works in the same hospital.
You try not to think about that part too much. About the consistency. About how few people have managed to keep him, or be kept by him, and what that might eventually mean for you.
Because for all the ordinary sweetness of this undefined thing, dinners and garage tours and his hand finding the small of your back without thinking, there is still a clock somewhere.
The car proves Michael is good at returning to the things he choose. You have no proof you are one of them.
So you enjoy each moment as it comes and refuse to count how many might be left, which is another way of admitting you already believe they are finite.
For now, though, there is this one: Michael bent beneath the raised hood of said car, bare forearms streaked with grease.
His glasses keep slipping down the bridge of his nose while he works, and every few minutes he nudges them back into place with the cleanest part of his wrist, unaware that this only leaves another dark smudge near his temple.
âThis is still the original carburetor,â Michael explains, tapping some hidden component with the wrench. âI rebuilt it twice before I got the idle where I wanted it. Replacing it wouldâve been easier, but then you lose part of what makes the car ââ
âMm-hm.â
ââ worth preserving.â
âAbsolutely.âÂ
Your gaze crawls from knuckle to wrist to the ropey lines of his arms, lingering on a bead of sweat the slips toward the cuff he he's shoved past his elbow. Above that: a slash of collarbone and the thin vee of skin beneath his open button.
He eases to his full height, one hand braced against the frame. âWhat am I pointing at?â
The question yanks your attention toward the car so quickly your neck nearly protests.
âThe⊠engine?â
Michaelâs brow arches. Wrong answer, apparently. You follow the line of the wrench and find not one tidy solution but a chaotic constellation of bolts and hoses, none generous enough to wear a nametag.
âThat specific part of the engine,â you amend.
âTechnically correct.â
Heat rushes into your cheeks. âItâs just â there are so many pieces.â
âThere are.â
âAnd you were talking very quickly.â
His mouth twitches, but he mercifully turns back beneath the hood. âIâll slow down.â
âTo be fair, I learn better by doing,â you tell him, nudging a stray nut with the toe of your sandal. âMaybe you should let me drive it.â
His head emerges from the engine bay again, eyeing from your painted toes up to your face. âYou know how to drive a manual?â
âI know how to drive in the broad, point-A-to-point-B sense,â you offer.
âThat was not my question.â
âYou could teach me.âÂ
His gaze maps your face, skepticism eroding under a tide of fond exasperation. âYouâd have to do listen very carefully and do exactly what I tell you.â
An unexpected knot draws your stomach in on itself.
âI could do that.â
He lets the silence stretch, eyes fixed to yours, until the faintest sliver of a grin breaks through.
âWeâll see.â
Twenty minutes later, you confirm, beyond reasonable doubt, that you cannot operate a stick shift.
The poor car bucked, stalled, lurched forward with all the dignity of a go-cart missing one wheel, and by the time you finally limped back into the driveway, Michael looked as though the lesson has carved twenty years off his remaining lifespan.
âIt really wasnât that bad.â
His hip now rests against the fender, knuckles drumming against it. A few new worry lines have set up camp across his forehead and you're fairly certain each of them bears your initials.
âYouâre a terrible liar, you know.â You reach up, smoothing a grease-free patch on his sleeve. âBut thank you for trying.â
âI said it wasn't that bad. I didn't say the car enjoyed itself.â His gaze drops to your hand on his sleeve, a slow warmth softening the lines fatigue carved earlier. âYou listened. Mostly. We can work with mostly.â
You smooth the same spot on his sleeve again, mostly to keep touching him. âWould you call me a promising student?â
âPromising implies measurable improvement,â he says. Only when your mouth falls open in offense does his expression finally give with a crooked little smile. âYou're very promising. In more ways than one.â
You drop your head, squinting at a phantom smear on the glossy hood because looking at him feels reckless.
âI â um â thank you.â The smile you manage is small, shaky, painfully earnest, before retreating to the safety of your shoes. It takes a full second for your tongue to unstick. âGuess I'll try to keep the... improvement curve steep.â
He reaches over, thumb hooking a wild curl and tucking it back, then lingers, knuckles grazing the angle beneath your jaw.
âYou don't have to prove anything to me,â he murmurs, coaxing your gaze upward with the barest pressure. âYouâre allowed to be learning. I happen to like teaching you.â
Up close, you notice the daylight trapped in his irises. Minute gold dust swirling through dark syrup, copper shavings glinting every time he blinks. The color is so glossy, so mirror-deep, you catch your own startled face rippling back at you.
âEven if I put your beloved car through the garage wall?â
Michael leans closer, his hand sliding from beneath your chin to rest lightly at the side of your neck. âIf you put my car through the wall, Iâll be very upset.â
You swallow, and the motion bumps against the pad of his thumb; he follows the leap of your pulse like heâs tracking wildlife.
âYou wouldnât forgive me?â you tease, letting the words skim the edge of a pout. âIâd hate to disappoint you.â
âI'd forgive you,â he murmurs, mouth tipping farther into a smile. âBut you'd have to prove you learned your lesson.â
You narrow your eyes at him, though the smile tugging at your mouth ruins the effect. âThatâs interesting. I distinctly remember you saying I didnât have to prove anything to you.â
âYou donât have to prove anything right now,â he corrects, leaning close enough that his breath warms your mouth. âBut after putting my car through a wall? Iâd keep you up all night making sure the lesson stuck.â
Excitement unwinds through you, fed by every almost Michael has left smoldering between you. His hand beneath your skirt but never under your panties. Your bra loosened beneath his fingers, only for him to kiss the exposed slope of your shoulder and fasten it again before leaving.
The night you climbed into his lap and ground against him until both of you were breathing like you had run somewhere, only for Michael to murmur that you should slow down while his own hips revealed his truth once, rutting beneath yours.
You have been circling this for weeks, close enough to feel the warmth of it without ever stepping fully inside. Now the circle seems to have opened.
You glance at him from beneath half-mast lashes. âAll night?â
âWould that be so terrible?â he asks quietly. âSpending the night showing me you can follow directions?â
You nuzzle lightly against his palm.
âI can follow directions,â you say at once, the words nearly tripping over each other in their hurry to reach him.
âLet's see it.â His thumb traces your lower lip. âTurn around, press your palms to the hood, and wait there until I join you.â
A thrill fizzes through your limbs as you turn. Each step towards the hood feels electric. You place your palms flat against the glossy surface, worrying the inside of your cheek, adjusting yourself by small, nervous degrees until you think you resemble what he asked for.
Boots scuff behind you.
Michael's palm settles at your lower back while the toe of his shoe nudges one ankle, widening your stance by inches.
His hand slides to the nape of your neck and presses until your breasts mold to the hood and your breath fogs the paint.
âGood,â he murmurs near your ear. âStay just like that.â
He fits his palms atop your smaller ones, trapping them to the metal, the heat of his skin bleeding straight through.
His legs slot behind yours, hips pressing in until the hard length of him is an unmissable line against your ass.
You're keenly aware of how little space he's left you â and how much you like it.
One hand releases yours, patience pooling in every inch of its downward glide down your waist. The soft hiss of fabric follows until his fingertips catch the skimpy hem of the skirt you wore on purpose, pinching it like he's checking its integrity.
Lately you've treated riskier hemlines as negotiating tools. Flash a little more leg, tip the scale from almost to yes. From the way his grip tightens, the strategy seems to be paying handsome dividends.
âTell me if this is too fast,â he says, but the desperation lacing the words makes it very clear he hopes the answer is no.
âIt's not.â You arch the smallest amount into his hand, offering proof that you have no desire to slow him.
âLet me hear it â tell me I can finally do everything Iâve wanted since you looked up at me in that prim little blouse with those pretty doe eyes.â
âWhatever you want, Michael,â you manage, voice catching on a soft gasp. âIâm yours â just tell me how to please you.â
A dark chuckle rumbles out of him.
âYou have no idea how much youâre pleasing me.â His lips skim the fine hairs at your nape. âSo relax and let me take care of you, honey. Thatâs all I want.â
His free hand skims under your skirt, knuckles dragging upward until he finds the thin cotton he intends to ruin.
He cups you through the barrier, pressure light, exploratory.
âAll this for me, baby?â There's genuine surprise hidden beneath a teasing tone, fingers prodding at the damp material, zeroing in until they find your clit.
You brace on the slick metal, nails scraping for purchase that isn't there as a sharp breath escapes you.
You grind back into his hand and he rewards you by gathering a fistful of your hair, guiding your head back so you're forced to listen.
âI asked you a question,â he rasps, fingers still stroking where you need them. âAnswer me, honey â whoâs all this for?â
âYou,â you gasp, pushing harder into his touch.
âThought so.â
His fingers keep circling, not faster or harder, refusing the impatient escalation every man before him seemed to mistake for skill. There had only been two, technically three if you counter the college boyfriend whose idea of foreplay lasted approximately the length of a commercial break, but enough to teach you that pleasure usually required instruction, negotiation, the subtle repositioning of a wrist followed by exaggerated encouragement so nobody's ego bruised.
Michael needs none of it.
He reads the staccato hitch in your breath like sheet music, easing pressure when your thighs tense, adding the tiniest grind of his palm each time your exhale fractures.
âCan you come like this, baby? Just from having your clit rubbed?â His fingers press a fraction more firmly, listening when your breath splinters. âIs this how you touch yourself at home?â
Your thighs tense around his hand, not from the pressure this time but from the sudden, ridiculous urge to hide. He has you bent over his car with your skirt around your hips, yet apparently being asked about your masturbation habits is where modesty finally draws the line.
âYes,â you mumble, cheek burning against the paint.
âNothing to be shy about.â His lips brush the back of your shoulder, almost sweet enough to distract from his hand. âPerfectly normal. Besides, Iâm very interested in learning exactly how you make yourself come.â
âUsually I â I have to concentrate harder than this.â
Usually there is work required. A whole tedious committee meeting between brain and body, several false starts, the refusal to think about laundry or tomorrow or whether you locked the door.
With Michael's hands on you and his weight suffocating against your back, the entire process collapses into something almost simple. It feels good, then better, then suddenly far too good, the pressure rising so quickly you cannot locate the moment it became inevitable.
âYeah?â he murmurs against your ear, the smile audible in his voice. âPoor thing. All that cleverness, and a few touches have you going empty on me.â
Whatever remained of your mind gutters out. Pleasure crowds every available space, swelling in your organs, beneath your stomach, down the backs of your shaking thighs.
âSâtoo good,â you breathe, barely forming the consonants. âMichael, I canât⊠âm gonna come.â
Your voice sounds distant even to you, drowned beneath the blood rushing in your ears.
âAlready?â Michael murmurs, pleased surprise warming the word. âDidnât stand a chance, did you?â His palm presses more firmly against you. âGo ahead. Show me how pretty you are when you come.â
Your climax detonates like a string of firecrackers, first a bright spark at the center of you, then rapid-fire pops that ricochet up your spine and down your thighs.
Your vision goes pointillist, tiny pinpricks of white dancing at the edge of sight, while your hips jerk once, twice, a third time under his palm. Every new burst feels sharper than the last, until the sparks fade to a soft glow that leaves you boneless against the hood.
With careful hands, Michael tucks your hair away, mouth brushing the place where neck becomes shoulder. Then he urges your chin toward him, and captures your lips in a slow kiss you answer weakly, all pliant mouth and lingering shivers.
The kiss keeps your soft and unsuspecting while his fingers hook beneath the edge of your panties and draws them aside.
Cool air reaches you for half a second before the pad of his finger finds your bare clit, slick and swollen from the orgasm he has barely finished coaxing out of you.
You jerk instantly, a startled cry catching between your joined mouths as your knees threaten to fold. His free arm bands around your waist, hauling you tighter against his chest when you squirm at the overstimulation.
âI know, honey. I know itâs sensitive,â Michael murmurs, tightening his arm when another helpless squirm runs through you. âYou can come for me again, canât you, sweetheart? Hmm?â
âYouâll help me?â you ask, voice small and fractured, as though he is not already doing exactly that.
âCourse I will.â His fingers dip through your folds. âGonna do all the work. You just be my pretty girl, yeah?â
He gathers the wetness there, coating one finger before easing it into you. Your walls flutter around the intrusion. Michael pauses at the first tense pull of your body, lips brushing your shoulder while he waits for you to soften around him, then advances another careful inch.
He crooks the finger slightly as he begins to work it in and out, testing the angle until your knees weaken and a garbled moan tumbles from your mouth.
You try his name once and lose it halfway through.
After a minute, Michael stills with his finger buried deep.
âThink you can take one more?â
You manage something between a nod and a whimper. Apparently it is answer enough. A second finger joins the first, spreading you slowly while his arm tightens around your waist to hold you steady through the stretch.
âThatâs it,â he praises, easing in until both knuckles press flush. âGood girl. Open up for me.â
âMore,â you plead, words pouring out without supervision. âI can take more than your fingers. I want you, Michael, please.â
âNot bent over my car.â He pumps both fingers into you slowly, as though proving denial does not mean deprivation. âWhen I finally fuck you, I intend to take my time. Properly.â
âPlease,â you babble, clenching desperately around him. âIâll be good. Iâll do whatever you tell me.â
A rough sound leaves him. His fingers plunge into you harder, once, twice, forcing your mouth open around a broken moan.
âYou think I donât want to?â he rasps. âIâm trying to do this right. So donât tempt me into giving you less than I intend to.â
You try to tell him you do not want less, that having him here would feel like everything, but his fingers drive back inside before you can shape the sentence.
They curl, withdraw, return harder, each stroke pulling pleasure tighter beneath your stomach until your hips begin meeting his hand of their own accord.
The argument dissolves somewhere between one breath and the next. You still want him, God, you want him enough to feel hollow without him, but the approaching orgasm seizes control of every available muscle and leaves your tongue useful only for begging him not to stop.
âThere you go â knew youâd listen.â His voice is a rough purr against your ear. âYouâre close, arenât you? Give it to me, baby, right on my hand.â
You obey.
And this time it isn't an explosion, but a long, rolling pull that drags pleasure through every muscle. And gone before you can process the full weight of it, leaving your lungs empty and your legs shaking so hard his arm has to catch all of you.
He keeps you upright while he withdraws, then spins you gently to face him. A quick kiss lands on your forehead before he parts his lips and sucks the taste of you from his knuckles.
The sound he makes is all satisfaction. âSweetest thing Iâve had in this garage.â
Your cheeks burn, words tangling on your tongue. Michael must sense it, moving to smooth your skirt as one plam stays at your lower back.
âEasy, honey,â he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. âHowâre you feeling?â
âGood,â you breathe, then reconsider because the word is painfully inadequate. âBetter than good. I just canât really think yet.â You press your burning face into his chest, hiding there with a small, mortified laugh. âDonât make me talk until my brain comes back.â
âThat could take a while,â he says, laughter rumbling beneath your cheek. Before you can protest, his arms tighten around you. âLucky for you, Iâve cleared my evening.â
Seven weeks is usually when Robby begins looking for an exit.
It isn't a conscious thing. He does not circle the date on a calendar or wake on the forty-ninth morning possessed by some biological imperative to sabotage his own happiness.
It happens by accumulation. Small expectations begin collecting around his ankles, almost weightless individually, until he notices he is standing in something deep enough to drown in.
And Robby â who has spent most of his adult life being needed by more people than he can satisfy â feels the familiar urge to escape before he disappoints one more.
Seven weeks just happens to be enough. Enough to enjoy a woman. Enough to leave before enjoyment turns into dependence, or dependence turns into something he cannot provide without cutting into himself for spare parts.
Tonight, however, Robby is parked behind the club at nearly six in the morning, waiting for you in the restored car while dawn begins thinning the darkness around him.
His phone sits facedown on the passenger seat, though he does not need to look at it to remember what is waiting inside: dinner reservations for next Friday, a reminder to teach you how to change a tire the week after that.
Plans stacked neatly beyond the seven-week mark, each one entered by his own hand, each one quietly assuming there will still be a you and him when the date arrives.
If he has anything to do with it, there will be.
The contradiction does not escape him. It has, in fact, been sitting in the passenger seat all night.
The engine idles beneath his hands, every vibration familiar.
He has already checked the clock four times, although your shift ended seven minutes ago and he knows closing rarely means leaving. There are tips to count, makeup to remove, men to steer toward the exit after alcohol has convinced them money can interrupt the rotation of the Earth.
The metal door finally swings open and you emerge in pieces he once would have considered incompatible.
Above the collarbone you are still dusk-lit velvet with eyes rimmed noir, lashes casting soft shadows against your cheeks, a comet's tail of glitter charting the dip of your throat. But flats have replaced your heels, a swollen paperback bulges from your tote, and the cardigan you've buttoned askew is pale pink.
Mystery solved.
You spot the car and stop so abruptly the red-haired woman behind you mutters a curse, forced to sidestep you.
Through the windshield Robby watches your mouth shape a tiny, startled no, as if the word could turn the headlights off by itself.
By the time he climbs out, you are approaching with the wary steps of someone encountering an unattended explosive.
âYou brought that here?â you ask, eyeing the vehicle.
Robby glances back at it, though he hardly needs to.
It's got new imperfections now. The little hooks your nails carved into the paint the first night in his garage, when he had you trembling against the hood. The smudged scrape across the rear panel from the night he fucked you over it. The faint scratches along the passenger side, left by your shoes while he knelt on the concrete and ate you out until your thighs shook around his ears.
None of it is damage he has been able to treat as damage.
When he waxed the car last Sunday, he polished around the marks from your nails with ridiculous care, preserving them as neatly as initials cut into wet cement.
âI said I'd pick you up,â he says, lifting one shoulder.
âBut in this car?â
You look past him again at it, visibly appalled on his behalf. You know how he feels about the car, which means you also know downtown is a minefield of shopping carts, careless doors, drunk pedestrians, and parallel parkers who believe bumpers are instructional.
You know that he loves the car. He's told you so, himself.
He might love you more.
Unfortunately, that sentence is considerably harder to say than it is to diagnose, so he'll keep it tucked away for a little while longer.
Instead he fishes the keys from his pocket and holds them toward you.
Your eyes fall to them, then rise slowly to his face. âWhat are those for?â
âThe car.â
âI know what keys do, Michael.â
He is still not entirely used to that.
Michael.
Nearly everyone has called him Robby for so long that his first name feels less like an identity than a fact printed on hospital credentials. He had not used it socially since around the time his mother took her own life, a softer version of him then sealed somewhere on the wrong side of that loss.
Robby is what remained. Robby became a doctor, became useful, became someone too busy tending other peopleâs emergencies to examine his own.
But that night he offered Michael to you anyway.
Now he likes hearing it in your voice, likes the strange sensation of watching you resurrect a name without resurrecting the grief attached to it.
âGood. Weâre already ahead of where we were with the carburetor.â
Your eyes narrow, but your hand remains firmly at your side, apparently unwilling to implicate itself in whatever terrible idea he has conceived.
Robby reaches for it anyway, turns your palm upward, and deposits the keys there before you can refuse them on principle.
âYou need practice,â he explains.
Your fingers curl around the metal with great reluctance. âDo you not remember what happened last time?â
âI remember there wasnât enough road,â he replies. âAnd now thereâs more road.â
You look past him toward the empty street, then back again. âYou keep saying things you think are reassuring, and they are not.â
It makes him smile, though he conceals most of it while opening the driverâs door for you.
You settle behind the wheel and begin arranging everything with a process he thinks might be better suited to launching an aircraft. Seat forward. Mirror down. Mirror up again. Hair tucked behind one ear, then untucked when you decide the ponytail is pulling too tightly. Your bag lands between you, paperback still protruding from the top as though prepared to flee independently if the lesson turns ugly.
Robby waits through the entire ceremony, then calmly reminds you where the clutch is after you press the brake instead.
Your first attempt kills the engine anyway.
âVehicular manslaughter,â you whisper.
He can feel the laugh pressing against the back of his teeth, but keeps his voice level. âStart it again.â
The second attempt gets you three feet. The third carries you out of the parking space and onto the service road, the engine smoothing beneath your hands. Your shoulders slowly descend from around your ears, one hand loosening its death grip on the wheel.
Robby has always been better at beginnings and endings. For once, he does not think about either.
âWhere am I going?â you ask.
Robby looks toward the empty road ahead. âDoesnât matter. Just drive.â
So you do.
MARIA NOTE fourteen thousand words. FOURTEEN. all because i thought it would be hot for robby to unexpectedly see shy readerâs tits at a strip club. hubris is real and she has punished me severely. unfortunately, i regret nothing. thank you for reading this absolute beast <3
YOU CAN FIND MY MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH MASTERLIST HERE â.á
Summary: Robby gets you to destress during finals season.
Pairing: michael ârobbyâ robinavitch x fem!reader
Contains: fluff, domesticity, comfort, implications of sex (no smut), super inappropriate age gap, reader is in college, established relationship, pet names, sugar daddy if you squint but not really tbh, reader referred to as âgirlâ once, no use of y/n
Word Count: 1.3k
Note: lowkey wrote this to get me through finals. thereâs a rainbow at the end. also cant stop thinking about baths w/ robby
âHey, sweetheart.â
The front door shut and you heard that tired voice that you couldnât help but smile at. You saw him first, he was slipping off his boots in the entryway nook, one you had decorated the moment this house became yours. You looked past your glasses at Robby, whose hair was dishevelled and cheeks ran red from the chilly wind. Faced away from you, he dropped his backpack by the coatrack and rolled his jacket sleeves up.
âIn here, honey.â You said from the dining room, which faced into the main hallway. He turned around with a tired smile playing on his lips. You were at the dining table, laptop in front of you and notebooks, pens, and papers strewn across the large slab of cherry wood.
âWhat do we got here?â He teased, rounding the table to get to you. As soon as he approached you, his cold lips met your bare shoulder, causing you to jump a little.
âMikey,â you yelped, back straightening quickly. He laughed into your skin, pressing more kisses along your shoulders and neck. His arms went around you, hands resting against either side of your elbows on the edge of the table.
âCâmon, baby, Iâll draw us a bath.â He mumbled, mouth by your ear.
âCanât. I have to study.â You exhaled, bringing a hand to rub the tense part of your neck. His head lifted, looking up at your laptop, which had YouTube open. You tilted your head to look at him hovering over your shoulder and he smirked.
âIs this studying?â
âI was taking a break.â You rolled your eyes and reached your hand out to ruffle his hair. He leaned into you as you did so. âHow was work?â You asked, more softly as you placed a kiss on the peak of his cheekbone.
His face, warmed by your touch, blushed and he kissed your cheek back. When his eyes met yours, he caught your lips in his, quickly and hungrily. His head pushed into you as you went with it, pushing back against him and letting your hand find the back of his head. As you pulled away, his lips trailed yours but you refused.
âBaby, thatâs not an answer.â You mumbled, lips nearly touching his, and leaned your head back against his shoulder. He crowded into you with a smile and he placed a kiss on your chest.
âI can tell you about it in the bath.â He teased, mouth trailing up your neck but not quite kissing. He left a quick suck at the underside of your jaw, where you so graciously let him through the tilt of your head.
âI have a study guide to finish.â You breathed, looking up at him. âShould order food or somethinâ.â
âMmm,â he shook his head, âAfter a bath.â
âWhatâd you eat today, Robby?â You asked, hands going to grab your phone. His hand moved to run up and down your bicep as you did so.
He kissed the top of your head and you felt the vibration of his voice as he mumbled, âPower bar and coffee.â
âThose power bars taste like shit.â You complained as you turned on your phone, searching for any food app. âWhat do you want to eat?â
His head returned to the side of your face and he smiled mischievously, âI think you know what I want.â
You ignored him, âWe could do pizza? Or Thai food, that sounds good.â
He nudged his head towards the hallway, âCâmon, come take a bath with me.â He grinned, brushing his head against yours, âCan you spare twenty minutes for this old man?â
âUh, uh.â You shook your head at him and put down your phone, âI know you, Robby. Besides, this is, like, thirty percent of my grade.â
âWhatâs your GPA again? Three point nine, nine, nineâŠâ He trailed off as he started kissing down your neck again. The heat of his breath made you lean back into him and begin to question if you really cared about your history class. You let your eyes close and indulged in the squeeze of his hand on your arm and the hair on his beard sweeping down your neck. When he reached your collarbone, you surrendered, exhaling like you needed it and shoulders dropping from being so wound up. âThereâs my girl.â
âRobby.â You tried to protest, but it came out more like a plea. Your face met his and his nose brushed on yours. Eyes struggling to keep open, you watched his eyes roam around you and muttered, âItâs a lot of work.â
âYou did too much already.â He said selfishly, knowing damn well you barely finished half of it. He knew your procrastination methods, but he also knew when you were overwhelmed. âCome take it out on me.â
âOkay,â you whispered.
You got up from the chair, stretching your back as you stood. His hands couldnât stay off of you, from your arms trailing to grasp the small of your back. You reached your arms around his neck and rested against him. The soreness of your sides became tender as his hands pressed into you.
âWe can do the bubbles this time.â He whispered into your hairline, planting a kiss on your forehead. You beamed, smiling as he led you to the hallway and towards the bathroom.
In the bath, you rested against Robbyâs chest and had your eyes closed. His hands rubbed circles up and down your arms under the warm water. The heat felt like heaven on your skin, comfortable and destressing, not to mention the solidity of Robby behind you. He pressed kisses behind your ear and you felt every bit of his face on your neck. You played with the bubbled soap under your fingers, allowing yourself to drift off.
âYouâre lucky youâre so persuasive.â You said, leaning your head back into his shoulder. Opening your eyes, you tilted your head towards Robby, who was looking down at you with a smile on his face.
He hummed, nodding his head at you, âWhen is your test, anyway?â
âTomorrow.â You responded, placing a kiss onto the left side of his neck.
âOh, sweetheart,â He sighed at himself, throwing his head back. âShouldâve led with that.â
âSâokay,â you grinned, kissing along his beard and up to his cheek, âIâm here anyway.â
He leaned his head down to plant a heavy kiss on your lips.
The night ended like most nights did, on the big leather chair in the living room. It was worn, but classy, and felt like it belonged exactly where it was, among Robbyâs half-read books and your own trinketsâ ceramic turtle from the beach, tiny stuffed bear Paul Revere.
The glow from his lamp was the only thing lighting the room, warm and making everything feel hazy. Half-eaten Pad Thai, plastic containers, and empty glasses sat on the coffee table before you. It was quiet, other than the occasional car passing on the street and the flipping of pages.
In a t-shirt that was older than you and brand new underwear bought on one of the many Robby-funded shopping sprees, you curled up on Robbyâs lap, flipping through your notebook. Glasses on the bridge of his nose, he had a random biography in one hand, the other hand was rubbing the middle of your back. Sure, there was an entire couch beside you, but Robby and the chair was your space.
Every so often, Robby was unable to flip the page in his book and you did it for him. You tucked your head into the crook of his neck, mumbling nonsense under your breath as you reviewed your notes. Neither of you ever really spoke, touch was enough to communicate.
At some point, you didnât really care about your final, eyes grew drowsy and you allowed yourself to embrace the warmth of Robby against you. You folded up your notebook and slid it onto the coffee table, noting to yourself to get it in the morning. He closed up his book and wrapped his arms around you.
You fell into the same rhythm as every other night: Heâd kiss you on the forehead and stroke a hand through your hair when it started getting late. Then, heâd insist it was time for bed with a sweet hum.
ORPHANED DREAMS (1)
michael robinavitch x camgirl!reader [8.3k]
â âą SUMMARY: dr. robby has spent decades patching up strangers while quietly falling apart himself. unable to shut his mind off long enough to rest after another exhausting shift, and aching for a connection that doesnât come with expectations, he finds himself on a live cam site. there, he meets youâa mischievous, sweet vixen who loves... big things.
â âą CHAPTER WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (reader is mentioned to be in her late 20s); a little medical jargon (I study linguistics lol so I apologize in advance); angst; themes of loneliness, depression & grief; lonely!robby; self-deprecation & insecurity; smut; daddy kink; masturbation (f & m); sex toys; mention of exhibitionism; robby is hung (he has a complex over it, poor baby); slight overstimulation; nipple play.
A/N: first robby story and first fanfic after almost a month of inactivity, kinda nervous đ„č hope youâll enjoy!
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Robby has been staring at the glow of his laptop for far longer than necessary. The cursor blinks patiently on an empty screen, indifferent to the quiet war unfolding in front of it.
At last, with the reluctant resolve of a man about to cross a bridge he canât see the end of, he opens a private browser window. Itâs an unnecessary precaution, he knows, there is no one here but him; his apartment is small, comfortably worn, and it only bears the evidence of long shifts and forgotten meals. No nosy friend is going to walk through the front door and go straight for his laptop, no partner is waiting up for him.
The website appears in the search bar before heâs even finished typing the first three letters, something that he indulges in only in nights like these, when exhaustion settles so deep into his bones that it should be enough to knock him unconscious, yet his mind refuses to surrender. Every flutter of his eyes brings back flashes of fluorescent lights and blood-stained gloves, as conversations he should have had differently resound in his mind like distant murmurs. Because the emergency department never really lets him leave when he clocks out, it just follows him quietly like a sad ghost, but no less relentless.
A familiar warmth creeps up the back of his neck as he presses enter. It feels indecent, like being caught hovering over a magazine he wasnât supposed to read at fourteen, but the silence of the apartment stretches too wide some nights. After all, Pittsburgh can offer any kind of spectacle but little comfort.
After twelve hours deep in the chaos of monitors beeping left and right, the stillness should feel like a relief. But lately, it has begun to feel more like damnation.Â
So he exhales slowly and rubs a hand over the salt-and-pepper beard shadowing his jaw, ready to look for a pretty face to jerk off to, which definitely sounds much more exciting in theory than in practice. When the page finally loads, though, his body stills as a subscription prompt blooms across the screen: a sleek black box, impossible to dismiss without making a choice.
Continue with Premium Access.
Monthly Membership.
For a second, Robby just stares. Right, the month-long free trial ended a few days ago, but he was too tired to do something about it and ultimately passed out on the couch, which his back made him pay for dearly the following day.
The language is all teasing confidence, because the site knows exactly why heâs here.
At the very bottom, in text so small it feels almost mocking, runs a single line: you must be over 18.
A dry scoff escapes him. Of course he is of ageâembarrassingly, pathetically so, to be lurking on this side of the internet. Still, the cursor hovers uselessly over the button.Â
A weary sigh echoes in the dim-lit room, filled with the discomfort of recognizing a routine heâd never intended to develop. Robby has spent enough years telling patients to pay attention to patterns and habits that become dependencies before they realize it. But this isnât that, he keeps telling himself. No, itâs not. Itâs just another way of quieting a mind that has forgotten how to rest on its own.
Sometimes, taking the edge off is enough to trick his body into sleep.Â
But tonight, faced with the inescapable choice of creating an account or forgetting the existence of this website forever, Robby feels pathetic enough to hesitate.
The idea of getting himself off to a stranger on the internet has always felt like checking a box rather than satisfying a need: an efficient, predictable matter over in a few minutesâa little depressing when reduced to a chore, yes, but at least it does the trick. Which is probably why his mind keeps traitorously coming back to the same uncomfortable thought.Â
It slips through the cracks when heâs tired enough to let his guard down, when a shift has run long, when he catches himself lingering in the hospital parking lot with nowhere in particular to be.Â
Sex has never really been the problem, yet somewhere along the way the rest of his life narrowed into work and recovery from work. One shift bleeding into the next, one year folding into another, the hospital full of people who knew him well enough to trust him with their lives, but not to call on a day off just to ask how he was doing. And he makes a conscious effort to ignore the sting. Still, there are moments when the realization catches up to him in brief, unwelcome flashes of clarity. Watching colleagues leave at the end of a shift because someone is waiting at home, passing families in the grocery store⊠It all makes sitting alone at his kitchen table at three in the morning with nothing but the hum of the refrigerator for company feel like he has somehow failed at life.
Because the truth is that even meticulous, irascible Dr. Robby craves for a connection.Â
A partner.
A presence that might soften the long evenings that have become dull routine. Someone to share the silence with after a grueling day in a place where desperation and hope blend together. Someone who wouldnât mind waiting up when a shift runs late, or falling asleep on the couch while he reheats leftovers neither of them have the energy to eat.
There was a time when Robby assumed the rest would simply happen after finding a stable job, that somewhere between a chest tube insertion and a code gray, heâd stumble into the kind of life everyone else seemed to build without much effort: a marriage, a family, holidays that didnât have to be traded away to younger colleagues because there was someone expecting him at home.
Instead, medicine kept asking for more, and Robby gave in all the time.
However, he never treated it like a sacrifice, the choice was made gladly at the thought of another patient walking out of the ER because heâd been there to help them. Then the years accumulated without him noticing, marked by new classes of residents, by colleagues retiring and children of coworkers growing old enough to apply to medical school themselves.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, life became something that happened to other people. The losses didnât help, nor the failed relationshipsâif he could even call the handful of brief, half-hearted entanglements that followed that. Robby considered them patterns that ended before they had time to become anything real, leaving behind little more than a few shared nights and the uncomfortable irony of having once mistaken convenience for intimacy.
Grief, on the other hand, hollowed out spaces he didnât even know could be emptied, then quietly settled into them as though it had always belonged there. Some mornings, Robby can almost convince himself heâs learned to live around it. Other days, it feels like thorny branches constricting around his lungs.
Now, when he catches his reflection in the darkened window after another sleepless night, the man looking back seems older than fifty-three: the lines around his eyes have settled too deeply to blame fatigue alone, his beard surrendering to more gray than brown. Proof of the time spent taking care of everyone else that the idea of someone choosing to take care of him feels almost risible.
Perhaps he has simply missed his moment, he finds himself thinking more often than he likes to admit while the city beyond glitters with other peopleâs lives.
Itâs not as though heâs made himself particularly approachable, either. With a temperament that has only grown sharper with age and too many ghosts weighing on his conscience, letting people in has begun to feel like a risk not worth taking. Itâs easier to be the brilliant, impatient attending than the man who is haunted by outcomes he couldnât change. Even if beneath the wrinkles and the barked orders, lies a clear, painful truth: Robby is lonely.
His colleagues have friends, spouses, lovers, children⊠lives waiting beyond the doors of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centerâs emergency room. But what does Robby have? An apartment big enough to fit a nursery that grows impossibly cold and quiet day by day, and a body too exhausted to even rest properly.
Itâs a bleak conclusion, and not a particularly useful one. Dana would tell him to stop catastrophizing, Jack would probably remind him that heâs simply âvintageâ and then jokingly suggest a cane with his coffee. Langdon, if he caught him in the right mood, would make some smart-ass remark just to get him to roll his eyes.
And maybe theyâd all be right. But it doesnât make the apartment any less empty.
Heâs probably romanticizing this more than it deserves. It isnât as though subscribing to a cam site is some quiet admission of defeat, nor is it a desperate attempt to fill the void in his chest with something they never promised to provide. Robby is grown enough to not expect companionship from a woman whose job is to make strangers feel wanted for an hour. That particular fantasy belongs to younger men, foolish enough to mistake attention for affection.
A humorless chuckle escapes under his breath, heâs really debating whether a monthly subscription to a pornography website is a worthwhile expense. Itâs only a distraction.
The tightness in his shoulders eases a little, replaced by the brittle sort of resolve that comes with lowering oneâs expectations. The box disappears almost instantly after he sets a quick profile and links his payment information, and the page refreshes again. What replaces it is a familiar mosaic of little squares competing for his attention all at once. Hands concealing intimate body parts, bare legs crossed, backs turned, coy smiles⊠and then there are more crude images that leave nothing to the imagination, yet Robbyâs gaze drifts across them the way he might eye a dessert menu, already knowing he wonât order anything.
By now, the rhythm is always the same: he scrolls for a while, sometimes he sighs when he realizes he has been staring blankly at the same corner of the screen, only to resume scrolling a moment later, before eventually clicking into a room if someone catches his eye. He stays enough to come and then turns off his laptop, trying with varying degrees of success to sleep.
Names blur, faces too. He rarely returns to the same camgirl twice, because this works better when everyone remains a stranger. Coming back would invite the kind of attachment he has neither the time nor the right to indulge.Â
His index finger idly rolls the mouse wheel as a faint grimace pulls at his mouth. Objectively, there is nothing wrong with any of them. He really shouldnât be this picky with his unkempt stubble and wrinkly forehead. Robby should just settle on one, instead he keeps scrolling, until he mindlessly leads the cursor toward the red x, half-considering closing the site altogether.
But then his hand stills when his eyes mindlessly wander across the page.Â
A beautiful woman appears in one of the smaller thumbnails, languidly leaning forward with a clear toy glinting in the light. Robby stares at the image for longer than he should, a warm sensation already coiling tight in his lower belly. Itâs not just the pose, nor even the suggestive promise of the scene⊠itâs your eyes.
Even reduced to a thumbnail no larger than a postage stamp, they catch him off guard: bright, unmistakably alive. There is an ease to your expression that doesnât look rehearsed, a flicker of amusement lingering at the corners of your mouth as though youâre sharing a joke with the people on the other side of the screen. Your eyes twinkle with playful determination, perhaps even a touch of recklessness, the sort that suggests you know exactly what youâre doing⊠and youâre enjoying it.
Robby has seen enough of this to know that a camera and a few whiny words can manufacture intimacy, making a smile feel personal and a glance deliberate.
This should be no different.
And yet, Robby doesnât scroll past.Â
His gaze inevitably drops to the title of your stream, and he almost chokes on his breath.
âCan Daddy fuck me better than my toy?â
Robbyâs jaw tightens.Â
The site is littered with titles like that, heâs scrolled past several of them over the past few weeks without a second thought, if not with the occasional roll of his eyes at those who didnât sound even remotely sexy in this particular context. âDaddyâ has been stripped of any real meaning by repetition until it feels almost cartoonish to him.
So why does it feel like heâs just been strapped into a rollercoaster?Â
His eyes drift back to your face.
You look impossibly youngâbut not enough that the word feels like a mere gimmick.Â
His first instinct is to scoff at himself. For Godâs sake, youâre talking to thousands of anonymous viewers, the title wasnât written for him any more than it was for anyone else. Itâs marketing, a carefully chosen fantasy designated for horny losers like Robby to take the bait.
Yet for the first time, he doesnât really mind playing that role.
Swallowing thickly, he clicks on the stream with an abrupt motion before he can think himself out of it.
The sound reaches him first, a breathy moan leaking from the speakers.
âFuckâah âs too big.â
Robby immediately fumbles with the volume out of habit more than embarrassment. The quiet feels too fragile tonight and he isnât in the mood to have it broken all at once.
His ears burn at the sight as his eyes betray him, lingering on the screen despite his hands clumsily looking for his glasses abandoned somewhere on the desk. Your naked form enthusiastically rides the clear dildo beneath you, your body shifting with an easy confidence that makes his breath hitch. Even if your face is drawn tight with pleasure, the warm glow of the ring light softens your features.
The sight sends a strange jolt of heat through him, quickly followed by a prickling sense of discomfort. Despite the entire performance being part of the principle that keeps the site running, for the first time ever the moment feels faintly exploitative to Robby.
And yet, his lips part in awe.
You are... gorgeous, yes. There is something captivating about the way you move, a rhythm that feels spontaneous, though guided by a cheeky familiarity. The sounds that slip past your lips are sweet and breathy, threaded with bliss in a way that sends an unexpected shiver down his spine. Itâs a pleasant respite from the loud, tacky sounds that most camgirls put up for show, sometimes they are so irritating he needs to put them on mute. Yours are genuine enough to feel almost intimate, as though Robby has wandered into a moment not entirely meant for him.
Your body responds to pleasure with a fluid grace, from the slow roll of your hips, to the subtle tension that travels through your thigh with each movement. When your back arches, itâs instinctive, unguarded, and it pushes your breasts forward in a way that feels both vulnerable and mesmerizing. For a fleeting second, the pose appears nearly sculptural, the soft light catching along your delicious curves before you relax again with your breath uneven.
Robby shakes his head lightly, suddenly aware of how intently he has been watching you.
Itâs not the obvious lewdness of the performance that holds his attention, but that spark of boldness that reveals itself across your expression, and your confident movements in front of the cameraâs gaze.
Beautiful, certainly. But more than that, impossible to ignore.
Your giggle at some message in the chat melts into a gasp as you lower yourself until your folds graze the base of the toy. Your hazy eyes roll back in ecstasy as heat coils violently in your lower belly, prompting you to start bouncing up and down like a hopping bunny, your palms flat on the floor to help your hips roll more easily.
Robby didnât know how much he needed this. Each gesture, each subtle provocation draws out something unfamiliar in himâshame at how much heâs enjoying this, laced with undeniable arousal. His hand tightens briefly at the edge of the desk, and a low, unbidden hum escapes his throat before he can stop it. His pulse hammers in a way that feels almost worrying. Itâs disorienting, intoxicating, and entirely new.
And heâs only just begun.
âI wish you were here to feel how wet I am.â You sigh. âCan you hear it?â Your filthy words pull a sharp huff out of Robby as his focus automatically latches onto the subtle soppy noises complimenting your moans.
Your chest heaves, glossy lips opening in a perfect circle as you look up at the camera with an innocence that only heightens the intensity of the moment. âAre you close, Daddy?âÂ
Robby canât even remember the last time his sweatpants have been this unbearably tight, so he unties them hastily, lowering them along with his boxers enough to expose his erection. He wants to touch himself, to lose himself in this perverted fantasy against the nagging thought at the back of his mind insisting that you are probably half his age.Â
âThatâs it, baby.â You cry out, circling your hips so the toy rubs against your walls. âPlease, please wanna feel your cum leaking out of me all night.â
Your dirty mouth and sweet manners have him completely dizzy, and Robby can no longer resist the burning urge to grant his cock some sort of relief. Quiet groans fill the space as he gives his hard and throbbing girth a few experimental strokes. Fully erect, Robbyâs cock is imposing, longer and thicker than the large dildo you are bouncing on.Â
He canât stop the memory from creeping in: his most recent, humiliating sexual experience. A woman he met at a bar took one look at his dick and promptly looked back into his eyes with disbelief, before climbing out of bed and inventing some poor excuse about not feeling well. The sting of that action lingered far longer than it should haveâalong with his erection, since his not-so-little friend had apparently decided to take a vacation that day, so Robby was forced to secretly swallow a little blue pill after the woman had expressed her interest to go back to his.
He reckons that you too would be horrified by his size, but for this fleeting moment, he will allow himself to pretend otherwise, wishing to bask into the fantasy of your gaze eyeing him approvingly, your small, teasing smirk meant for him alone. Itâs absurd and delusional, and Robby would probably slap himself later, but it feeds a buried, rare warmth in his chest that he ignored for too long. It craves to be seen, for appreciation for the part of himself he is most ashamed of, because even if he had a fair share of good sexual experiences, the difficulties of making it fit and the backhanded compliments were always there.
âSee how good Iâm taking it? I told you itâd fit!â He almost chokes on his own saliva.
Maybe you could really take him just fine with a little careful preparation.
The tip alert has been going off this whole time, and the doctor thinks he understands now. There is something about you that pulls at his chest; he wants to shower you with everything he has to offer: his focus, his praise, his money, the small gestures that might make you notice him amongst the countless people competing for your attention.
Itâs not just lust, or simple curiosity. The thought of being acknowledged and leaving a trace of himself in your world, however fleeting, claws at his chest with dangerous eagerness.
Anticipation churns violently in his belly, urging him closer to the screen. To you.
âOh God! Daddy, Iâm coming, come with meâplease, pleaseâŠâ You whimper, your breasts perky and bouncing with every thrust of your hips.
âShit.â Robby grits out as his orgasm takes him by surprise.
His legs shamelessly part as his cock spurts over the hand he has wrapped around it, lost in the sad illusion that itâs your pussy gripping him so tight. He milks every last drop, soiling part of his belly and pants as well, but his mind is too blinded by pleasure to acknowledge the mess.
Your moans grow louder and higher, and the sight of your cunt stretching so deliciously around the silicone stops Robby from leaving his cock alone. He keeps the strokes going, squirming at the twinge of overstimulation.
âFuck.â Your hips jerk forward once, body sinking down on the whole length as you curl up on yourself. Your hips twitch and your chest heaves with each gasp while your climax washes over you. Your eyes roll back and Robbyâs spent length jerks in interest, it has been far too long since he has felt this good after masturbating.
He should be ashamed of jerking off to a young woman calling him daddy and begging to be filled with his big cock, but frankly he couldnât care less.
Your eyes squeeze shut at the way your sensitive walls clench around the toy once more, before you tiredly push yourself up on your knees to gently pull it out.
âLook what youâve done to me.â You sit back on the beige towel you probably laid on the floor before the stream, your legs opening to allow your fingers to spread your folds for the camera. Then you reach for the dildo again, parting your lips enough for your tongue to peek out and give the length a teasing lick.Â
âFucking hell.â Robby mumbles, his eyes jumping back and forth between your stretched lips and your fingers lazily playing with your glistening pussy. You canât be real.
He frowns at his cock. No, heâs too tired and sensitive for another round; it would require too much time, even if you keep stoking the fire inside him with every little lick.
âHm, bet youâd love the taste.â Suckling on the tip, you stare directly at the lens, as if to challenge him.Â
Robby rubs his stubble, a tired huff escaping his nostrils at the desperate need to wrap his hand back around his length just to come again at the sight of you tasting yourself. You hollow your cheeks one last time, letting the dildo out of your mouth with a resounding pop.
âI had so much fun tonight, guys.â You smile, and Robby swears his heart stutters a little. âI really needed it.â
âOh!â You perk up. âLook what I got todayâŠâ You reach for something off-camera, coming back a few seconds later as you proudly dangle a nipple chain in front of you.
Your eyes flick to the side, presumably reading the chat as texts quickly pour one right after the other. The relentless speed at which they race across the screen is enough to make Robby look away before a headache has the chance to settle in.
You giggleâa refreshing melody that makes him lean back in his chair with a quiet sigh. âNot tonight, you perverts! Your baby girl can only take so much.â
Your baby girl, his mind repeats unhelpfully.
Itâs almost impossible to reconcile the two images in his mind: the woman who was eagerly making herself feel good in front of an audience, and the adorable, radiant sweetheart chatting naked with five hundred viewers, as if it were just another Tuesday for you.Â
It leaves Robby completely smitten.
âWell, have a good night.â You conclude, offering a casual wave. âSee you on Thursday!â A playful blow of a kiss follows, and then the notice that the stream has ended covers the screen, leaving your lovely smile frozen behind it.
Silence abruptly engulfs the room with Robby sitting motionless before the screen where a handful of your recommended videos line the sidebar. He scarcely has time to register the fact that, until now, he has never stayed long enough to watch a stream until the end, before the cursor is already hovering over your username, clicking through to your profile almost on its own accord.
Details about private shows and video requests are listed, along with your regular schedule, so Robby promptly opens the calendar app on his phone and makes a note with careful precision. He perks up once he notices the photo gallery: images of you posing in colorful lingerie that compliments your skin tone, teasingly aware of the camera; a few shots of you naked and on your knees before a full-length mirror, body angled sideways and one arm shielding your chest; and then a picture of you lounging in bed, lips wrapped around a red heart-shaped lollipop.
But there are also videos, which his cardiologist would almost certainly advice against.
Some are very short, like the one where you stand in front of the camera, the only parts visible being your mouth and your torso as you pull your tight top up to let your tits bounce free. Some are a little longer, a taste of what to expect in your streams, like the one where you are in a carâpresumably yoursâgiving a dildo a blowjob. The toy has a suction cup attached to the window on the driver side, and you are enthusiastically sucking it off in the middle of a dark underground parking garage, your chest bare and your hips thrusting desperately into the air to find a bit of stimulation for your pussy. If his breath hitches at the thought of you loving the possibility of getting caught, Robby almost has a heart attack at the next one. Because you are lying on your bed, gasping and writhing as you bully your clit with a pink vibrator, body covered by a long, flimsy cardigan left open, the color suspiciously close to the old Burgh zip-up hoodie he wears at work.Â
He decides to close the tab once he realizes he has been looking for familiar signs in the background of the first video.
Without hesitation, Robby subscribes to your account, confirming the payment before his hands hover over the keyboard at the box asking if he wants to send a tip. Money is not something he has in abundance, but decades dedicated to medicine and no one else depending on his paycheck have afforded him a certain comfort. Enough, at least, that the occasional indulgence never requires much deliberation.Â
His right palm rests on the desk, fidgeting nervously when his eyes catch the optional box to leave a message alongside the tip.
It would be nothing, just a sentence. But even that feels like a step too far. He could already see how it would unfold: heâd check back later, and then again, pretending not to care, measuring the hours by the absence of a reply. And if you do respond, even briefly, neutral, it would lodge somewhere deep and stubborn inside his chest. Another invisible weight he would carry alone. The thought makes him ache with a stinging, familiar recognition.
Wanting has always been the dangerous part: it turns fleeting moments into promises no one has made.
Shaking his head, Robby lets out a humorless chortle. He canât believe himself. This is how it starts, isnât it? Convincing yourself that a few words might change the shape of things, that you can step out of the misery you built your life around just by being sincere enough.
The cursor continues its patient blinking.
Not even an hour ago, you had been another fish in the sea. Another room to wander into before sleep for a quick orgasm. Another name destined to dissolve into the rest by morning. That has always been the appeal of this place: no history, no expectations.
Robby drags a hand down his face.
Christ, in the span of a single night, heâd managed to break every rule he had set for himself.
He stayed until the end. He subscribed. He caught himself searching the screen for scraps of a life that has nothing to do with him. He fucking put the reminder of your next streams in his calendar.
Thatâs enough.
Robby has spent too many years indulging impulses in the ED, where every instinct tells you to keep going and order one more test, ask one more question, chase one more possibility. Reality, on the other hand, teaches you that there comes a point when doing more isnât helping anymore, but itâs only delaying the moment you have to let go.
This feels too familiar.
With his jaw clenched, Robby withdraws his hand from the keyboard. The message box disappears with a single click and soon his face is the only thing staring back at him through the black screen.
By Wednesday morning, the startling revelations of the night before have already begun to dissolve beneath the familiar rhythm of the hospital. Ambulances arrive in relentless succession, one of the residents spirals during a thoracotomy and Robby has neither the time nor the gentleness to pull them back together, and Gloria corners him again in the hallway with another quality report tucked beneath her arm, causing Robby to ask whether patient satisfaction might improve if they stopped expecting miracles from a skeleton crew.
He snaps more sharply than he intends to, but then forgets the entire exchange before the end of the shift.
His apartment keeps feeling less like a place to live and more like somewhere to leave his shoes between shifts. Sleep comes reluctantly in fractured stretches interrupted by dreams he never quite remembers and alarms that sound so cheerful it feels almost mocking.
He doesnât really have the opportunity to think about his stupid slip-up.Â
Although the thought of you surfaces once or twice during rare quiet rides in the elevator, the ED has a way of demanding every tiny crumb of his attention. There is always a patient to reassess, another family waiting for answers he canât always give.
On Thursday night, he is halfway through a documentary about the deep-sea ecosystemâsomething slow enough that doesnât require much thinkingâwhen a soft chime causes him to startle.
His phone lights up on the coffee table, a groan rumbling in his ribcage when Robby stretches towards it and his lower back stings. Heâs already slipping into the Chief mentality, before he freezes.
Itâs not a text desperately asking for his presence at work, nor one of those useless spam emails from random websites he accidentally subscribed to. Itâs a calendar alert.
For your stream.
He completely forgot heâd set a reminder.
His thumb hovers over the notification without touching it.Â
Deleting it would be the sensible thing to do.
Instead, he lets the documentary continue in the background, the narrator calmly explaining with his British accent the migration patterns of creatures that spend their lives in perpetual darkness while Robby stares at the screen until it goes black again.
He was doing perfectly well. Better, even. The last forty-eight hours returned everything to its rightful order: work, home, sleepâwhen it came.
Opening that website again would accomplish exactly nothing.
He has spent years building his life around restraint to mistake a passing desire for a reason. Wanting is not the same as needing, curiosity is not permission, and whatever restless pull has taken hold of him tonight is only that, a disturbance. Still, it lingers tightly beneath his breastbone, refusing to ease no matter how deeply he breathes, or how firmly he reminds himself that he has already crossed enough lines as he briefly stood at the edge of something he had no business approaching. That should have been enough to shut down whatever foolish part of him wanted to see you again.
But the ache keeps asking for one more indulgence. He can feel the shape of temptation clearly enough to name it for what it is: pure humiliating desire to feel something other than the dull, disciplined exhaustion that has become part of who he is.
Maybe thatâs all this is, of course. The week has been unforgiving: heâs slept poorly, eaten worse, his afternoon spent untangling problems that should have never reached his desk in the first place. For fuckâs sake, heâs over fifty years old, the Chief of one of the busiest emergency departments in the city... He is not the sort of man to be unmoored by a woman he has seen once in his life. You donât even know of his existence beyond a subscription notification.
And this... well, it doesnât have to mean anything. Or at least thatâs the lie he settles on for tonight.Â
Before he has fully decided otherwise, Robby is already reaching for the laptop resting at the other end of the couch.
This time youâre dressed in a snug top and a pair of shorts, looking all pretty and sinful at once as you sit cross-legged on the floor in front of your bed.
Thereâs a delicate warmth to your presence, that same teasing energy he witnessed two days ago reflecting in the slight tilt of your head. Your effortless grace makes it impossible for Robby to look at you with anything short of admiration dancing in his own eyes.
âThank you for joining me today.âÂ
The chat is already alive, and you greet a few viewers whose usernames are marked with colorful emblems. They must be regular donors.
Robby wonders how much they must have spent to earn that kind of attention. For a dangerous moment he considers typing a greeting himself, but the words feel too heavy, still awkward, so he sets on quietly basking a little longer in your presence.
âAs I wrote in my Instagram story, tonight I feel like doing a Q&A, nothing too tiring, if youâre all up for it. Iâm exhausted.â
You have an Instagram account. Maybe he will follow Santosâ advice and set one too.
The messages slow just enough that Robby can finally make out actual words instead of random blurry spots.
You squint at the screen. âOkay, first of all, whoever keeps spamming the same question in all capsâŠâ Your lips twitch. âIâm not answering it out of principle, just so you know.â
A row of laughing emojis floods the chat.
âSee? Actions have consequences.âÂ
You silently observe the texts for a while.
âDo you actually read all of these messages? Absolutely not. Have you seen yourselves? You type faster than I can think.â You snort. âWhich, to be fair, isnât something I like to do after nine p.m.â
âHow am I doing tonight? Thanks for asking, milf_fucker86.â Robby rolls his eyes at the username. âAs I mentioned before, Iâm drained. Itâs one of those weeks where every single day feels like it shouldâve been Friday.â
You frown, freezing as you are tucking one leg beneath yourself.
âActually, tomorrow is Friday.âÂ
kneel4mommy
Same
real_tom_thanks
girl me too
softboiii69
LMAOOO
âThank God itâs not just me.â You shake your head with a chuckle before leaning forward to look for more interesting messages.
âWhat do you do when youâre not streaming?â You sigh. âI recover from streaming.â
A few people protest.
âNo, seriously.â You stretch your arms above your head, and Robby tries unsuccessfully to keep his eyes from wandering to your turgid nipples straining against the tight fabric.
âI work, I bother my friends with stupid reels, I spend an embarrassing amount of time convincing myself Iâll start going to the gym next MondayâŠâ A forlorn sigh escapes your nostrils.
kneel4mommy
Which monday?
âOkay, thatâs exactly the kind of negativity I donât need.â You look gravely at the camera, before a small smile brightens your face.
âFavorite book? Oh, donât do this to me.â You grimace. âI canât just pick one, it depends on the day. I have, like⊠categories.â You keep your eyes on the chat as you hum pensively.
âRight now Iâm halfway through this novel⊠Itâs about this woman who keeps finding handwritten notes in library books from someone she never meets.â You put your hands in front of you, palms open and pointed at the camera. âNow, I know how that sounds.â Your voice is cautious, but the chat immediately starts teasing anyway.
âOh my God, itâs not cheesy!â You scoff a laugh, squinting slightly. âWell, okay, no maybe itâs a little cheesy. But the writing is really good! Itâs less about romance and more about⊠hm, I donât know.â
You look sideways, pursing your lips in thought.
âThe weird ways people leave pieces of themselves behind without meaning to.â You speak carefully. âDonât know if that makes any sense, my brain is too fried to be this profound at this hour.â
âOkay, next question!â You perk up, clapping your hands once, and Robby feels his lips stretch into a smile of his own.
âDumbest thing youâve done recently? Oh, thatâs easy. I tried baking cookies for my best friendâs birthday party.â The chat fills with hearts.
âNah, donât âawwâ, it was a complete disaster.â You grimace. âI forgot baking soda.â An embarrassing silence fills the room as the chat fills with emojis ranging from confusion to resignation.
âWhich apparently is important.â
touched_grass_once
apparently?????
âListen, they looked fine!â You shrug. âThey were just⊠a little flat.âÂ
The chat erupts with laughter.
âMy apartment smelled like fucking smoke for two days.â You grin sheepishly. âBUT! My best friend still ate one.â
You suddenly burst out laughing. âYes, froyo_baggings, thatâs the same friend who called me crying two months ago because she thought someone had broken into her apartment. For anyone who doesnât know this story, she rounded the corner, saw a figure standing in the hallway and immediately dialed my number. That person was her. Because sheâd bought a full-length mirror that morning.â
You shake your head. âYes, of course she loved the cookies! Itâs the thought that counts after all.â
More questions race past about your job, but you are careful to keep it vague enough to not give out too many details. Though Robby must repeatedly remind himself this is only your online persona, he is hopelessly invested. So much that he completely ignores the small ding from his microwave, where a now cold lasagna sits forgotten. You are so entirely captivating that the impossible thought of meeting someone like you in real life presses against his chest, sharp and tender all at once.
âWhere do you live? No.âÂ
âWhatâs your real name? Fuck no.â
âCan we see your apartment? The fuck?â Yet you still smile as you say it, enough that it never feels like a full rejection.
âI donât mind sharing little things about my life, but some things get to stay mine.â Your smile turns tight as you continue, something you decide to hide by biting your bottom lip and focusing back on the questions.
âDream vacation? You know whatâs funny?â You change position, crossing your legs again. âEvery time somebody asks me this, they expect me to say something like Greece or the Maldives.â You shake your head.
âAbsolutely not.â
The chat explodes with question marks.
âBecause if Iâm on vacation I donât want to come back more exhausted than when I left. I canât stand the heat, and spending an entire week on the beach under the sun would put me directly underground. I prefer somewhere cold.â
byteme
youâre insane
âAm I?â One of your eyebrows lifts skeptically.
No, Robby thinks you are actually one of the sanest people he has ever met.
âI think Iâd like that.â You nod slowly, but the sentimentality does not last for long.
âWhatâs your favorite organ?â Recoiling, you stare at the camera in horror. âWho raised you people?â
Robby lets out a quiet laugh, an involuntary reaction that he kills on the spot by setting his lips into a thin line. The sound would be ordinary for any other person, but it catches him completely off guard, because he canât remember the last time he laughed like that, particularly with one one else in the room.Â
Itâs in that moment that the doctor finally becomes aware of himself and the apartment that continues existing around him without asking anything in return. The clock in the corner of your stream says itâs been almost thirty minutes, and Robby frowns at it as if it has personally offended his whole family.Â
Itâs not possible. He had meant to stay for ten, fifteen minutes at the absolute most. Again, long enough to let the day loosen its grip from his shoulders, not watching you talk about books and fucking cookies.Â
But somewhere along the way he stopped hoping for your clothes to come off. And while his body is no less tense than it was when he opened his laptop, and the stinging behind his eyes lingers as he decided to forgo his glasses this time, the urgency that has driven him here in the first place has receded silently. Itâs embarrassing how, instead, Robby has been devouring every single word falling from your lips like a starved man: the detours, the way you gesticulate animatedly when the chat teases you, your soft smilesâŠÂ
And now he knows that the same woman whose real name still remains a mystery, whose face is illuminated by a ring light instead of the morning sun, canât tell a story without accidentally collecting three others along the way. That she loses the thread when something makes her laugh, only to stumble upon it several minutes later. That her fingers play with the little moon-shaped pendant of her necklace whenever she needs to reprimand some of her rowdiest viewers, because there is something about confrontation that evidently makes her nervousâfor a second Robby wonders whether anyone else noticed it, or whether it has now become a little secret shared between the two of you. That she wants to visit some cold, faraway place, and Robby realizes he has spent so many years leaving Pittsburgh only for conferences that heâs forgotten people sometimes travel simply because they want to.Â
Which destination would you choose? Perhaps somewhere with narrow streets, surrounded by mountains and lush vegetation. The sort of place that holds no expectations.
As though the simple act of looking elsewhere might be enough to dispel the thought, Robby tears his eyes from the screen and looks at the untouched mug on the coffee table.Â
His gaze lingers there for a moment too long, before drifting absently to the lone sock lying beneath it, abandoned there when Robby had stretched out on the couch after his shower. Outside, rain has begun tapping softly against the windows, and only when he turns curiously to look at the sky a dull stiffness catches at the base of his neck, making him wince. He rolls one shoulder experimentally, because heâd scarcely moved in the better part of an hour, save for the single time the armrest had begun digging sharply into the bone.Â
Lastly, the television. It is now playing a crime documentary about stalkers and obsessions.Â
Robby canât help but feel his stomach churn uncomfortably, because he canât remember a single thing from the creatures living thousands of feet beneath the oceanâs surface, but can picture with alarming clarity the way your face lights up when you laugh. Your eyes disappear first, then your head automatically ducks as though youâre trying to hide the shape of your mouthâsometimes itâs a hand that covers itâand Robby asks himself what made you so self-conscious about it. Was it a toxic ex? A middle-school bully? But then you always look back at the camera with the same irrepressible grin still lingering at the corners of your mouth.
âAh!â Robby startles at your loud exclamation, his brown eyes immediately jumping back to the screen. âvibemike wants to know my favorite role play. Okay chat, letâs see how well you know me.â
âProfessor and student? Thatâs hot but not my favorite.â You nod, before your eyebrows raise in surprise. âRepairman and homeowner? Hm, interesting. What do you think? Me opening the door in a sweater and no panties?â You giggle.
Leaning forward, you squint at the chat again as Robby shakes his head at how human beings can sexualize even the most innocent of interactions.
âStrangers at a bar!â You exclaim, straightening up. âThatâs something Iâve always wanted to try but Iâm pretty sure Iâd end up ruining it. Iâm sorry, itâs just so funny that I have to flirt with the other person as if I donât know what they look like naked.â
âOkay, okay. You gave me a lot of good ideas but itâs something Iâve never actually mentioned before.â Your torso lean forward just a little bit, as if to share an important secret.
âLately Iâve been really into the doctor kink.â You whisper.
Robbyâs heart falls to his feet.
âI know.â You giggle. âI just want to be thrown on an examination table and have my handsome doctor force my legs open while reprimanding me about how important it is to have my pussy inspected once in a while.â A tiny sigh escapes your parted lips as you tuck your legs closer to your chest, resting your chin on top of your knees.
âMaybe Iâd let him fuck my mouth, you know, for good luck before he goes off to save his other patients.â You wink, already laughing as Robby swallows dryly.Â
You wet your lips, before glancing down between your legs. âWell, would you look at that.â
His gaze instinctively drops to the empty space between his knees, tiredly dragging a hand down his flushed face as his bulge is hot under his sweatpants.
âJesus Christ.â He mumbles.
âNo, Iâm not wearing a bra, super_sp3rm.â Chuckling, you get up on your knees to give your viewers a nice close-up of your chest, your nipples erect and begging to be worshipped.
With a knowing grin, you keep chatting leisurely, both of your hands rubbing and squeezing your tits until your breath hitches faintly.
âI wasnât planning on playing with you tonight.â You gasp as your manicured nails lightly tease your covered nubs. âBut my panties are all wet now after thinking about some hot doctor playing with my pussy. What do you think? Should I take care of it?â
The tips have been quite slow... until now. Robby has a feeling this was your wicked plan all along.
A chuckle bursts out of you as you look at the chat. âGod, youâre filthy.â
Your teeth chew on your bottom lip as your free hand sinks beneath the fabric of your shorts, starting little circular motions.
âThis is all your fault. I just wanted to talk to you guys.â You whine softly. âSo this is all you get for tonight.â
Robby is a little disappointed as your pussy stays hidden, but seeing you rubbing yourself under your shorts as your fingers leisurely pull and flick your covered nipples is enough for his heart to pick up its pace in anticipation.
You moan under your breath. âFuck, âs so sensitive.â Your brows furrow in pleasure, before your eyes momentarily fly to the chat.Â
âAre you going to come with me, hm?â With your head falling back, your fingers twist your left nipple hard enough for you to cry out. âOh!â You gasp, back arching and eyes rolling back.
Robby stares in awe at your body shaking, before your hand languidly comes out of your shorts for you to slowly taste your glistening fingers, quietly sucking on each digit as you stare directly at the camera.
âHm, so good.â Then, with a little impish grin, âMaybe that could be you cleaning me up next time.â
The messages grow increasingly dirtier, but from the way your eyes slowly blink at the camera, Robby knows you must be too tired to continue. A few viewers clearly expected more, so you assure them next week youâll be back with your usual content.
Robby observes silently, not quite hard but still sated, the promise of more hanging in the air as a faint bitter taste in his mouth lingers at the thought of having to wait four days to see you again.
âJust a little reminder that this week Iâll be available on both Saturday and Sunday for private shows. So hurry up and book your slot!â You wink, completely unaware of how you just undid Robby with a few simple words.
âJust send me an inbox if youâre interested.â
After your stream ends, he quickly opens your profile and decides to type a short, respectful line, easy to ignore, and send a tip.
Thank you for the company.
The moment itâs gone, the action fully settles in. Your inbox must already be crowded with names and small attempts at catching your attention, all blurring together. He is just another stranger passing through, another line youâll never have the time to read.
The couch creaks softly as he slumps back, wondering why the sole knowledge hadnât stopped himâthat despite knowing how insignificant he might be in a sea of faceless users, he still had let himself indulge in this little attempt at connecting with you.
But when Robby logs in the next dayâtotally not to check if you had repliedâthere is a small, red number one sitting at the top of his inbox. His fingers pause over the touchpad, brown eyes blinking once, twice, hardly believing it.
Hey DoctorR! Wow!! Thank you so much for the generous tip đ€ Were you interested in a private show?
A small smile unconsciously tugs at the corners of his mouth. He is genuinely surprised you answered. Even from behind a screen, your acknowledgment makes his heartbeat flutter dangerously fast, leaving Robby both elated and unnervingly aware of how much he wants to matter to you, despite the stubborn conviction that he is doing this just to entertain himselfâand of course to pay you back for the incredible orgasms.
His eyes then flick to the amount he sent, just to make sure he didnât add too many zeros by mistake. But no, the number is exactly as intended: one hundred dollars. The amount hardly seems like a generous tip; after all, your time is surely worth far more.
His eyes slide over your words again and again, until the weight of your question finally prompts his hands to hastily move against the keyboard at the prospect of a call just between you and him. He sends a quick message confirming his interest in a private show, and caught up in the thrill of whatâs to come, sends another twenty dollars.
Before he can log out for tonight, though, your reply appears: another cheerful omg thank you!! followed by another text to let him know your availability for Saturday night. He asks if itâs a problem for you to set the call at elevenâjust a precaution since he never actually clocks out at nineâand you reassure him itâs completely fine with you.
Your exchange is straightforward and short, and Robby is oddly comforted by that. He will be paying for your lovely company, so even if he is as dull as the people around him have recently told him, you will at least be compensated.
Perhaps this weekend he wonât be as miserable as usual.
â âą END NOTES: thank you so much for reading đ€
my masterlist â winteryn's masterlist
â BRENDON PARK x FEM! EM RESIDENT! READER âź 8.2K
SUMMARY Trying to avoid your hopeless crush has worked surprisingly well⊠until you accidentally send him a consult request.
IN WHICH Brendon Park proves that the hospital's most intimidating attending has every right to his god complex.
WARNINGS 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, workplace romance, attending/resident, awkward crush, reader is down bad, power imbalance, praise kink, size kink (even though reader is mentioned to be curvy a couple of times, park is huge and so is his dick đźâđš), pussy pronouns, oral (f rec), unprotected pnv, body worship, breast play, nipple stimulation, mild choking, slight dumbification, discussion of fractures for like two seconds, mentions of Robby and Whitaker, no use of y/n. partially proof read.
NOTES gif credits : @bodeckerhedron thank you for making it just for me đââïž (youâre supposed to say âyes, i did make it for you!â)
Colles is a distal radius fracture, usually treated conservatively with a cast. The x-ray above is NOT Colles. It was the only ones that remotely matched my colour scheme. And as usual, the image above does not depict reader, just for vibes.
⥠READ ON AO3 â PITT MASTERLIST
There's exactly one upside to being friends with someone in Ortho, even if all of them were just morons with a god complex.Â
Faster consults.
Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it â the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.
He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you.Â
Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.
You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.
Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.
Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.
The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.
The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.
You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself.Â
You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?
You walked directly into his chest.Â
When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him."Â
But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly.Â
What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it â needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon â went everywhere else.
He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"
You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said.Â
He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face.Â
Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up."Â
You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER.Â
So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times.Â
That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity.Â
You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' â dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.
You :Â Colles. You free?
You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.
You didn't look at the screen.
You should have looked at the screen.
Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"
You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"
"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs."Â
You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."
Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture."Â
"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it.Â
Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one â no, Park â couldn't find him.Â
You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back.Â
He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day.Â
Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What'sâ"
"Did you get my text?"
"What â what text?"
The floor dropped out from under you.Â
"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward â
Dr. Park Ortho.
No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity.Â
Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.
Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.
Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist â AP and lateral.
Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.
The third though.Â
You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display.Â
It's you.Â
The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it.Â
Until now.Â
Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.
Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.
You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here.Â
Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.
A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness.Â
"Present the case, doctor."Â
"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.
"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice.Â
Without any other choice, you followed him.Â
When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once.Â
Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face.Â
"I, she's, it's aâ" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."
Transferring was the only option left for you now.Â
"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it."Â
Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'.Â
That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you.Â
You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious.Â
Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.
Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"
Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal.Â
You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly.Â
Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.
"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you.Â
"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure.Â
He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."
Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby â who was glancing between the two of you â and then he was gone up the elevator.Â
Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet.Â
Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.
"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.
"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"Â
If only he knew.Â
The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time:Â dumb on my cock â wait for me â dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing.Â
By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.
Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.
Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time.Â
Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.
"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."
With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in.Â
Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.
"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"
"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."
That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"
"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."
"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.
Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show.Â
"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."
"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."
Park the shark? Coming down to see you?Â
You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one.Â
You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then.Â
His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more ⊠homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side.Â
There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.
A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.
He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place.Â
"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."
You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest.Â
The last person you'd done anything like this with â a general surgery resident â hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back.Â
But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely.Â
Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.
You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.
You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.
Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, wellâŠÂ there.
When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.
"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.
"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at.Â
"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.Â
He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.
You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had.Â
A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.
He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"
Smug fucking bastard.Â
"Shut up."
He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."
"People sigh."
"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."
"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago."Â
"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."
Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you.Â
The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.
Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.
Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."
When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."
You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"
Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"
Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.
You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.
The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."
Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.
He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"
"From you â" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.
He looked up. "What was that?"
"N-nothing."
"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?"Â
You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not â "What?"
"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"
"What?"
"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."
"I do not."
"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. Â "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."
"W-what?"Â
A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating.Â
"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other handâŠÂ
"Don't say adorable."
"Why not?"
"It â it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position â naked, with his hands on your thighs â was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent â"
"Mhmm."
"â medical professional."
"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument.Â
The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel.Â
"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"
Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.
Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was â an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"
It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?
Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.
"W-what?"
"Focus, babygirl."Â Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"
You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically.Â
Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.
Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."
"That's not what I asked, was it?"
"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."
You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.
"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl."Â
Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.
Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly â very briefly, for your disappointment â returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him.Â
As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants.Â
There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now.Â
Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it.Â
It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison.Â
His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.
One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl.Â
Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan.Â
Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."
The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers.Â
Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.
"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.
His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about.Â
Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.
When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste.Â
Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud.Â
"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that.Â
One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan â one that you didn't know you were capable of making â ripped past your lips.Â
The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him.Â
His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.
"Brendon â"
He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.
He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand â the one that had abandoned his hair â and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."
Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought.Â
With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips.Â
The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't â it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment.Â
When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop.Â
He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.
A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.
"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"
"Stop it."
"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.
"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.
His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.
"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.
His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.
"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after.Â
The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.
This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.
By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice.Â
When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.
"Did you just â" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.
"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.
"You're ticklish."
"I'm not ticklish."
"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."
"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"
Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.
He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"
That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"
"At the hospital. People look at you."
"They do not."
"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."
Robby couldn't possibly â "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things."Â
You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention.Â
He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."
"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.
"Sure you don't."
"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome.Â
"Yeah."Â Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest.Â
Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open.Â
He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.
"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower.Â
"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.
You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it.Â
Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.
He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?"Â
A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.
He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."
"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly.Â
Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.
"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."
"That's not â I wasn't complimenting you."
"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"
It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for.Â
The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him.Â
Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.
"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.
"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.
"Words, baby."
"Move, Brendon."
The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.
Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.
It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.
His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip.Â
"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"
"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of â no, inside â you.Â
The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.
He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.
On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.
A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha â why'd you â why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.
"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.
"I don't â don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else.Â
"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart?Â
You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words.Â
His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.
Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on ⊠The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the â
Oh.Â
Oh.Â
The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I â I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."
Brendon went still processing that â stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that.Â
Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.
You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.
If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."
Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."
You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.
He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him.Â
The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.
"Fuck, you feel â" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.
You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.
Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about â the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy whoâs acted like they personally invented bone.Â
Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.
So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced.Â
This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open â he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep.Â
"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."
"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."
"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.
Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.
He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip.Â
You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.
"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.
"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."
"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were.Â
"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.
You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. Iâm not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."
His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"
"Well. He is my attending."
"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant.Â
"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You donât have to be jealous of Robby."
"I'm not."
"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."
His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't â don't say post-nut."
A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.
"Watch it."
You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it.Â
Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding."Â
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You're smiling. I can feel it."
"Shut up, Brendon."
EXTRAS guess who was studying Ortho when this plot came to mind? Also final fic for a while, Iâm going on a proper break this time đââïž
Summary: You're thrown into Robby's orbit in a chaotic turn of events - and it shouldn't work, he shouldn't feel like this, about a random PhD student, a stranger to the city he calls home, who is so much younger than him. He simply isn't ready.
Pairing: F!Reader x Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch
A/N: I'm finally going for it! I've been wanting to write this short story for a while now. Seeing as I just finished the first chapter, I'm putting up this Masterlist as a little announcement.
àšà§ pairing .á.á brendon park x resident!reader
àšà§ summary .á.á dr. brendon park operated like most shark, always patrolling and returning to where he was familiar. he knew how to fix fractures and re-implant amputated limbs with confidence. he was a master in his professional craft. sociallyâbrendon didnât have that same skill, and when you moved to the night shift, the atmospheric change was something he couldnât stabilize like bones.
àšà§ tags/warnings .á.á female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description, sexism/conflict in the workplace, pediatric/mass casualty cases, burnout, slow burn, grumpy/sunshine, competence kink, emotionally repressed brendon (he honestly needs therapy), power imbalance, this is just park realizing he fucked up and lowkey yearns for reader to notice him again lol
àšà§ authors note .á.á here is the long awaited continuation! someone said something of a park pov and i couldn't resist it!! i hope this is a worthy part two (yall let me know honestly, okay?) i love brendon park y'all and i know you guys do too, so i really hope you guys like it (i have a validation kink)
àšà§ word count .á.á 14.4 k
part one: find another soldier!
Brendon heard more than what he wanted to about the hospital and its staff. Even though staff were acutely aware when he was around (typically refraining from making obvious comments about him), he was still able to pick up a few things here and there.Â
Observations of potential flings and affairs between nurses and doctors. The âdramaâ that occurred within departmental staffâsome of them including married couples who challenge their vows by working together. The latest news on what residents royally screwed up or who had been reprimanded for forgetting protocol.Â
Brendon Park, who had the hearing of a shark, picked up those sociable conversations between colleagues. He always stood a comfortable distance from the parade, finding no satisfaction in bonding with people he was meant to work with. The absence of relation and sharing intimacy such as personal details didn't affect his work negatively, which was all that mattered to himÂ
He told himself he didn't care about any of it, even when he heard a thing or two about himself. Internally, he knew that was the absolute truth. There was no exception.Â
Until he passed by the nursing station where Sully, his chief resident, was speaking with Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending. The two were off to the side, speaking among themselves like the two had done so before. Sully held a digital chart in his hands, but his attention was on Dr. Emmick, casually slumped with her hands in her jacket pockets.
âSheâs doing perfectly on her own.â Dr. Emmick shrugged, a proud smile on her face. The relief that escaped Sully made something tick in Park. âI mentioned nominating her for chief resident next year. That just seemed to amp up her determination even more, if that was possible.â
âThat's not surprising. Sheâs always been miles above some of the other residents.â Sully responded with a buzzing smile. Brendon had resorted to stopping by the printer behind the station, pretending to be shuffling through pages he had already arranged. âSheâs managed to teach me a few things I plan to take with me.â
âIâm sure sheâll be sad to see you leave,â Dr. Emmick patted his shoulder, that softer smile she reserved for praises and quiet appreciations painting her face. Sully nodded along with her words. âBut, sheâs blossoming here. Before you know it, sheâll be running this place.â
âDr. Emmick,â Park cut through the conversation, standing from across the nursing station. He held up the papers in his hand, a curt nod in her direction.Â
She offered one more smile to Sully as she moved around the desk. Park didnât look over at her as the two merged to walk alongside each other. In the time Dr. Emmick had been at PTMC, she never once spent time alone with Brendon Park. The most solitude the two of them spent was when they had meetings, and even then, those events included other admin or members of the collective hospital boards they were in.Â
She figured out he was a lone shark when they first met, preferring to slip in and out the doors without so much of a âgood morningâ or âgood night.â
The least he could do was offer her a nod whenever they passed each other by hand-off.
Dr. Emmick walked with a small sway, too much energy for someone who spent the entire shift focused on an emergency reconstruction of a patient with an unstable pelvic ring fracture. Brendon sensed the small glances she sent him, and he sighed out through his nostrils, maintaining his aloof demeanor. If he acted normal, sheâd keep the curious questions to herself.
âWeâre only a few months shy from graduation again.â Emmick mentioned casually, maneuvering around some nurses passing by, offering small âexcuse me.â âDo you have anyone in mind for chief residents?â
Brendon barely flinched at the question, keeping his attention straight ahead. The two pushed through the first pair of double doors until they reached the nonclinical area of the surgical department, where his office along with the other chief surgeons and attending lounge was.Â
He snorted lightly, shaking his head. âAt the rate my residents are working, we may have to settle on one, if we both agree on someone.â
âThatâs a lot of responsibility for one resident,â Dr. Emmick snickered. She was aware what residents wanted the title, which came with the most attention from the attendings. All the other residents were their little ducks to watch, a true simulation of being an attending in a trauma-1 hospital.Â
Which came with the responsibility of their wrong-doings as much as their wins.Â
Emmick brushed her stray hairs behind her ear, âAnd if you can't settle on someone from the day-shift, Iâd hate to hear what you think of those in the night shift.â
âIâm assuming you're asking because you had someone in mind.â Brendon diverted smoothly, his tone even and rested. Despite the fact he knew exactly where she was reigning the conversation, he still held the detached perceptive look he had when he was making an objective judgment.
She hummed, advancing ahead of Park to scan her badge to enter the hospital-staff exclusive area. With a beep, the doors clicked open and Brendon stalked down first. When the door shut behind Emmick she stepped back to his side, âItâs someone we both have worked with extensively.â
When Brendon reached his office, he bowed his head slightly to hide the twitch in his nose. Once he sat at his desk, he had put back the stoic expression. Emmick shut the wooden door, pulling out a chair for her to sit across him. Both her hands folded onto her lap, legs crossed. The small twitch in the corner of her mouth all but confirmed his suspicion.
When your name escaped her mouth, he straightened his back. He was recalling the image of him sitting on his desk, your buzzing body standing in front of the door, waiting for the moment to escape. You had left and never looked back.
Once the switch was made official, Park wasn't expecting there to be a lapse in his day-to-day life. Itâs not like you had moved departments or hospitals. He would see you passing by the halls during hand-off, the back of your head or the familiar fleece jacket you sported in the eerily cold hospital; but there was a distance that didn't exist while you worked the dayshift.Â
Working under his command and his directive as his resident.Â
âWhat about her makes her ideal for the position?â Brendon questioned. The current quarterly review the two were meant to oversee before their meeting pushed aside.
The question was firm, like he was interviewing his colleague instead of searching for her opinion. She raised her eyebrows at him, an amused grin flashing back at him. âYou want my professional opinion?â
âObviously.â
âShe is a good mentor, has great instinct and initiative. She keeps a clinical perspective while under pressure.â Emmick listed out concisely, opting to appease the language Dr. Park preferred. He didnât care about the mush or the personable trait that made you stand out to him, even if Emmick felt those strengths were your greatest virtues. âAs a third-year resident, she is already doing the job of a chief resident, without the title.â
Brendon remained silent, pressing his lips into a thin line. The subtle movement of his jaw, an obvious tick, made it evident what he refused to put into words. He had doubts.
âThis observation is based on the last three months sheâs been on the night shift?â He clarified while crossing his arms over his chest. Through the sleeves of his scrubs, his muscles tightened, pulling the fabric tighter.
Emmick confirmed with one silent nod, eyeing Park from her chair. âAs well as the double and previous night shifts she has worked.â
âAnd you're confident in her abilities?â
The more questions he spewed, the more it resembled an interrogation. He was investigating a theory he was keeping to himself through the people who knew you, instead of addressing the source. In three months, it was clear that you were keeping a distance.
No one wanted to spend five minutes alone in a room with Park, let alone talk to him that long. In your case, you confronted him of the clear judgments he made of your work while under his supervision. The public displays of his criticism had pushed you into the deep end of a pool, and as you found an edge to climb off, you took the extra steps to never fall in that situation again.
If you had asked him, heâd describe it as running.
âYou arenât?" Emmick resounded incredulously, like it was unbelievable he thought contrary to popular belief.Â
âI think that in the majority of the three years Iâve witnessed her work, Iâve noticed moments requiring additional correction.â Brendon commented with no hesitation, as if he was waiting for the opportunity to let it out.
The frustration you caused when Mr. Stevenson suffered through compartment syndrome. The lack of awareness when you were run down through your double shifts. Even the lack of urgency when treating patients. It was all hindering your ability to be a perfect orthopedic surgeon.
âAll residents need to be corrected.â Emmick remarks with a humorous scoff. Park ticked his head to the side, displeased with her dismissing his objection. âIâm not saying sheâs perfect.â
âIt was implied strongly by your choice of words.â
âWell, in comparison to some of the other residents, sheâs damn near it.â Emmick cocked her head to the side, almost daring him to utter a word. Brendon kept his eyes on her, and all he saw were talons flared out, like a hawk ready to protect its nest.Â
Emmick had traits he respected in a colleague. Working together as attendings undertaking residents with shaky hands became a source of common ground. What divided them was their nonidentical ways of going about it. Emmick stuck her ground when Brendon might expostulate with gravity to the risks. She believed in a hand-on validating method. Brendon had to see it first to believe it.
âI thought maybe you might agree.â She mentioned casually, picking at a lint on her jacket sleeve.
Brendon nose twitched, leaning forward in his seat to rest his burly arms on the table. âWhy is that?â
âBecause I like to believe you couldnât possibly deny when a resident is good at their job.â Emmick narrowed her eyes at him, tempting to push him just close enough to the edge where heâd have to turn and face the issue.
What Brendon thought was nothing was something worth omitting. He could brood all heâd wanted, and most of his residents wouldnât blink a teary eye, but what he cursed Emmick over was her peculiar talent at observation.
âEspecially not a resident like her.â
He huffed out a sigh, almost cracking his resolve. This had to be a joke. âThe residents chosen for the chief position need to have earned my utmost trust. Itâs not a title handed prematurely.â
âLike Sullivan?â She asked skeptically, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back in the chair.Â
Her steady stare dragged across every inch of his face. He didnât bother intimidating a colleague who had proven time and time again she wasnât to be messed with; even when people assumed she was too lax in comparison to him.Â
But, she had a nasty bite.Â
Brendon knew exactly what she was insinuating. Apart from Sullivan (who was personally chosen for the role by Park) his co-chief for night shift was also a man who (in Parks terms) got lucky from the process of elimination. Despite the fact Emmick mightâve argued the two female 4th year residents wouldâve made wonderful selections.
âLook, before you snarl your shark-teeth at me, let me say one thing.â She put up a hand to restrain his irritability right before they were meant to meet with administration.Â
When he mentioned nothing more, she sat up straight, leaning in closer like she might tell him a life-changing secret. âIf this is about her moving to night shift, that mightâve been my doing more than hers. No hard feelings, Brendon.â
âWhat do you mean?â He entertained, eyes turning into slits as he stared curiously. Like examining an amputation on the field.Â
âI told her I could use a resident with her skill.â She mentioned casually, like the concept was known by everyone. Brendon was aware of what Emmick thought of you, as much as the other resident did. She didnât hide her affection or pride with a firm guard as he did.Â
She shrugged, her smile upside. âI didnât think sheâd want to give up the chance to be taught by you, but here we are.â
Brendon's eyes moved down at the desk, feeling the oak from that night as he gripped the edge of his desk. He conformed to the idea his sudden dissatisfaction was from you standing over him, pointing blame for affecting your work. He was too hard, too malevolent, or contemptuous for your liking.
All the effort he put in was just him being too âproudâ and âarrogant.â He expected more from you, and he didnât need your honesty (as you had put it), to remind him that you weren't up to the plate.Â
âI still stand by the fact sheâs exceptional, and it would be a disservice if we didnât even consider her.â She concluded, with the firmness that came from working her way to where she was.
On the very few occasions that they spoke, Emmick had expressed small gratitude for the trust he had extended to her when she first transferred over. He didn't comprehend the need to âthankâ him. He assumed the hospital was hiring competent attendings to take over the hard work while teaching naive residents and interns.Â
So when he thought of you, as chief resident or an attending, the bill did not fit. Nobody just deserved the title. It was earned from hard work. You had yet to work hard enough to garner a standing ovation from him.Â
Philosophy wasnât Brendonâs strong suit. He didn't waste his time on debates, but he did have strong beliefs. Medicine was a rational practice. There were right and wrong things to do in a hospitalâas a surgeonâthat could put the lives of others in the balance. He was taught that lesson long ago, and when it came time for him to pass along his teachings, he made sure to drill it in all his residents.
âYour patient can die at any moment. Don't be the reason they donât make it.â was something he had reminded them time and time again. He didn't need to be pulled away from one life-saving surgery to futilely attempt another. His residents should be covering all bases, without serving any reminders.
He hadn't forgotten the occasions you had failed at that.
It was rookie mistakes unsuited for third year residents. When he enforced responsibilities, he expected stellar work in return. If the residents signed up for the work of orthopedic surgery, they should be held accountable for every action and inaction that they take. He expected them to enforce that upon themselves.Â
He had put that weight on you.Â
He was unapologetic for what he had done while you worked with him. It was all for the sake of the patients, himself, and you. Your work was a reflection of him, and if you couldn't figure out how to stand on your own two feet, how could anyone trust the training you had to save lives?
You had not seen it that way. Brendon shrugged it off in turn.
Maybe he was vindictive, waiting for Emmick to see the dangerous flaws he did. He expected Emmick to see it as he did, but she had other pillars in her teaching.
He saw it the way she smiled whenever you showed up around her. Brendon noticed it from inside patient rooms, behind nursing stations, and the few occasions you two were in the same space together. Emmick praised you with the same ease as breathing.Â
Everyone was aware how rare Dr. Park complimented anyone for his or her work. Marla Emmick operated oppositely.
Sheâd pat your shoulder, whisper something with that curled grin of hers, or give you a fist-bump as a supportive nod of your actions. Brendon rolled his eyes at it.
These werenât kindergartners who needed a gold star for accomplishing something required of their program. These were grown adults who needed to comprehend the intensity of their choices, their observations and evaluation of patients, and the importance of knowing what they were doing as much as showing up to do it.
He was trying to make competent surgeons capable of saving fragile human life and he would do that at the expense of feeding the âsharkâ persona everyone saw. Cold-hearted, detached, and mean.
Even while you were under the supervision of Emmick, he still tried to figure out whether you had learned anything from the time you spent with him. He needed to see whether Emmick was right about her observation.
Park was making his way to the patient waiting in the pre-op wing. He stalked around, looking for the small group of residents making their rounds. He nodded at Annette, the charge nurse, as she pointed over to patient room three. When he made his way to the room, he saw the collective group of residents standing at the foot of the bed. He stood by the doorway, listening to the hand-off Reddy, the senior residents for the night, conducted.
Frank Giles, a 65-year-old, needing a total hip replacement after a nasty fall in his home, sat on the bed. He was cracking jokes with the residents, who seem to go along with it.
He was looking around the crowd, in search of someone specific. Frowning, he looked at Dr. Reddy, âWhere is that one doctor? Sheâs the one who spoke with me when they first admitted me.â
Reddy furrowed his brows, glancing up from the device in his hand. He paused for a moment before speaking your name. It rang bells in Mr. Giles face as his smile widened, âWould it be too much to ask if she could do the operation?â
Sully smiled sincerely, standing center at the foot of the bed. âHer shift ends soon, unfortunately. But knowing her, she will likely check in with you tonight once youâre resting up in post-op.â
Mr. Giles conformed to the idea, despite the fact his smile was nearly as bright as before. âGood friend of hers, I assume?â
With a flustered grin, Sully nodded. âRoommates. Given the amount of time we spent together, I would hope we are.â
A belly laugh filled the room, and Mr. Giles identified with something Sully said. The endearing look on his face made it clear to Brendon, watching the old man examine Sully like he were someone familiar. âReminded of my late wife and I.â
Brendon could make out a quiet condolence from Sully. Before Mr. Giles could go on a tangent, Sully smoothly transitioned the conversation into pre-op protocol. Reddy jumped in easily, going over the diagnosis.Â
He nodded along to what Reddy explained about the procedure assigned to Sully. After a couple of questions, the residents paid their farewell and filed out in a line.Â
Park stood back, waiting for the senior residents to emerge from the room. When his chief resident noticed Park, he gave him a silent tut of his chin. He fell in line beside him, silencing the quiet conversation between Sully and his co-chief resident.
âWhere is Dr. Emmick?â Park asked without invitation. The question was directed to Dr. Reddy, who lifted his brows in response.
Park expectantly looked at him with hooded eyes. He shook himself from the daze, âShe got stuck in a complex acetabular reconstruction. 3 hours and counting.â
âAlone?â Park followed up, eyes darting in front of him as he counted the back of the resident's head.Â
He knew exactly who was missing. He didnât need to specify where his curiosity lied.
âNo,â Sully jumped in, glancing at Park from beside him. Despite the fact they were about the same height, he still towered over the senior resident. He then said your name with a smile, âDr. Emmick managed to rope her into a possible ten-hour surgery. Although, I doubt she wouldâve said no to it.âÂ
âBetter her than me.â Reddy had mumbled under his breath, presuming his comment could be omitted from Park the Shark.
âAs a fourth-year resident, it should be you.â Park swiftly remarked, barely jerking his head to look at Reddy. He did extend his arm to Sully, silently taking the device in order to sneak a look at the operation details. âHow do you intend to make up for your lack of exposure in a different hospital? By choking up the minute youâre standing over a patient with everything at stake?â
Reddy's wide eyes panicked and landed on Sully, hoping the person supposedly in his corner would save him. Sully gave him a menial headshake, refusing to intervene. Reddy sighed in defeat, shoulders sagging. âIt was a joke.â
Park didnât elaborate more on the matter as he glared at him from the corner of his eye. As he opened the operation details, he read about the patient suffering a work-accident. Based on the intake details and initial imaging once in the ER, it was an unfavorable surgery to hop on while almost done with a 12-hour shift. With a both column fracture involved, you two were bound to be stuck there for ten hours.
Before Park could rip Reddy apart even more, he excused himself to debrief about a patient in post-op. Instead of joining the group, Park stopped by the nursing station, investigating the details of the case further. Of course, Emmick would choose her most prized resident to join the surgery.Â
However, Brendon couldnât help but wonder whether you agreed for the experience and bragging rights that came from being selected over your senior resident only.
Sully stood in front of him, hands in his pocket while glancing between his fellow residents in the patient room and his attending. He leaned back on his heels, âI heard the patient was in a pretty bad state when he came in. Dr. Emmick might be stuck in there a while, if you needed her.â
Park huffed out a sigh, shaking his head slightly. With your absence, he was able to gauge what type of doctor Sully would turn out to be. He was the same ambitious and focused resident he always was, even without you to support him through every surgery.
Whether he wanted to or not, he had asked Park for a recommendation letter for an attending position he planned to take at a trauma-1 hospital in Chicago.Â
Brendon never embellished the truthâwhether personally or professionally. There was no way he would lie on a rec letter for a resident, no matter how much they relied on it for a position anywhere. But, he hated to admit, Dr. Sullivan had managed to push Park to add some flourish to the letter.
âMaybe this is out of place, but I know talks about chief residents are being held around this time.â Sully leaned in casually, still keeping his focus mostly on Reddy and the other residents. They both could hear enough from outside the room. âDo you mind if I give you my opinion as their predecessor?â
Park lifted his gaze up, hooded eyes staring back at Sully, who waited patiently for a response. Looking bored, Park sighed, âSomething tells me youâre going to give it to me regardless.â
Sully chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck casually. He shrugged, âI want to make sure you and Dr. Emmick consider everything to make the right choice, not that you need me to do that.â
Remaining silent, Park stared blankly at Sully. After a beat, he understood Park wasnât going to welcome the suggestion verbally. That was beneath him. Sully leaned onto the nursing station, eyes focused on Dr. Park. âI donât want you to think this is some plug just because sheâs my roommate or because weâre close.â
Brendon didnât need any more explanation as to who he was referring to. The utterance of your name from him was something he was starting to dread after the last conversation with Emmick. Sully stared skeptically at Park, trying to read into the stoic demeanor he had all the time. âShe is a good surgeon, and as her chief resident, I do believe she could fulfill the position with ease.â
âAre you sure sheâll survive without you?â Park questioned, his eyes now narrowed on Sully. It wasnât the type of concern Emmick wouldâve shown him. It was a mockery of what Sully just expressed. The everlasting doubt in his resident still understands the work. He didnât agree, but he didnât vocalize it yet either.
Sully cocked his head to the side, âI donât doubt it. The real question is if Iâm going to survive without her. I got too comfortable having her around, I guess.â
Brendon saw the slight tenderness in his eye. Something soft he didnât get to see every day between him and you. He could almost sense your presence while you were holed away in an OR. The way patients asked for you with the same affection theyâd search for a comrade. He was aware of what the residents thought of you, often turning to you to save them from a sinking boat.Â
It was like they knew youâd throw them a life preserver, unlike the harsh suggestion to âfigure it outâ on their own like Park would do.
âThe lease of our apartment is already under her name. She is set for next year.â Sully mentioned coolly. Park hated small talk, but he found it odd within himself to hesitate with cutting the conversation short. He stared with the same blank expression at Sully, completely unsure what to do with that information.
Sully chuckled, âIf she werenât set on staying, I would drag her over with me.â
Brendon forehead creased in the center and his jaw clenched, similarly to when attending a consultation in the ER. A solid focus on trying to capture every detail of a patientâs leg, arm, or other joint susceptible to needing care under his department.Â
He never questioned where a resident went once they were done with their program. They all couldnât stay here, and the ones that attempted found it hard to continue with the pressure pushed by âPark the Shark.â Even if there were a resident whom he deemed sufficient to fill an attending position, heâd never advocate on their behalf.
Brendon didnât get where he was by accepting a hand-out from anyone.
âIâm still going to hold her a place over there just in case.â Sully continued, still hanging around Park like there was more to discuss.Â
Park caught the residents leaving the room, walking over to another a couple of doors down. His eyes followed their movement, barely blinking when he looked back at Sully, questioning glare. âShouldnât you be doing hand-offs with the rest?â
Sully didnât look over his shoulder, or show any attempt to attend to his duties. There wasnât even a hint of hesitation, not even when he saw the glare from Park, staring him up and down. He was a man determined to do a job Brendon saw no point in. âIâm telling you this because Iâd hate for you to come to the realization how critical her contribution to this hospital is until itâs too late.â
Brendon grinded his jaw slightly. Had Sully conspired with Emmick to shove you down his throat? Or maybe this was a lousy attempt at your end to get an apology out of him. Park didnât relinquish. He didnât care how much people argued the contrary, he refused to give in on what people may think was âbestâ for his department.Â
âYou may not need her, but that doesnât eliminate her worth around here.â Sully stated with firmness.
From the hardened stare of his resident, Brendon knew exactly what Sully was referring to. He didnât doubt that youâd share the hostility brewing between him and you. It wasnât exactly a secret. Park would not shy away from exposing a resident for their wrong doings.
What he was starting to notice was the courage of certain residents willing to put their foot down on what they saw was unjust.
They handed him the short end of the stick during his residency and med-school years. His teachers and attendings didnât make it easy, and they certainly wouldnât have tolerated being advised by residents like you and Sully.
Instead of picking a fight, he chose the silence. It was early in the morning to dig into Sully. Heâd chosen to wait into swatting him around like a shark with its fin. It took another minute for Sully to realize Park the Shark was opting to glare at him, inserting dominance until he got the hint.Â
Park handed him the device back. Sully took it without question, swiftly turning to head in the direction the residents disappeared. Standing firm in place, he watched the cloud of plum scrubs move around the post-op floor.Â
He knew exactly which ones would cry over his directive before the start of their next year. Who would hesitate and second-guess themselves the next time they answered a consultation. He could acutely guess who would be eaten alive by the other attendings across different departments. If they couldnât handle the likes of Robby or Walsh, then he saw them quitting sooner rather than later.
Yet, you didnât fit that image, physically or metaphorically.Â
You, who was off doing a surgery only he trusted senior staff on, were ambitiously seeking to make yourself indispensable. There was no need when you had staff like Emmick and Sully in your corner, even the dreadful surgical attendings like Walsh were jabbing at Park to âease upâ on the only resident able to keep up with him.
He heard it all and up until now, it never made sense to âease upâ on his residents. It was far from his natural instinct to push until they finally figured to pull themselves up, even as he had control of the rope. You had managed to deny him that pleasure, opting to climb the side of the cliff with your bare hands.Â
Now, he was left watching and waiting, with the rope still in his hand.
When Brendon heard about the opening of OR 5, cleaned up after the complex acetabular reconstruction, it was past noon. He was doing the afternoon check in with Annette, and he hadnât realized how late the surgery ended.
There was no sight of you or Emmick. He would not have assumed either of you were going to stay longer than necessary once charting was done. It was a difficult procedure based on the pre-operative details. The day had been lulled by a scheduled base itinerary that the residents could handle with limited supervision. He had time to spend, and he was analyzing the patients chart as if he was going to scrub in for surgery.
It was obsessive, but the compulsion to understand every surgery in the department he commanded, was a given.
He happened to be going around the post-op ward. Checking in with residents as patients moved out of surgery to observation or were discharged or transferred elsewhere. As he was passing by the room in the far corner, he heard a familiar belly laugh. Unrestrained and engrossed in whatever made him laugh.Â
Brendon peeked his head first, checking in through the window. Mr. Giles sat on the bed, glancing to his left with a toothy grin. The surgery had been done in a few hours, and although heâd probably feel better sleeping the entire procedure off, he had his own form of treatment.
He was staring fondly at a female visitor. It was hard to make out who they were from their face, but the silhouette was too familiar. He noted the black backpack sitting beside the chair, pulled close to the bedside. It wasnât until the voice started laughing along with Mr. Giles that it clicked.
âI swear, Iâve never seen anyone slip so animatedly as then.â You breathed out, the laugh subsiding into giggles as you tried to catch your breath.Â
Stopping beside the filler of the wall between both rooms, he crossed his arms. Without realizing, he was inclining his ear closer to listen. You sighed out dramatically, âHeâs not the most graceful, but he can suture up nerves and tissue even with his eyes closed.â
âSo, how come heâs leaving?â Mr. Giles questioned, interested in the explanation. He cleared his croaky throat.
There was a beat of silence, and from the corner of his eye, Brendon noticed how you shrugged. âHe doesnât see himself staying here. This was always temporary compared to where he wanted to be.â
âAnd how about you?â Mr. Giles proposed, smiling again. âYouâre pretty good at what you do. Where do you want to be?âÂ
You hummed, nervously laughing after as you tried deflecting the comment. Too humble to know when to just take the compliment. âI havenât decided yet. Dr. Sullivan has invited me to join him once my residency is over, but I still have a year to figure that out.â
âDonât wait too long.â Mr. Giles advised in the antiquated fashion Brendonâs parents did to him.Â
Marriage. Kids. Retirement plans; personal-life-milestones Brendon put aside. He didnât have to think about that while focusing on his career. As long as he could continue to be the chief orthopedic surgeon at PTMC, his life was as fulfilled as he felt it could be. He didnât need personal distractions to keep him occupied.Â
âSometimes, the things that are good for us are the things we let go.â Mr. Giles warned, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. âIf I had taken my own advice, I wouldâve married my wife before going to the Marines. I was lucky enough she came to find me once her first marriage ended.â
Brendon glanced down at the watch positioned on the inside of his wrist. It was past one and he didnât need the liability of restless residents staying around past their bedtime. He advanced towards the patientâs door, one hand braced on the frame of the open sliding door.Â
He spoke your name briskly, title and surname firm into the air. You turned towards the door of the room, eyebrows raised to your hairline. Staring at you with heavyset eyes, he saw the casualness of your attire. Plum scrubs more than likely in the dispenser, changed into relaxed jeans, a grey t-shirt, wrapped in your fleece jacket.Â
Rotating from the hip, you put on a tight lip smile. âDr. Park. Did you need to check in with Mr. Giles?â
âNo,â The firm definition of his arm around the sleeves of his scrub tightened, gripping tighter to the frame. âIâm here to make sure all my staff is where they need to be.â
With the pronunciation of his possession over the day shift, you heard the message clearly. Facing Mr. Giles, your body relaxed with the revelation of his soft expression. With one hand stretched, you patted his hand lying flat on the bed. âI will check on you tonight.â
He scoffed, the corner of his lip curling up. âSo soon? You just canât stay away from this place, huh?â
While reaching down to slip on your backpack, you smiled coyly. You pushed the chair back to the corner, and once back by Mr. Giles bedside; you paused with your hands in your jacket pockets. âWhat can I say, I love what I do. Rest up, Frank.â
Making your way out the room, Brendon pulled his arm back, stepping aside to give you an undisturbed exit. The air that hit him as you were passing by was colder than the fuzziness between you and Mr. Giles. Brendon still found himself venturing in the same direction as you.
âIf youâre looking for Dr. Emmick, I last heard she was speaking with the wife of the steel-yard worker.â You directed to Park walking behind you. As you turned the corner, walking in the direction of the elevator, he was still behind you.Â
âHow did the surgery go?â He asked with no change in the equilibrium of his tone.
You sighed, shaking your head. âHeâs in the ICU. Apart from the fracture and the reconstruction, he suffered major trauma to his internal organs. Spleen was compromised, and Dr. Walsh removed a part of his kidney.â
The way you noted all the information was robotic. It was like having an automated voice read the chart. If he had wanted the differential diagnosis of the patient, he wouldnât have asked. His eyes lingered on the back of your head, suddenly determined to leave the hospital as rapidly as possible. As if your pit stop to see Mr. Giles wasnât the true reason you had delayed leaving.
Instead of heading straight for the elevators, you derailed into the residents lounge, slipping in and letting the door fall behind you. Park, with the reflexes from his childhood, pushed the door back with his palm. Inside the lights were dimmed, and you walked over to the fridge, as if you were utterly alone in the room.
âHow come you were pulled to assist?â Brendon ruminated, eyes narrowed at you.
When you stood back up straight, you had an energy drink in your hand. The crack of the seal echoed and you shrugged while sipping the beverage. He awaited a verbal response. Some nonsensical explanation for an answer you had no way of knowing.
You took a couple of steps, in his direction, before stopping. He didn't move from the path to the door. With wide eyes and an awkward tight lip smile, you rocked on your feet. âIs there something else you needed to know about the patient, Dr. Park?â
The question wasnât proposed because you wanted the conversation to continue. If it was the only way for you to be able to leave the confined space, you would; but you make it practical. About the patient care and the workload, the night shift was leaving the day shift. Nothing of the sort that related personally to you and him.Â
He knew with the scheduled double shift you were blocked for must have been a dread. If the current direction this conversation was heading was any clue, he could see the double shift being the last thing you want to do.
Working for 24 hoursâhalf of them stuck with the attending you shunned from your education. Brendon was anticipating some form of retaliation. Letting your professionalism turn to spite. Lying in wait to see whether youâd give him the same treatment you felt you unjustly earned from him.
âTypically a fourth-year resident would perform or assist the procedure.â Park responded, completely guiding the conversation in the opposite direction.
You didnât remove your eyes from him. They were glassy, and the way your lids would flutter ever so slightly, weary. With your lips sealed, you slowly nodded your head, as if remembering for the future. Donât get used to this treatment. Itâs not meant to last.
âI responded to the consultation and it was Dr. Emmickâs directive to have me on the surgical team.â You plainly renounced. This antagonistic approach was doing nothing in his favor. From the way you kept looking at him with the blank expression, he had more luck talking to a wall. âIt was a learning opportunity.â
Brendon curtly nodded once, flexing his jaw as his teeth pressed against each other. Firmer than before. How were you supposed to be âequalsâ if you could barely speak words to him?
âI have to go home. I work another shift tonight.âÂ
Silently, you maneuvered around his body. As he felt your arm come up against his, he finally retracted himself. You only opened the door wide enough to slip your body, letting partial light from the hospital peek in the ambient lounge.Â
Brendonâs hand reached for the handle, pulling it open wider. You glanced up when you noticed the door leave your grasp. You spun around once stepping out the room, eyeing Brendon peculiarly.Â
He stood opposite of you, shoulder tall and pulled back. He nodded once more, âSee you next week for day shift.â
Brendon prided himself on the control he had. The influence in his department that allowed him to rule over his residents prevented health violations and potential lawsuits from knocking on his door. It saved him from unprecedented headaches. The less likely he was to have an unplanned meeting with Admin, the better.Â
That idea was expanded to his residents. He deemed it efficient to harbor the tenacity his attending preached. If they put on a mile with an inch, they could potentially save someoneâs quality of life.
That is a lot harder said than done when patients werenât easily agreeable to their plan of care.
Which was the only reason Brendon was tenser with pediatric cases. With more parties involved with the care, there was more time dedicated to explaining operative procedures and post-op care. Everything was done for the consideration of the children, but Brendon didnât understand that type of reliance.
Being a single man in his early forties, he had yet to figure out that stage of his life. There was no personal life with a wife or children waiting for him outside the hospital doors. So his approach was practical when explaining, but it was failing him at the moment.
A 12-year-old girl was trembling in fear, tears staining her cheeks, while sitting on the hospital bed. Her parents were sitting beside her, and after Brendon thought they might be able to proceed with the open reduction and internal fixation, they were pulling out with the consent forms before them.Â
âWe just donât feel as comfortable as we did before. I mean, how do we know the probability of the risks?â The father reasoned, similar in build as Brendon, one arm filled with tattoos. He twisted at the hip, as one hand held the smaller one of his daughter, while facing Brendon.
He shouldnât have sent Jones to sign the consent forms.
âWe donât have precise numbers, but most children recover well.â Brendonâs concise answer was honest, not medically malicious. He couldn't provide them false hope. That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.
âBut, could she develop this growth plate injury the other doctor mentioned?â The mother questioned, leaning forward in the chair. Her eyes were sunken from the exhaustion, and despite the fact, they had only been there for three hours, the hospital air and lights were draining the youth in her.Â
âSo we arenât even sure if she will be able to dance, let alone move normally?â She continued with a shaky breath.
He was totally going to rip Jones a new one.
Before Brendon could make a feasible attempt to remedy their concerns, they all heard a knock come from the door.
You peeked your head in, one hand braced on the door you slid open. Your eyes landed on the couple and their daughter, and as if you immediately sensed the tension in the room, you smiled apologetically. âIâm sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Dr. Park for a moment.â
When your attention moved to Park, he let out a heavy sigh, one raised eyebrows in your direction. What is it?
The subtle shake of your head, Not in here.
Brendon grabbed the device the parents put at the edge of the girls bed. The father stood up, wiping his hands on his black denim jeans. âWe will need more time to think about this, anyway.â
âLet the nurse know when youâre ready.â Brendon curtly responded.
You opened the door wider, stepping back to let him through. Closing it gently once he stepped out, you spared the family a soft smile. You both walked away from the glass, over to the nursing station. Brendon put down the device, âWhat is it?â
âER needs a consult.â You informed him immediately. He put his hands on his hips, turning to the patient's room.
When he glanced at you, he noted the army green scrub cap, beige stars littered around it. It seemed new. He shrugged his shoulders, lips pursed. âWhy hasnât anyone gone down?â
âBryant did.â You affirmed, shaking your head as you scoffed. âDr. Robby must be in a mood because he sent him up immediately. I just happened to catch him groveling when I left the OR.â
His eyes wandered up to drink in your nurtured appearance. Despite the last shift you worked being night shifts, you managed to come rejuvenated for the day. This was no longer the shift you mastered, but you appeared the same as before.Â
Except Park knew things were different. Unexplainable, but it was messing with the âcontrolâ he had within himself and in his habitat.
When you came in for hand off, you joked with the night shift. Hugged and laughed along with whatever funny patient interaction they had that night. When you came around Emmick, sheâd check in with you, tease you about the change of schedule.Â
Once Park came around to collect all the residents, he caught the slight wink she sent you when you both looked in his direction. Like the two of you had always spent your residency as close friends.Â
âSo, how come you're here telling me this?â
You chuckled, grinning subtly. âItâs better than having to hear about you ruining another resident's spirit.â
The knowing look in your eye that twinkled before you looked away didnât go amiss. That was shady, but something told him thatâs exactly what you meant to do. Even if he couldnât admit it, you were intentional with your action.Â
You looked back over your shoulder to pre-op room 6. âWas that the girl with the Salter-Harris fracture?â
Park hummed, shifting on his feet. You had noticed the patient from looks alone. The only time you couldâve heard of the patient was from nurses when they transferred her up from the ER, before participating in the rotator cuff repair. You had the faintest idea of who she was, but you were aware from when you walked in.
âSeemed tense.â You noted cautiously, eyeing Park from his face alone. It was like you were trying to angle out his response without words. You had been able to read any room you had entered, which is why he believed in practicality.
No need to play different parts every time you enter a room.
He looked down at you. You mimicked his posture, less weight on your shoulder, appearing casual. âBlame Jones. Heâs freaked the patient out, and now the parents are hesitant to sign the consent forms.â
He scowled and there was a beat of silence.Â
âIs there any way I can help?â
The question was assertive. You werenât planning to be overlooked, and you needed an answer. You weren't going to walk away without an answer. It was the drive he kept alluding you were missing. Whatever pushed you into wrapping your soul around another was showing up more in this two-minute conversation than before.
The private check-in that Brendon had never acknowledged as you were looking out for a colleague (as much as a supervisor) was an âactâ that disappeared in three-months. In that time, you had erased the previous routine and rapport with him, and started new. Brendon knew it was taking everything in your power to restrain yourself from doting on him as much as anyone else you worked with.
He was also acutely aware you didnât stray away from what mattered most to you. Professionally or personally.
Brendon reasoned. This was genuine, but the way your steely eyes waited expectantly, it felt like looking in a mirror. He was sure the residents recognized the impersonal stares from the countless times he stared down at them. He didn't hide the fact he was displeased, stressed, or irritated with an outcome.
No one wanted to be the one sent to bother him during those moments. You had dared to step up to the plate in place of an intern.
âWhy not answer the consultation?â Brendon fixated on the fact you heard of the consultation and preferred coming to him personally to let him know. You hadn't responded to it, nor were you aware there was a consultation to see until a few minutes ago.
You cocked your head to the side, playfully rolling your eyes. âIâd rather not get on Dr. Robbyâs bad side.â
Fair, he supposed. You set boundaries with your own attending. He couldn't say he was shocked youâd do so easily with someone who wasnât directly your supervisor. The slight stretch of his neck managed to pull at the muscles down to his shoulders, and the dread of the patient in room 6 was getting to him.
Before Brendon could assign you to some scheduled surgery to busy yourself, you pointed your thumb back to the room. âI will talk to the parents. It is best that they make a decision soon before the girl takes a turn for the worse.â
He was left with no choice but to stiffly agree with you. The careful steps you were taking backwards put immense distance again. âYou better head down to the ED before Robby rips you a new one.â
The smooth turn you made flipped a switch. You sanitized before knocking the door. When you opened it, he could make out the faint sound of you greeting them properly while introducing yourself . He could see you smiling all over again. It wasn't just the bed-side manner you put for patients, but the authentic side of you that was patient and illumining.Â
Brendon buffered for a minute, waiting to see whether youâd come out, deferring to the idea of appealing to their psychological needs. After what felt like minutes, you hadnât come out at all. No inkling of a potential departure.Â
Daring to fight against the curve, Brendon stalked close enough to peek in the room from the window. To any nurses or doctors passing by, he was the leader taking mental notes of what was happening in his area of control.Â
He saw your figure first from the angle. You were sitting on a chair, nodding along to something the girl was saying. Beside her, the parents were grasping onto her hands, while the 12-year-old patient let tears roll down her eyes.
You were on the mothers opposite side, listening intently like any other adult patient. Yet, this patient was comfortable being a frightened 12-year-of girl. The father jumped in, speaking at you with more elaboration as his hands moved.Â
The transition was simple, still empathetic and understanding as they explained in detail what they couldnât tell Park standing in the room. You spoke slowly and steady, much more available to sit and reflect on every aspect of a surgery you had done before.
When Brendon assumed time was escaping him, you werenât fighting nearly as desperately as he was. He was endeavoring to make it worth his while. You were working at the pace that suited the patient under your care.Â
While being young and having better neuroplasticity than him, you were malleable with every experience. You were adapting to every interaction with patients and coworkersâwhich explained why you were unrecognizable in an element Brendon Park had no intervention in.Â
No control over a habitat you were reigning with your mind and fortifying with your heart.Â
And after answering the consult from a brooding Robby and booking an OR, he found you sitting in the dictation room, typing away. You had lost the scrub cap, letting your hair be free. You hadnât moved when he walked in, as if you had been expecting him to look for you.
He was looking down at the consent forms, initial and signed by the parents.Â
âHow did you manage to get them to consent?â Brendon queried. He stood at the door, holding the device up.Â
There was a small hum to fill in the silence of the room. He awaited there, like you had the knowledge of the Holy Grailâwaiting for you to bestow upon him the privilege of knowing.Â
Standing in front of anyone, heâd feel like an idiot. Standing in front of you, he was trying to get to know what everyone else saw. The missing piece to his elaborate puzzle with a decades work into.Â
You lazily lifted your head, briefly confused until you realized what he was alluding to. Shrugging your shoulders and leaning back in the chair, you sighed. âI just sat there and spoke to them.â
âThe parents and the girl had questions they felt Jones didnât address.â You clarified, simplifying the previous trouble Brendon was having.
You made it sound like the antiquated practice had somehow been lost between consultation and transfer to the surgical floor. âThey just wanted to have a conversation instead of being mandated to agree with the surgery.Â
Standing up, you wandered over to the coffee pot with a mug already in hand. Pouring the liquid, your light breathing was calm. You werenât rattled by emotionally distraught parents and frightened girls.Â
The same way standing up against him came out as if you had done it before.Â
The coffee pot clicks back on the machine. You carefully moved around, grabbing sugar packets and powered creamer. âThey knew it was necessary, but it didn't stop them from feeling scared.âÂ
âItâs all for the benefit of their child.â Brendon responded. You were a doctor. He was aware you knew that. It was a reflex. It was the practical answer.
It shouldâve been a no-brainer. For you and for the parents. No parent should neglect or delay care necessary, especially if the odds of them being mobile without the procedure was at risk.Â
You stared at him with wide eyes, before chuckling. âThey know that, Dr. Park.â
With the stare of your eyes, you were communicating what you werenât going to put in words for him. Theyâre still human and afraid. It was redundant considering Park had scolded you for such. You werenât going to bother with explaining yourself anymore.Â
âI also spoke with Jones about appropriate verbiage when getting consent from patients, specifically in pediatric cases.â You informed, holding the mug in two hands while
heading back to your workstation.Â
He shook his head, squeezing his teeth together until they rubbed. You stuck a hand out, halting whatever tangent he was going to start. âNot everyoneâs preferred method of criticism is from Park the Shark.â
The small grin on your face while you typed didnât agitate him as much as it wouldâve from anyone else. Walsh wouldâve earned a scowl. He mightâve glared at Emmick from the corner of his eye, with a strained stretch of his neck. Garcia knew better than to poke the Shark when she saw him send the senior resident out of the OR as a second year.Â
And while he thought he had sunken his teeth deep enough to be able to pull you from making grave mistakes, you had slithered from his grasp. You had him chasing your tail in a trail that would end with him going to the depths of the dark ocean.
âSome of us learn differently. Thereâs nothing wrong with that.â You casually mentioned, clicking around on the computer and typing. âThe point is we learn to do better next time, right?â
When his brain registered you were talking with him, he huffed out a breath, tempted to let the corner of his mouth curve. He picked up the subliminal message. You were becoming braver with your jab; and even while you pretended not to be overtly interested in to stare him in the eyes, you were making precise stabs.Â
Before he could push the conversation further, there was a beep. You both glanced down at each other's pagers and the small scrape of your chair against the floor followed. You breezed past him without a second thought, leaving him in the wake of your sunshine. Even with the glumness of his personality, you were shining the darkest of places. He was inches from touching the sunlight, but some cloud always obscured it.
Brendon looked at the door click shut and he saw the same cloud shutting his limited sunlight once again.
âAll non-emergent surgeries will be rescheduled. We need to focus on OR turnover to be quick. Some of these patients may not be able to wait five minutes.â Brendon instructed precisely, staring at the patient board over the nursing station. His arms folded over his chest, musing in thought.Â
âMy nurses know what theyâre doing, Dr. Park.â Annette joked, frameless glasses sitting on her nose as she stared down at her device. Her fingers moved eagerly to start moving the scheduled times of the current list of patients.
Brendon shook his head with a small hum. He heard the clacking of shoes down the hall and his head followed the noise. Emmick was typing rapidly on her phone, while approaching him. âWhat is the current count?â
â17 including children, right now. It can change soon.â Annette responded, glancing at Emmick who stood close to them.
Emmick sighed, pocketing her phone. She shook her head as she saw a couple of the residents rushing by to reach out to loved ones and run to the bathroom before they were buried in their work. A multi-vehicle pileup on the interstate, including an 18-wheel truck. Once the mass size of the gasoline truck flipped over, the rest of the cars followed, and the casualties were increasing by the second.
âHave you reached out to the rest?â Brendon asked, turning to Emmick.
She stiffly nodded, interlocking both her hands behind her head. âIâve debriefed with the residents in the lounge. A couple of them will be going over 24 hours on their feet.â
He knew exactly who was supposed to be done with a double shift. That didnât stop them from their responsibilities. They knew medical emergencies occurred at all hours, and anyoneâs life could hang in the balance. Their job was to react to the trauma at hand and do everything in their power to stop the emergency.
As on cue, you were coming around the corner with Sully by your side. He was handing you a paper cup, probably filled with coffee, to push you through the unexpected extension of your shift. Despite this being your third consecutive shift, you were synchronized with Sullyâs steps. He was light and energized, and with each sip of coffee, you were pacing yourself to reach the same determination.
When Sully found the two attendings standing in the small circle, he smiled casually, as if a car pileup was an everyday occurrence. âResidents are getting in their last moments of freedom. Let us know where you want us, Captain.â
âTrauma down stairs will determine priority. Dr. Emmick will run point with Garcia.â Brendon informed, tutting his chin to his colleague.
âLovely.â
Emmick rolled her eyes, dropping her hands to her hips. Brendon briefly ignored the annoyance with a slight glare. âI will assign you all to cases as they come in.âÂ
Sully and you both nodded to Brendonâs command. Emmick bumped your arm with her elbow. âWant to help me downstairs? Could use the second pair of eyes.â
âIâm going to need all R4 and R3âs in the OR.â Brendon intervened, glancing between the two of you through his hooded eyes. âI wonât have to check the work of the interns.â
Emmick narrowed her eyes while she pursed her lips. To the two residents in question, it would seem like Emmick was challenging the decision. It wasnât rare that on occasion the two attendings would butt heads, like hammer-head sharks fighting for their space. But to Brendon, this was a jest. One more feather in her cap about how well she knew him while barely speaking to her.
âFair point.â Was all Emmick mustered, suppressing the small grin on her face.
When Brendon looked over at you, there wasnât any deflation of his prerogative. You werenât visibly upset as you were focused. While still taking sips of your coffee, you were simply listening to the instruction. He could safely assume you were high-strung, from the small shift of your feet and your eyes to the group of your supervisors and friends. You didnât let your face show it.
âWill you be able to manage?â Brendon questioned in your direction.
Humming, you furrowed your brows at the question. He crossed his arms, âIâm going to need you to be alert. Sometimes youâre going to have to work through the fatigue for the sake of patient-care.â
The statement wasnât wrong. It was an observation any rational teacher would warn their student. Accepting to work at a trauma-1 hospital brought the exhaustive workload. If he was going to trust any of the residents to demonstrate leadership and initiative, it was a moment like this to prove it.Â
He noticed the hesitant eyes from Sully and Emmick, caught off guard from the warning. You nodded once, ignoring the uncertainty for your closest work-partners. âI understand, Dr. Park.â
Satisfied enough with that answer, he looked back to Annette who was watching the interaction carefully while speaking on her spectralink phone. She muttered small replies before hanging up. âAmbulances are 7 minutes out.â
âThatâs my cue.â Emmick announced, clapping her hands together. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, sending you a small wink. âSee you once the dust settles.â
Brendon scoffed, shaking his head. Emmick began her tread backwards, pointing a finger at Brendon. âDonâtâ go biting any of my residentâs head off!â
Sully snickered, covering his mouth with a hand and with the two of you standing in front of him, he didnât see that task as impossible. He motioned his hands outward. âGet your nerves out before either of you kill a patient.â
You pushed a smiling Sully in the direction that Emmick went down, your free hand resting lightly on the back of his arm as you guided him away. He was mimicking an aggressive bite, chomping his teeth at you. Retracting your head, you laughed, eyes crinkling into little slivers.Â
The energy changed two hours later. With the surgical unit bustling with all the possible staff available, his residents were no longer smiling or kiddingâcovered in blood stained gowns, dispersed between the 25 operating rooms. Brendon stepped out of OR 17, doffing the gloves he was wearing. When he walked down the hallway, he noted another door slide open farther down.
You stepped out, hands on your hips as you sighed. When you looked in his direction, he was already heading towards you. âWhat do you have?â
âBilateral wrist and humeral shaft fracture with a radial nerve injury. Put in plates and screws.â You sanitized your hands, rubbing vicariously through every side. Motioning your head to the ER you just exited, you sighed. âMay is closing up.â
The double doors down the hallways clicked open. Turning both your heads at the sound, a patient was being wheeled in with a small group of doctors and nurses surrounding the head of the bed. Brendon recognized the vascular surgeon, Greg Norton tying up his scrub cap. He greeted Brendon with a grin, hands landing on the bed railing. âPark, ready to make mincemeat with this poor fellow?â
When the bed came up towards where you both stood, you had moved beside Brendon, hands on your hips as you stared down at the patient. He noticed the quizzical look in your eye, staring at the lower extremities. âI wonât be scrubbing in.â
You turned to look at him as Dr. Norton furrowed his brows, his grin faltering. âWhat? Donât tell me youâre going to send me one of your pups?â
Looking down at you, there was a moment of doubt, like you couldnât believe Park was actually looking at you. âPossible posterior wall acetabular fracture with hip dislocation. Emmick called beforehand about it.â
âWhat did imaging show?â You questioned, already honing into your diagnostic skill. Your eyes shifted around his face, and your mind was moving at an incredible speed attributed to the neuroplasticity you sharpened.
âCome on, Park.â Dr. Norton interrupted, leaning forward as to cut into the silent digression of the case. His thick New England accent bounced off the walls with the heightened volume he always spoke at. Brendon crossed his arms as he reluctantly glared at the older, fuller man. Dr. Norton then looked towards you, nose scrunched slightly. âWhat are you, sweetheart? R3?â
âIâve done this procedure before.â Your calm voice still gives way for the displeasure of his dismissal.Â
It wasnât disappointment, it was anger. Despite being 20 years his junior, you maintained a sense of composure for your age. Some might have acted ferociously. Brendon knew there were attendings that would not have kept up appearances for the sake of respect in the workplace.
Dr. Norton snorted, shaking his head. âNothing against you, honey, but this procedure is made for meticulous hands. I donât need the trouble of some shaky, doe-eye resident screwing this manâs possibility of walking.â
Brendon's own disbelief didnât seem as animated as yours, widening your eyes while tilting your head to the side. Dr. Norton had been around since before Brendon joined the hospital. He always poked at the fact Brendon didnât smile for a doctor with ârazor sharpâ teeth. He thought Dr. Brendon Park was as animalistic as people described him to be, heâd flaunt it.
Before you could proceed by jumping into a pit of fire, Brendon crossed his arm, squaring his shoulders. âDr. Norton, I assign the cases, and if you have a problem with that you can take it up with me after my resident performs the surgery.â
Dr. Norton snarled, lifting his top lip to his nose. He looked at you before smacking his lips. With the menial glare from Brendon, he could see his ego visibly deflate. If he wanted him to show his teeth, he should have asked nicely.
âYou ready?â Dr. Norton grumbled, motioning his head to one of the ORâs down the hallway. He was turning his father away from Brendon and avoiding your gaze, as if you had ripped his jugular.Â
Offering a polite nod, you took a step back, still staring at him. âI will meet you there after looking at the imaging, Dr. Norton.â
Dr. Norton grumbled, signaling for the nurses to continue down the hall to the OR. Brendon stood there, eyeing Dr. Norton as he passed, burly arms crossed to intimidate with his physicality as much as his personality. When the doors to OR 22 closed behind the transfer team, Brendon finally turned to face you, who was staring up at him with a deadpanned expression. âI didnât want you defending me.â
Brendon pressed his lips in a thing line. You didnât deny that you needed it. Dr. Norton didnât know how to talk to his female colleagues, and his brusque manners didnât rub people the right way, regardless. You had worked with him before, under Brendonâs guide, which left you in the limelight compared to center stage.
The overcasting shadow of his reputation protected you from the scrutiny. While stranded at sea, you had to find your own anchor to throw.
âI wasnât.â Was all he plainly said.
He wasnât defending you. He was defending your knowledge. Had you been Jones or Reddy, he wouldnât have jumped so eagerly. There were weaknesses in all his residents, some more than others, but you had been the exception in most areas. Even if it didnât come at first, it came from work. You could not have survived up to 27 hours of traumatic repairs if you had not put sweat and tears into getting it right.
âYou better hurry and scrub in.â Brendon advised, cocking his head to the side. Go look at the images and prove to him heâs wrong. Prove to me youâve got this.
With less visible friction, you walked around Brendon, heading in the direction of the double doors. You walked with the power of someone prepared for the challenge. When Brendon turned around, he noticed another figure had joined the hallway, having exited OR 2.Â
Sully stood outside the door, speaking at you quietly. He furrowed his brows, hands on his hips as he saw you walk away. You nodded in response to his question, pushing the door open with you back and slipping through gracefully.
Brendon sighed, walking down the hall and nodding to Sully in acknowledgment. âYou done? I have a couple of open-tibia fractures that wonât heal on their own.â
Buffering for a moment, Sully complied with a small smile. He turned back to the door, forehead pinched as he tried deciphering the scene. Park, you, and Dr. Norton. From the small snort, he had picked up all the clues necessary to make a bold assumption. It didnât help Norton spoke with the volume of twenty people.
âThank you, Dr. Park.â Sully gently grinned; slyly leaning forward as he suggestively spoke.
The word rang in his ear repeatedly: You may not need her, but that doesnât eliminate her worth around here. Sully was assuming Brendon thought the hospital couldnât utilize your brilliance. That the hospital didnât need surgeons with exemplary bedside manner that matched their skills in an operating room; or that he couldnât use someone he could trust at this very moment to dedicate themselves in a surgery he trusted himself to do.Â
In typical Brendon fashion, he stared at Sully, lips in a tight line that strengthened his jaw and cheeks even more. Sully pushed the limits by still standing before him and that distressed him more than he liked. He didnât know whether it was the fact that Sully had thanked him something he saw as unnatural, or the fact you had yet again dismissed his efforts others would consider valiant.Â
He didnât want to be a hero of any sort (not that you needed it, he was starting to realize). You could snarl just as nasty as him, but it wasnât your preferred method of survivingâbecause you werenât just surviving your residency. The formulated relationships with your co-residents, attendings, and patients were your life mission, apart from learning to improve someoneâs life while living their worst day.
The vulnerability that he considered not outfitted for the workplace led to how you operated. Your life, the patients, even the residents you helped when they just were not there yet.
Brendon didnât see the future as optimistically as you, and when the shattering reality came of how it could look different to what he was used to know, it did break his stride. The built of momentum between you and himâhis correction and your fear of fucking it upâwas his everyday routine. Not to minimize you, but to build the tools to survive.
Of course, the method didnât work. And he stupidly realized he was attempting to survive on his own like a shark in a tank.
It was a hard lesson you were teaching him while baiting him. He was rolling his neck around trying to compose himself. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âRight.â Sully responded, raising his chin higher as he squared his shoulders. The same self-satisfied grin gracing his youthful features. He watched for any unwelcoming passersby before leaning in. âBetter you than me. I mightâve socked the guy.â
Brendon's lips twitched, and he looked at Sully thoughtfully. He definitely had the build. He had seen him work out at the gym across the street from time to time. âYou wouldn't have.â
âFor her? Yeah.â Sully confirmed breathy as he scoffed from the disbelief. âLike I said Dr. Park, she could survive without me, but I don't think I couldâve made it without her.â
âI don't take lightly when people dismiss her.â Sully stuffed his hands in his scrub pockets, shuffling briefly like the admission was something too vulnerable. For a conversation with Dr. Park? It was a revelation that went beyond professional bounds.
You had taught Sully a thing or two about being attuned with your inner spiritsâand if that meant warding away what ate the center of itâthere was worthiness in the cause. Park saw the deep resemblance in the now stoic impression on Sullyâs face. Bold and Brendon couldn't ignore it.
Sully took careful steps backwards, arms falling to his side. âSo, thanks, Dr. Park.â
âIâll book the OR.â Brendon announced walking out of Trauma 2 in ER. He ripped off the gloves he was wearing, tossing him in a nearby waste bin. It was an ironic day to get into a motorcycle accident while the interstate was still being cleared from the debris of the MVA in the morning.Â
What more could you expect from a 21-year-old boy whose frontal lobe still had not developed.
It was almost 2 and the majority of the patients that came in during the accident had been moved to the post-surgical unit or the ICU while waiting for follow up surgery for open wounds. The surgical department had cleared half of its staff that stayed overnight or pulled the spontaneous shift. Those still on the clock were dragging their feet and it was taking everything in him not to bite. When the night shift residents were able to leave, they were also zombies walking.
All, except one. When he got up to the surgical floor, he walked into the viewing room, where their charge nurse could gauge operations with the camera live streaming it all. He could see OR 22 running up to 8 hours of operation time. He mostly was staring at the different scrub caps to distinguish all the involved staff.Â
The only one missing was a green cap.
âAre they finishing it up?â Brendon questioned, turning to Annette sitting at one of the open tables, typing into the device.
She hummed, head still lowered. âOrtho is done with the reconstruction. Vascular and trauma is finishing up.â
Brendon nodded curtly before heading back out the room. The surgery couldnât have been too complicated if you were done in roughly 7 hours. He had slipped in once as he continued assigning residents to the incoming patients. You had stayed stuck there for the majority of it, and Brendon didnât feel the need to come in after that.
His immediate thought was to check the dictation room. If you were still lingering, youâd probably be trying to finish up work you had, which meant charting. To his luck, when he peeked through the window on the door, he found you hunched over a computer. The same station you sat at the last week he had spoken to you.Â
Inhaling a sharp breath, he twisted the door open, and the click caught your attention. Lifting your head and eyebrows simultaneously at the direction of the door, your body visibly jolted. He knew you were awake enough to orally translate your notes, but your body kept succumbing to the sleep it needed.Â
âHow was the surgery?â Brendon questioned, approaching the desk with his hands in his scrub pockets. With the height advantage, he had a clear view of the desk. You had a paper cup of black coffee, an open energy drink, and a small bottle of ibuprofen.
Straightening you back as a way to stretch your body, you shrugged. âWent better than expected.â
âDid Norton give you any grief?â Brendon followed up, not taking his eye off the obvious display of you recklessly messing with your bodyâs melatonin. From the look of it, you didnât have anything of substance to run off.Â
You gently twirled your wrist to reboot your dexterity and putting down the microphone in your hand gave you the break your body needed to lean back in the chair. The question caught you off-guard, leaving your mouth open, while your brain lacked the reflex to come up with a response.
âHe was fine. Didnât talk much unless he was bragging about his NFL athlete son to the nurses.â The small scowl on your face made him bite back the laugh he wanted to let out.
He heard the stories. The accolades he made about a son who mostly sat on the bench. He couldnât remember the last time they had even aired his face on anything bigger than a phone screen. Brendon crossed his arms, the slight cure of his lips gave him away. âHe's the 2nd running back on a good day, at best.â
You bit your bottom lip, shaking your head lightly. âHave you told him that?â
âAlmost.â`
The loopy grin on your face made you look cuter, as Emmick or Walsh might describe it. He was aware what staff liked you for your personality and which other liked you for something other than work-appropriate. In an objective sense, none of them were wrong, nor did it concern him or HR yet. Your hands rubbed the back of your neck, easing it from side to side. âApart from that, he is a respectable surgeon. He just lacks the social cues to elevate him to a standard that I could befriend.â
Brendon arms crossed over his chest. When he looked away, he was starting to see there were some lessons you felt he needed reminding of. Brendon had casual friends, people from college or med school he kept in touch with enough to be invited to weddings. He didnât plan trips to see them across the country, but he thought being mutual on social media made up for that.
When in comparison to you, he did fall flat of the mark. You had the charisma that engaged everyone, and no one forgot your name because of it.Â
In no way was it to save face for anything you may lack. It was your greatest strength, which as healers earned more respect that skill did.
You let out a choppy yawn, attempting to hide it before it just came out altogether. He cocked his head to one side, tightening his stance. âYouâre exhaustedâ
âNo, I'm fine.â You corrected him. He could not help to think that if Emmick were standing here, you would be more subject to her compassion than his no-nonsense tone. âI have charting to get done.â
âWhich you are barely awake for.â Brendon pointed out.
The sigh that escaped you paired with the glare of your bloodshot eyes confirmed it all for him. You were past your limits, and there was no reason to prove you were capable of heaving the heavy load. Not to Brendonâs eyes.Â
He watched you reach for the energy drink and before you could take a sip, it was pulled from your loose grasp. You stuttered, sitting up taller while staring accusatory to Brendon, holding the now relatively small can in his hand. Before you could utter a word, he leaned over to grab the cup of coffee with the other. âYou donât need this. Youâre frying the melatonin in your brain telling you to go home.â
âI am needed here.â
He scoffed, turning his back to you as he found a way to keep the caffeinated drinks from your reach. He opted to put it on a nearby counter, leaning back into it with feet crossed to hide the mere temptation of sight.
âIf I did need you, Iâd need you to stay awake and alert.â Brendon grasped the edge of the counter underhanded, flexing the muscles in his biceps. âRight now you are neither of those things.â
Sagging in the chair turned to face him, your computer with the dictation notes still open abandoned, you frowned. âYou could use the help.â
âNo, I need you to go home.â Brendon emphasized his stare glued to your tired body. You didnât have the precision to walk in a straight-line let alone cut into someone and know the difference between each ligament in a fractured tibia. It wasnât an undercut. He wasnât even sure it was out of pity. It was the rational thing to do for both you and him. âI can't work if I'm concerned about the moment you come down from the adrenaline of everything else.â
âYouâve been working over 30 hours straight. Either go home or sleep in the on-call room until Sullivan is out, but I don't want to see you in any OR, understood?â He questioned the way a parent might give an ultimatum to their preteen.
With those options presented to you on a platter and not some vicious stab of his displeasure of your character, you came to your senses. âYouâre right. It was stupid.â
âItâs the exhaustion.â Brendon huffed out, standing from the counter. He turned his back to you and dug in one of the cabinets.
âIs Park the Shark making an excuse for his resident?â You mused and he could imagine the dopey grin on your face.Â
âYouâre my resident now?â Brendon questioned back, shutting the cupboard while hiding the item he grabbed in his wide fist. He glared at you through his eyelashes. It wasnât nearly as fierce as Park the Shark could be.
âHonorary resident, depending on how I feel.â You joked, while craning your head back the closer he approached you.
The bags under your eyes were deserved. Not in a derogatory sense to put you down for your appearance, but because it felt like a badge you could brandish. The hard work you put while he pushed his thumb into your back, grinding your gears until you saw the same perspective from ten-feet above the ground, and you stood on your toes to match. It was an effort he could recognize in few residents.
Except not all dare yank him down to see it from their eyes. You had all but grabbed him from the collar and shook him. With dignity and pride to recognize yourself for something more than the surgical âpipsqueak,â you humbled him.
That wasnât an easy feat, and Brendon hadn't even snarled his teeth.Â
He held out his one curled hand, a protein bar in a plastic wrapper facing you. When you look back up at him, lips curled inwards and eyebrows curved in confusion, he sighed. He rolled his eyes, âEat something. Youâve had enough caffeine to kill your heart two times over.â
Skeptically, you took the protein bar in your hand and muttered a small âthanks.â Slowly peeling the wrapper apart, you took a generous bite. He stepped away, stalking around from behind, still making sure you were chewing properly the only piece of nutrients youâve had in hours.Â
After sufficiently breaking down the food and digesting it down your esophagus, you spun your chair around, catching Brendon before he approached the door. âI appreciate your endorsement, by the way. With Dr. Norton.â
He looked at you from over his shoulder, before turning his body to get a better look. You nodded appreciatively. âI probably didn't deserve it, but I couldn't have entered that OR without some of your help.â
The cheeky smile on your face made him narrow his eyes humorously at you. He twitched his nose to hide the smile that wanted to break. If there was anything you were good at besides completely reconstructing the stability in someoneâs hips, it was pecking at him with a double edge sword. Â
âIf the patient makes a full recovery, Dr. Norton wonât have anything to complain about then.â He shrugged. It was a safe response. One that didn't compromise the stone-cold persona.Â
He knew you thanked him because you meant it, but also because he had already extended one hand to pull you back towards him. One step closer to reimagining what you both thought couldn't align.
âNot to be cocky, but Iâm sure he will.â You said softly, the opposite of bold and pretentious. You hopped back on the computer, rapidly typing and clicking around on the screen.Â
Brendon snorted, enjoying the bona fide assurance. Itâs the only reason he hasn't loiter or probe the medical judgment you made in the OR. Even with the pressure boiling like a cooker pot, you had earned the space to own the operation room he typically did with years of experience.Â
âI better not see you in my OR.â Brendon looked at you pointedly. âNot until your next shift.â
Now leaning in the chair, with your free hand, you lazily saluted to him. You brought up the protein bar and chewed lazily through another bite. He cocked his head to the side, awaiting a serious response from a third year resident.Â
âI promise, Dr. Park.â You added, reaching down for your backpack. With raised eyebrows, you wait for him to move along, proving he was satisfied with the response.Â
He looked you up and down once more before heading for the door again. With his hand on the door knob, he heard the shuffling of the chair and your bag. He opened the door and stopped when you called his name one more time.Â
With the sound of your voice, he pressed his back against the door, keeping it open while turning his head once more. You were approaching him, backpack hanging low as you trudged it. Slipping in between him and the space he held open with his body, he had to crane his neck down to watch the top of your head travel past him.
âHave a good rest of your shift, and Iâll see you around, Dr. Park.â There was a faint smile on your face as you started walking backward, still looking at him.
He stayed frozen holding the door, half his body stepping out into the hallway. You spun gracefully, fiddling with the wrapper of the protein bar. He believed the words, because they came tenderly from your lips. The easy steps of your walk communicated what you didn't say with the words. He was one step closer to getting in your good graces, and he rubbed away the stiffness in his jaw as he bit back the grin.
feelinâ lucky - sugar mommy!tate mcrae x fem!reader
playlist
.âïž ĘË â in which, tate needs someone to keep the media happy, keep her sexual needs met, and keep quiet about her life. y/n needs money, badly, to solve the bright red overdue tuition statement. they have what the other wants, it should be simple, shouldnât it?
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
âthe cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: youâre the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jackâs characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear itâs just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: iâm not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack canât decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers youâ youâd done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones whoâd drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing heâd really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when itâs handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day itâs been, and of course now he says âOh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You mustâve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.â
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is⊠charismatic.
âYou say that like itâs a bad thing,â Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. âIf you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.â
âYou like dark and dreary.â
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. âSo? We canât all be doing it. Like, weâve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.â
âI can be charming when I want to be.â
âNo, you can be flirty or suggestive. Thereâs a difference.â
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how youâre interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart heâs supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
â
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasnât even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. Itâs flashy, it pays well, and itâs cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when theyâre not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldnât let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasnât supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since youâd gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but itâs true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attendingâs and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, youâre here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks youâre not looking.
Youâre not sure if heâs aware that you know that heâs staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesnât know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, itâs unnerving. Because heâs your boss. And you know heâs capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
Heâs not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, heâs just⊠not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, heâs nicer to Santos than he is to you.
âDid I like, say something to offend him and I donât know?â
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. âIsnât that more my area of expertise?â
âNo. You offend people on purpose.â
âTrue.â
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
âI just donât get it. Iâm nice, right?â
âDisturbingly so.â
âExactly. The only thing I can think of is that Iâve messed up or something, but itâs Dr. Abbot. Heâd tell me if I did. He doesnât exactly hold back.â
âDo you really need me for this conversation?â
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
âWhy do you even care? So what, one guy doesnât like you, boohoo.â
âHeâs not just some guy. Heâs my attending. And you mightâve secured your spot here, but iâm all shiny and new. I canât exactly earn peopleâs respect if our boss doesnât like me.â
Trinity doesnât immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that youâve made a valid point.
âShould I talk to him?â
She sighs. âI think youâre overreacting. Youâve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? Heâll probably calm down the more you work together.â
âDid he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?â
âWell, no, but thatâs because I donât suck at my job.â
Now itâs your turn to glare.
âSorry. I guess youâre not completely hopeless.â
You roll your eyes. âThanks, Trin.â
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasnât as helpful as youâd hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. Thereâs Dr. Ellis, but sheâs pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means thereâs a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You arenât really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him âHey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks Iâm not looking and isnât as nice to me as he is to you guys?â
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldnât be asking anybody, but youâve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish heâd tell you what youâre doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, itâs just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didnât like you, and made that apparent, itâd be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
Itâs the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then youâd know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You donât show this outwardly of course, because youâre pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and heâll finally see there isnât anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyoneâs favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually itâs all overâ patients are stabilized, some arenât. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you donât work with the day shift people that often, so youâre not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your âsafeâ people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so thereâs no way in hell youâre going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer thatâs tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
Itâs exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you donât have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks youâre being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So heâs just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didnât just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows werenât brushing, elbow deep in a manâs organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesnât look like heâs analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isnât looking at everyone. Heâs not looking at anyone. Heâs looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesnât know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, heâs a vet, heâd definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you donât have it, because youâre not a vet.)
(Youâre probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesnât stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
âHere, give me that.â
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
â
âHe took your beer?â
âYes,â You groan from the kitchen island in Trinityâs apartment, âHe said âhere, give me thatâ and then just took it. He didnât say anything else to me for the rest of the night.â
She lets out a low whistle. âMaybe he doesnât like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?â
âI donât know!â
âWell, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.â
âI donât know how to fix it. Thatâs what iâm over here for. To brainstorm.â
âI thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?â
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. âWait, what?â
You wave a hand. âSemantics. Focus.â
âOkay,â Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, âHave you tried sleeping with him?â
âHeâs like, probably over twenty years older than me.â
âSo? I know your type.â
You roll your eyes. âAs if heâd go after me, Trin. He doesnât like me.â
âHate sex is a thing.â
âName one time hate sex solved the hate part.â
âNo dice,â You sigh, âI canât bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. Theyâre never specific enough.â
âTwo tablespoons of sugar isnât specific enough for you?â
âYouâre not helping.â
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. âTo be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said weâd both be here if you wanted to come over.â
âI think you should just ask him.â Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. âDr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesnât beat around the bush. I canât imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.â
âI want to, but thatâs like. Too straightforward. What ifââ
âOh my god,â Trinity moans, âJust ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I donât have to hear about it anymore.â
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
Sheâs right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by⊠not dealing with it. Talk to him or donât.
Easier said than done.
â
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so itâs best if thereâs no audience.
âDo you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?â
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesnât talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
Heâs so irritating. He wonât even give you a fucking inch. Thereâs nothing to go on.
âDid I do something wrong?â
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
âWhy do you think you did something wrong?â
âBecause you wonât fucking talk to me!â You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, âHalf the time you only look at me when you think I wonât notice. You donât talk to me unless itâs required for teaching, and even then, itâs short and stilted. Iâve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. Youâre just not nice to me, and Iâd like to know why.â
You pause. âAnd you took my beer!â
Thereâs a moment of silence, and then thereâs a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
Heâs laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
âSorry,â He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, âI can see how all of that can be taken negativelyââ
âHow else was I supposed to take that.â
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. âBut it was not my intention.â
He just stops speaking there, like thatâs a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
âSoâŠ,â You drawl, âWhat was your intention?â
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
âYou hate confrontation.â
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. âWhat?â
âYou,â He levels a finger at your chest, âHate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.â
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. âA lot of people do that. I donât think thatâs a crime.â
âItâs not. But it doesnât exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.â
âYouâre worried Iâll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?â
âIâm worried that something is going to happen to you, and you wonât tell anyone about it.â
The hallway grows silent. In this distance thereâs beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
âWhy do all of this?â You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
âI wanted to see if youâd confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.â
âThatâsââ You wrinkle your nose, âActually kind of shitty of you.â
Jack just hums.
âSo what now? Did I prove myself to you?â Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, âGod, you really hate confrontation, donât you?â
Your skin prickles again. âNo.â
âLying again.â
âShut up.â
He knows how uncomfortable heâs making you. Heâs doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you donât care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, youâre gone.
â
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesnât hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
Heâs just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like youâve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But thatâs beside the point! The point isâŠ
âŠThe point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really donât have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (âHey, that was a rough one, are you alright?â) is just worn out. It doesnât have anything left to give. You donât have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: Thereâs no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and youâve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said âHey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?â
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that youâre her friend sheâs really intense about it (sheâs a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like youâre taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You donât really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book youâve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, donât fix what isnât broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since youâre a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
âHey,â Trinity grabs your arm as youâre going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, âYou good?â
âNo,â You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, âI havenât done laundry in so long that Iâve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I donât have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I canât sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I donât wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time itâs gone Iâm going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. Iâm so tired.â
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
âMhm!â You nod, lips spread wide, âPretty good day actually, all things considered.â
Itâs not a total lie. The headache relief youâve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, itâs very hard to pretend that everything isnât awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when sheâs worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
âDonât fuck with me. I donât want to find out youâre like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If youâre having a hard timeââ
âTrin,â You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that youâre not capable of handling things on your own, âIf I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,â
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. âItâs gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.â
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. âI donât even know why you keep those. You canât use them on like, anything. Itâs against hospital policy.â
You shrug. âGlitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love âem.â
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you canât quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. âYouâre not allowed to be in here.â
âIn the menâs bathroom?â
âThis isnât the menâs bathroom.â
âThe sign on the door would say otherwise.â
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry, I swear I didnât do this on purposeââ
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
âClearly.â
You stumble forward. âI need to goââ
âWoah, down girl. I didnât knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attendingâs lounge.â
âThereâs an attendingâs lounge?â
âNo.â He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
âOh,â You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, âThen whyâd you knock?â
âCause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and Iâd rather if you didnât.â
âWhy not?â
âThe paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.â
âAh.â
âAlso,â He shrugs, âIâd miss you.â
You scoff. âNo you wouldnât.â
âI would.â
âYou donât like me. You donât even trust me.â
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesnât even look up before heâs barking:
âFind another bathroom.â
âBut I have toââ
âFind another bathroom or Iâll cut your dick off.â
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. Itâs unnervingâ to be the sole focus of his attention.
Youâre the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
âThat seemed a bit extreme.â
âIâm not a man who does things by halves.â
âNo,â You sigh, âI suppose youâre not.â
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at youâ really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
âWhat am I going to do with you?â
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
âIâm not something to be dealt with. Iâm a person, not some fuckingââ
âYouâre like a stray cat,â He interrupts, âAlways hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?â
âYouâre an asshole.â
âAnd youâre drowning.â
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you donât. Heâs too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you donât speak, he does.
âDid you think no one would notice?â
âNo one has.â
âAm I no one?â
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
âYouâre nosy.â
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But youâre tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. âYouâre good at what you do, Iâll give you that.â
âWhat, exactly, am I doing?â
âPretending.â
You scoff. âFuck off.â
âCome on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?â
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. âYou act like Iâm killing myself:â
âYou are,â His inclined his head, âJust really slowly.â
You scrub a hand down your face.
âLook. I understand why you think you have to care, but you donât. Iâm just going through a rough patch. Iâll get through them like I always do. Iâm not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is youâre worried Iâm going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. Iâm fine.â
Jack doesnât get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea thatâs been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before youâre throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. Youâre throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
âAlright, come on,â A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you werenât busy hurling your guts out, youâd marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, whoâs all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
âLet it out,â He soothes, hand still rubbing, âDonât fight it. Itâll be over soon.â
âI hate throwing up.â You choke, coughing and gasping.
âNo one does. But youâll feel better when itâs over.â
Over feels like itâs never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and youâre slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
âThis,â You mumble in between gasps, âMeans nothing.â
You canât see Jackâs expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
âOkay.â
You canât see his face, but you know this isnât over.
â
Jack sends you home once youâre capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(âYou canât send me home.â
âYes I can. Youâre not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.â
âWe both know Iâm not the only person to do it.â
âYeah, but I havenât caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.â
ââŠâ
âYou only have two hours left anyway. Go home.â)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses arenât running yet, which means that you canât, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour youâd normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, youâre exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didnât bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
Itâs cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy âhuddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance bookâ if the shift hadnât gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didnât await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
âWhy the fuck are you still here?â
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say âWell?â when you donât answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you havenât done anything wrong. âThe buses arenât running yet. Itâs an hour walk to my house.â
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
âHow long until your bus gets here?â
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
âAnd hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if itâs running behind more than usual.â
He seems put out by your answer, as if the busâs heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
âUm,â You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, âIâm fine. I have my book. I donât mind waiting.â
Jack just sighs.
âDo you really think Iâm just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?â
You wince. âWell, it doesnât sound great when you put it like that.â
He works his jaw. âHave you eaten?â
âNoâŠ?â
He shakes his head.
âCome on. Youâre coming with me.â
â
âI have to admit, this isnât where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee âblack, but oddly enough, decafâ and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesnât care to act like he isnât staring at you.
Probably both.
âWhere did you think we were going?â
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee âordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decafâ and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad youâre too exhausted to run anywhere. Jackâs probably banking on that.
âI donât know,â You shrug, setting the menu down, âMaybe to Gloriaâs office to write me up or something.â
âWhat would I even be writing you up for?â
âDisobeying direction? Iâm sure you could come up with something.â
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. âAre we ready to order?â
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
âOrder whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.â
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item youâd been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isnât until after the menus have been taken and Jackâs coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
âYou didnât have to do this, you know.â
âI know.â
âNo, I mean,â your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, âI canâtâ Itâll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.â
âDo you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?â
âYesâŠ?â
âYouâre not touching the bill, kid. Iâm a gentleman.â
âOh,â You didnât really see that coming, âOkay.â
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
âSo,â You say after a beat, âWas there something you wanted to talk aboutâŠ?â
The silence just feels so awkward. Itâs killing you.
He raises a brow. âDo you want to talk?â
âIâm asking you.â
âAnd Iâm asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?â
âI donât? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do itâs usually by myself, so I end up just reading.â
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. âDonât let me stop you.â
âWhat?â
âRead your book.â
âBut thatâsâ isnât that boring for you?â
He sets his mug down. âI didnât bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.â
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You donât understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
âHow did you even know I like diner food?â
âBecause I pay attention to you.â
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like youâre trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jackâs lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. âYou bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.â
Itâs just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that heâs apparently memorized and held onto because to him, itâs important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
âDo you hate me?â
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
âNo.â
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
âOkay.â
â
âYou did what?â
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinityâs couch.
âNot so loud, Trin. I have a headache.â
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. âSo youâve gone from hating each other to going on a date?â
âIt wasnât a date,â You groan, âWe spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did⊠whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.â
âBrooding,â Trinity says, âHe paid. That means itâs a date.â
âNo it doesnât!â
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
âDennis,â your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like âdenimâ, âCan you please see whoâs texting me and tell them to fuck off?â
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
âYour phone is two inches away from your hand.â
âI have a headache I donât wanna look at the screen.â
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then thereâs the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked âyouâve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, heâs always wearing socksâ feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
Thereâs a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
âOh.â
You whine, dramatic and upset. âWhat?â
âUm,â He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, âItâs Jack?â
âWhat!?â You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennisâs outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone andâ yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because heâs old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you thereâs a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
âIncoming,â Dennis mutters.
âDid I just hear that right?â Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, âDid Jack just text you?â
âI donât know!â You cry.
âHow do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!â
âIâm tired! Stop yelling at me!â
âGuys!â Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, âI refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.â
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergencyâŠ) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
âHe asked what youâre doing today.â
Trinity claps once. âFucking called it!â
âTrinity!â Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, âIâm telling him that you have a headache and youâre at our place and to please not text againââ
âNo!â You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
âOo!â Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
âOh my god!â Dennis balks, âAre you okay?â
âJust give me the fucking phone.â
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, Iâm at Trinity and Dennisâs. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
âWe,â You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, âWill never speak of this.â
âI definitely am. When Iâm the maid of honor at your guys wedding, Iâm gonna give a speech and be all âyou guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he textedâââ
âThere will be no wedding!â
âThatâs just what you think.â
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear youâre not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldnât be endearing.
âWhatâs he saying?â
âGo away!â
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isnât this the sixth day in a row youâve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo Iâm fine i get them all the time
Thatâs not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently theyâre normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then iâm not telling you. itâs fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
Iâm not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment thereâs no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. Iâll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
âIâm taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said heâd pay you back later.â
âHe said what?â
â
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. Itâs a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles arenât nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
âSomebodyâs in a better mood today.â Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
âIâm pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!â
âWonderful,â He drawls, âItâs almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.â
âI take care of myself plenty.â
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
âWhen was the last time you drank water without being prompted?â
âThatâs different.â
âOkay,â He dips his head, âWhen was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?â
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. âWeâre not going to talk about this right now!â
âYou started this conversation. Iâm trying to do my job.â
You snort. âYouâre waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.â
âAre you accusing an attending of cherry picking?â
âOf course not. Just observing, sir.â
Jackâs turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something thatâs distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
âYou know,â You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, âTrinity thinks you like me. Romantically.â
âMm.â
âI told her that was dumb,â You babble, âObviously itâs not true, but. She wonât let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.â
âWhy wouldnât it be true?â
You whip your head around so fast youâre pretty sure something cracks. âWhat?â
âI mean,â Jackâs voice is gruff as he shrugs once, âIs that really so unrealistic?â
âOf course it is,â You sputter, âYou donât like me.â
âIâve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I donât hate you.â
âJust because you donât hate me doesnât mean that you like me, let aloneâ like that.â
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
âLike what?â
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
âCode Blue en route, ETA two minutes.â
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. âYou gonna go get that?â
âUh,â Youâre pretty sure youâre stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing youâre capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
âGet going then.â
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
â
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
Itâs just that itâs been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinityâs suspicions on romance and you canât stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
Itâs bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
âOkay,â Dennis stage-whispers as youâre downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, âI feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if youâre covering a day shift.â
âMel asked.â
Dennis blinks incredulously. âYou love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.â
âWhat exactly are you asking me here?â
âDid you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?â
âKeep your voice down!â You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, âAnd for your information, no. We didnât. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.â
âI donât believe you.â
âI donât need you to believe me.â
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, youâre ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. Itâs always been the plan if being a doctor didnât work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
Itâs fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
âYou donât look too good.â
âIâmââ
âDonât say youâre fine.â
âBut I am,â You grit, âI just need a minute.â
âOkay.â
Thereâs the distinct sound of Jackâs slightly uneven footsteps, and then thereâs a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
âShouldnât you be out on the floor?â
âI donât work tonight.â
You raise your head just enough to look at him. âYou donât? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you donât work?â
Now that youâre looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that heâs wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesnât have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
âI got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.â
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
âWhatâd you do that for?â
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. âDennis called me. He said youâd need picking up after your shift.â
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didnât have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didnât tell him to call you or something like thatââ
âI know you didnât,â Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, âWhich is why I came.â
âI donât understand.â
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
âIâm going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you donât have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?â
You nod once.
âWords.â
âUhâ yeah. Yes.â
âGood.â
Thank god the locker room is emptyâ everyoneâs either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
âIs it easier for you to accept help when you donât have to ask and donât get the chance to say no?â
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You donât want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and youâre perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
âYes.â
Jack doesnât verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more itâll turn your response into a confession and thatâs just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
âIâll drive you home.â
âI donât mean to be this way, you know.â
The passenger seat of Jackâs car isnât somewhere youâd ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when youâre pretending to be someone else whoâs better at chasing what they want.
âIt stopped being intentional a long time ago,â your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, âIt was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.â
What you donât say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just donât have needs.
âI know.â
âI know you know, I just⊠needed to tell you. Myself.â
Itâs odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. Itâs odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
âYou like being told what to do.â
Your face heats, but youâre determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
âIt feels safe. If I know what yoâ someone wants, then I canât mess it up, and I can relax.â
You can practically see the gears turning in Jackâs mind.
âMakes sense.â
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesnât have any expectations. There isnât any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. Thereâs nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
â
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back tooâ to guard the soft, vulnerable bits youâve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what heâs doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when heâs evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
Heâs making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because heâs actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
âWhatâs this?â
âA thank you card.â
Youâre staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jackâs face and the floor.
âWhat for?â
âIt says it in the card.â
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jackâs face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, heâs just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
â
Itâs the card that does him in.
Jack hasnât made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at firstâ that was his fault. He didnât yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long itâd been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
Heâd hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasnât just that. It was the way you oozed kindnessâ like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadnât planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, youâd just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where heâd painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He canât help himself. Heâs a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he shouldâve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says âThanks a bunch!â.
He knows heâs completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldnât tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, heâd lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it âlooks dumbâ youâve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he canât see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that heâs still offering.
As if heâs not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
Youâd answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
âJack?â Youâd mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, âWhy are you at my apartment?â
âNo oneâs heard from you in three days.â
You wince. âI swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.â
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesnât have. âHow bad?â
âI donât know. Like a seven on the pain scale?â
âJesusâ Iâm coming in.â
âNooo,â You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment isâŠ.. exactly as messy as heâd imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesnât drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
âDo you have headache relief?â
You gesture to the kitchen. âCabinet furthest to the left.â
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
âWhy do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?â
âStop snooping. Itâs for my migraines.â
âYouâve had a prescription this entire time and youâve been taking all that over the counter shit?â
âStop being mad,â You mumble into the couch cushion, âMy migraine meds put me to sleep, so I canât take them when Iâm working. Plus I donât have any refills left so I save them for when itâs really bad.â
âYou called out of work and havenât left your apartment in three days and you donât consider this bad?â
âCould be worse. Could be throwing up.â
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
âIâm going to help you back to bed,â He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, âAnd then youâre going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?â
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
âMâ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.â
âIâm not judging, sweetheart,â He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. âIâm gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?â
âMhm. Iâll try.â
âGood girl.â
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesnât make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so thereâs space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
âCan I have my sleep mask please? I think itâs on the floor under my nightstand?â
âOf course you can.â
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesnât have Santosâs number) that says youâre fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that heâs handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jackâs relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
âJack.â
âYes?â
âDid you clean my apartment?â
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
Youâre crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (heâs thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is thatâs making you cry.
âWhatâs wrong? Did I overstep?â
âNo,â You warble, voice wet, âI just havenât had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and itâs been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. Itâs just really, really nice of you.â
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, âIâ Iâm not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this isâ a lot.â
âSweetheart,â He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, âIâm not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. Iâm doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.â
You sniff hard. âThis is a lot of work, though.â
âI like doing it. I like taking care of you.â
Another sniff. âIt doesnât seem very fun.â
âI told you. Youâre like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,â he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, âPractically purring.â
You wrinkle your nose. âI donât know if I like this metaphor.â
âGet used to it.â
You sigh, dramatic and long.
âI suppose Iâll allow it.â
âOh, youâll allow it, huh.â
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. âYes. Iâll allow it.â
âWell, arenât I lucky.â
Later, when youâre lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
âThis is romantic, right?â
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
âYes.â
âYouâre serious about this?â
âYou need confirmation?â
âIâd rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.â
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
âIâll put it in writing for you later.â
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
àšà§ pairing .á.á michael robinavitch x psych fellow!reader
àšà§ summary .á.á there had been a shift between your relationship with robby. you weren't sure what to make out of that. it wasn't until trouble had stirred up at the PTMC, with you at the center of it, that you came to terms the type of man michael robinavitch was.
àšà§ tags/warnings .á.á female reader, no physical description, no use of y/n, workplace violence, medical assault, discussions of violent assault, workplace harassment/verbal abuse, mentions of anxiety/ptsd/depression, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, trauma aftermath, slow burn, protective!robby, enemies to lovers, colleagues to lovers
àšà§ authors note .á.á OKAY this is just a blurb reallyyy...wanted a little filler between the last part and what i have planned for the next, longer part. plus, this might set up this dynamic well (if it works out the way i want it to lol). also tried something new with the formatâŠ
àšà§ word count .á.á 14 k
the slippage in the system >> a mirage on sand
8:00 AM
"Are you doing better?" The voice rang familiar to your ears. While typing at the workstation down at the Pitt, you didn't even see the figure strolling up from behind you.
Craning your head to the side, looking past your shoulder you noticed Caleb rolling up, parking his wheelchair to angle in your direction. Pausing your typing, you pushed the chair back, one hand still holding the edge of the desk. You gave him a smile, letting out a deep sigh, "Alright as I can be. Haven't exactly cleared it out of my system, but I'm here."
A stomach bug was no joke, you supposed. The last thing you expected was for it to keep you locked in your apartment for a week. It was an unsettling week, but you somehow survived. Walking into the PTMC this morning felt like riding a bike. Breezing in all while your feet did most of the work.
"You sound better. I was worried I would need to make a house call the last time we spoke on the phone." Caleb chuckled endearingly. The small grin was amused, but as he looked you up and down, he really was relieved it was milder than he thought.
âI had a friend drop off some things to ale me.â You stated, hoping to calm his worry.
Which was the truthâyou wouldnât dare lie to Caleb at this point. He was right about most things, and you were comfortable enough to relearn trusting your superiors. What you were omitting from him was that the particular friend was one he had a special interest in as well.
And as if the world enjoyed playing tricks on you, that âfriendâ came strolling towards you, hands in his green fleece jacket pocket. His eyes landed on you before shifting to Caleb, your names slipping from his mouth with ease. He had dropped the âDoctorâ title from your surname a while ago, since the blind-dinner-date.
He looked you up and down, eyes crinkling with familiarity. âI hope Iâm not interrupting anything.â
âShoot away, Robby.â Caleb welcomed with a grin on his face as he examined you both.
He must have noticed your controlled expression. You were attempting to obscure the small, hesitant smile on your face with a quiet âhiâ as Robby stood across the workstation.
Truth was, you weren't sure how to act with Robby anymore.
The floodgates of your past had been opened, and at this point, there wasn't much Robby didnât know about youâand that thought alone was chilling. You had never been this exposed, and with him having your home address, the urgency to run over rolled around your mind.
âI have a teenager in Central 14 whose mother is expressing concerns about her sudden lack of energy and inconsistent mood.â Robby shared, careful with his volume as he scanned around the department floor. âMother stepped away for coffee. She was hoping someone could come down to talk with her.â
You hummed, nodding along with his words. Craning your head to the side, you smiled. âLet me finish up my notes for the patient in south 20, and then I will meet you with your patient.â
Robby gave you a silent nod, rubbing his hands together. âThank you. Itâs good to see you back.â
Clearing your throat, you agreed frantically, accepting the newfound compassion from him. Weird, you thought. Robby spared Caleb one last look before excusing himself. Without second thought, you bowed your head, typing away on the chart, hiding the heat rising on your cheeks from Caleb.
Caleb leaned one arm on the desk, bearing his weight to his left. You missed the not-so-subtle look he aimed at Robby who was standing by the nursing station, talking with Whitaker. âYou never told me how the dinner went.â
You scoffed, playing it easy and cool. Internally, sirens were going off. It had been a couple of weeks, and you were still digesting the conversation over the meal. You both lasted longer than you had anticipated, laughing even, over your personal embarrassments like a couple of college friendsânot that you knew what that felt like.
Since moving to Pittsburgh, you didnât allot yourself time to socialize. Upon landing, you always assumed this would just be a stepping-stone to where you wanted to go. Now, it was settling too deeply in your heart for you to abandon it so mercilessly. Something too good to say goodbye to.
âIâm surprised you havenât asked Robby yet.â You coolly deflected, your eyes laser focused on the words you were typing. Your fingers were moving fluently, but your brain was spiraling elsewhere.
It was as if the fogginess from being sick hadnât completely left you. At least that is what you hoped it was. At least then, you could excuse yourself, more so than some sad excuse to hide your preoccupation. Why would it matter if Caleb knew? Heâd be gratified that two coworkers he was invested in could mingle and bond over fact beyond their personal missions to improve patient care.
Caleb chuckled, his body rattling with the vibration. âWhoâs to say I havenât? Maybe I just want to hear it from you.â
âYou make it a habit to set up people on blind-dates?â You rhetorically asked, not expecting any reply. Saving the changes on the chart, you swiftly logged off, and scooted the chair back across from Caleb.
âYou made me resort to those methods.â Caleb shrugged a proud smile on his face.
God, you hated to admit he was right, especially when he was aware of the positive reaction of his actions. You rolled your neck, preventing him from reading your expression entirely. Caleb thought for a beat, before wheeling himself back. âThink of it this way: the likelier he is to endorse you, the likelier admin is to keep you. Itâs convenient and logical. I thought that might appeal to your senses.â
You snorted, shaking your head. âYou chose logos over pathos. Well played, Dr. Jefferson.â
Caleb bowed humorously, gracefully accepting the sarcastic compliment. You stood from the chair, playfully rolling your eyes. While looking up at you and preparing to wheel in the opposite direction, he called out for you. âThis conversation isnât over.â
âSee you later, Dr. Jefferson.â
As you began walking by the nursing station, you sensed a taller presence strolling beside you. With practiced ease, you glanced beside you to see the device handed to you. Robby stared down, sporting his round glasses. âJenny McGuire, seventeen, came in presenting abdominal rigidness. Mother expressed concerns over lack of appetite.â
âApparently, the family experienced something traumatic, and Jenny has been secluding herself more than usual.â Robby swiftly shared, watching your fingers scroll through the annotations made by Dr. McKay.
âDid you or McKay get anything out of the mother about what happened?â You questioned, eyes peeking between your eyelashes, to guide your way through the bustling halls.
Robby hummed, shaking his head. âNothing in specific, but she seems distraught from it, per her mother.â
You stopped before approaching the room, turning to stand in front of Robby. Eyes flicking across the floor, watching nurses and other ER personnel pass by briskly. âBased on that, it could be signs of depression or some form of PTSD, but wonât know for sure until I talk with her. Would you like to be present?â
Robbyâs eyebrows shot up. His hands were on his hips and despite the green Patagonia he had, the muscles in his biceps flexed subconsciously. He stood there slightly puzzled. It wasnât an odd question, nor a jab at the last major conflict the two of you had, but you did find value in his involvement.
Upon the blossoming trust you were slowly conforming between you and him, there were small epiphanies you had about the wise doctor he was. He was older than you were by a decade at least, which gave him an advantage you yet to have. While observing him (even sourly), there was a command he would always have in a room.
While speaking with the residents and med students, you have always noted the respect they had for him. The similarities in some of their forms of treating could be traced back to him. So even when you wanted to escape him, it was near impossible.
âIf youâve spoken with her before, I have no problem with you present. She may feel comfortable if you introduced us first, anyway.â You shared, offering some reassurance for his hesitancy.
After a beat, Robby allied with a closed smile. Mimicking the action, you spun around walking in the direction of Jennyâs room. Robby maneuvered around you, approaching the threshold of Central 14. Stopping at the door, he knocked lightly, putting on a soft smile and stepping aside once the door was wide open.
âHi, Jenny, how are you holding up?â Robby asked softly.
Jenny, a small frail, blonde girl sat up on the bed, both hands bracing around her stomach. She tried to hide the grimace in her face, but you immediately noted the action. She shrugged, making no effort to vocalize her current condition.
While pulling up a stool at her bedside, you introduced yourself, mirroring the soft and mellow presence Robby emitted. You rested your hands still holding the tablet on your lap, providing your undecided attention to Jenny. She scooted over, staring at you with wide eyes.
âI am a psychiatrist here at PTMC. Would you like to tell me why you came to the ER?â The question came out inviting, ignoring the fact, you had already read over her chart. You figured if she could put into words what was wrong physically; it would be an indicator of whatever else was wrong.
Jenny sat there, her eyes observing you up and down. It was like she had seen a ghost, and when you turned to Robby, he caught the same vibe from her. Robby leaned forward, hands folded. âI know it seems intimidating, but sometimes talking to someone can help.â
The silence was deafening. She didnât peel her eyes away from you, even as Robby tried to slip his presence in. Staring at her eyes, she was fixated on one physician; as if the only person that existed worth acknowledging was you. Right as you were about to continue speaking, you noticed the quick shift in her demeanor, sitting taller, face tightening.
âYou were a part of my sisterâs case.â She mumbled, trembling on the hospital bed. âI saw your name in an article.â
You furrowed your brows, straightening your posture. âIâm not sure I know what youâre talking about.â
âDiana Richards.â She croaked out, her voice firmer as it bounced off the room walls. âMy sister had acid thrown in her face right before Christmas.â
Your body froze, hands tightening around the device in your lap. Shit. You hadnât expected your name to make national news, considering the court personnel was small, and those sitting in the viewing gallery were family and friends affected. Too distracted by the question thrown from both parties, you didnât distinguish anything past the prosecution and defense tables.
When you double-looked the chart, âMcGuireâ on the header, you never could have assumed relation.
âI did testify at the trial,â You confirmed, nodding your head cautiously. The palpable tension between you and the distressed teenage girl was something buzzing all around your body. With the weight like a ton of bricks, the pressure in the small exam room was crushing. âI am sorry about what happened to your sister.â
âAre you?â She quipped up, her furious glare firing up as she leaned towards you. The tension was no longer concerned over what to say, it was contemplation on how to deescalate a growing fire. âThe man who did that to her should be in jail. Youâre the reason heâs not!â
Before you could react, she aimed cold saliva at your face, landing below your right eye. You flinched from the action, your hand instinctively reaching for your face. Completely focused on the emotional teenager, you didnât realize Robby had moved around the corner.
Hurriedly, he pulled you up from the chair by your shoulders. Without another word, Robby led you to the direction of the door, calling out for Princess passing by. As she saw you hunched forward, she rushed over, taking you in her arms. âWhat happened?â
âThe patient spat in her face.â Robby hurriedly mumbled, standing in front of the room, turning back to look through the window. Jenny was now sitting back on the inclined bed, staring off to the side.
âWhy?â Princess questioned with obvious apprehensiveness as to what might lead a meek teenager to act as vicious as some of the grown adults they have treated. This was abnormal and out of character for a patient of her demographic.
Robby sighed, watching you carefully as Princess directed you to an office chair. He followed along; close enough to remain a reachable distance to the patientâs room. She immediately grabbed a tissue, carefully wiping away the residue on your face. âItâs a long story.â
The soft plushness scratch the surface of your skin, causing your body to shiver. Stuck in daydream, it was a bad case of Deja vu. Instead of a man insufficiently aware of his actions in one of the behavioral rooms, a disturbed teenager was trying to consolidate with the current events of her life. Regardless, you were losing both fights.
Princess craned her head, standing right in your view as she furrowed her brows at you. âDid any of it get in your eye?â
Fumbling over words, you lightly shrugged your shoulders. âIâm not sure. It happened too quickly.â
When you were able to flutter your eyes open, Robby was standing from the distance, watching Princess work vehemently. His expression hardened by the events that just unfolded. This was the most emotional you had seen him at work.
When you walked out the behavior room with blood pouring out your nose, his natural caregiver instincts kicked in. He was ordering test and examining the integrity of the bones in your face. Although he was only monitoring from the distance, the natural instinct kicked into gear. You skittishly turned away, avoiding the darkness in his eye.
As if on cue, McKay was making her way around, casually waving her arms as she strolled around the desk. Princess and a couple more nurses gathered around you. McKayâs steps faltered, and before she could utter a word, Robby called her over.
Youâd flutter your eyes carefully in their direction, mostly focused on McKayâs back. You could see the hush exchange of words. She craned her neck, peeking back at you with her face scrunched in confusion. No doubt, Robby was trying to form some intervention.
If this were any other moment or patient, you would have fought against being pushed aside. Tell Robby there was no need to coddle you or deem you incapable of staying committed to your work. Sitting with Princess still gently trying to wipe away the excretion from your face, you still tried to convince yourself this was something you could overlook.
Instead, you were succumbing to the idea you had screwed up.
Some girl was sitting on a hospital bed, completely overturned by the actions of a stranger whose paths crossed hers. It didn't have to be Dianna Richards, nor her family, but it was. You had unluckily been stuck having to repent for your involvement in the matter.
Your eyes caught the dirty blonde woman, approaching Central 14. With the coat she was wearing, two disposable coffee cups in her hand, you sense your stomach drop. It was a surreal moment from the second she peered into her daughter's room to the slightly panicked expression when she looked at Robby.
With his hands on his hips, he turned to whom you presumed was Mrs. McGuire. McKay stood back, eyes flicking between the two like she was preparing for a bad movie. You sat up straighter and Princess took a step back to follow your line of sight.
âYou should stay here. Robby can handle it.â Princess whispered to you, one hand on your shoulder as she pressed her lips in a thin line.
You didnât argue or make any sudden movement. Suddenly, you were in a state of catatonic shock.
Everything was blowing up in your face. A record of your actions suddenly taking a turn for the worse. A man who you had a conflicted relationship with was managing to interfere in your life even from miles away. What you had thought was a good idea was now souring like milk.
The patience Robby was displaying made it clear he was trying to calm her down. You had suspected she was overtly distressed as her daughter from the chair you were sitting in. It wasnât until the voices started growing louder.
Everyone in the vicinity heard it.
âI donât care what you think about what happened to my family. I donât want her involved with my daughter's care.â She stated definitively. You could see her motion to you in the corner and you knew your entire cover was blown. âFind someone else or we will leave.â
If her eyes were daggers, youâd be bleeding on the linoleum floors. The glare of pure fury and disgust she sent your way was enough to bury you where you sat. Without another word, she made her way into the room, sitting at her daughterâs bedside.
Your eyes remained glued to the room, suddenly cold, enough so to elicit chills down your spine. Tugging onto the cardigan you were wearing, you crossed your arms over your chest. Robby spared Mrs. McGuire one last look before slowly approaching you. There was a hesitation in his steps, as if he were approaching a stray kitten starved and scared.
Standing a couple of feet away, hovering and obscuring your figure from the room, you flicked your eyes at him. âThe mother?â
He confirmed with tight lips. Rubbing his hands together, his eyes roamed over you in the similar fashion as when Mr. Richman lashed out at you. It was only saliva, but he still examined you like he would any patient. He sighed, âLook, for your safety, I think itâs best we find someone else to cover the consultation.â
âWeâre a bit understaffed today.â You mumbled, sagging your shoulders as you leaned back in the chair. Princess standing behind you excused herself. You could sense she didnât want to be caught in any animosity between you and Robby.
She knew better than to intervene between two doctors who dominated their respective fields.
âWeâll find someone.â Robby assured, glancing at McKay who was fiddling with the zipper of her gray jacket. She remained quiet yet observant of the entire interactions. You noted the small narrow of her eyes, but made no effort to ask her about it. âThings seem tense enough. You probably shouldnât go back there.â
You opened you mouth to speak, before shutting it completely. Was it worth it? Fighting nobly over the tired out issue when forces outside were telling you otherwise? You work was meant to be charitable, but you were finding it harder and harder to give it up so willingly.
âLet me make the call. Iâll explain it to whomever I find.â You explained to Robby. Willing to listen to his advice while you were still in a place to do so.
You stood up promptly, breezing by Robby and McKay and heading straight for the elevators. With your head down, you avoided the questioning side-eyes from those who were tempted by the scene. It was as if you were sacrificing your dignity every time you came down to the Pitt. You were barring yourself to every challenge, which was starting to chip away the brick wall around your heart.
It didnât help that someone like Robby was watching the worst of it. From the argument over patient care and the revelation of your condition. Robby was finding his way through you blindly, but he was much closer than some.
Standing in front of the elevator, it had hit you that you were losing control of the separation you meant to have from your work and personal life. The life you were trying to preserve, sensitive to the details, was merging into the professional life meant to compartmentalize. Everything was hitting you like tons of bricks, and you were only hoping things change before they get worse.
10:00 AM
If you had more to do, you wouldnât have felt the day drag. Considering Caleb was occupied with the patients in the behavioral health ward and you had been condemned to the Pitt, it wasnât like you didnât have work. There were patients popping up throughout the morning rush that needed menial attention from psychiatry. Basic consultations that didnât require follow up.
However, your mind wasnât as focused on the patients as you should be.
You stood at the workstation, digital chart in hand, as you wrote notes from your last consultation. It appeared as you were busy, but your eyes kept wandering over to central 14, like something was called upon you from inside.
It has been over an hour since Dr. Malek had entered; a fourth year psych resident who was more interested in forensic work than critical-care. You were gnawing away the inside of your cheek, practically mutilating your mouth from the riddle of anticipation. It wasnât your place to judge whether Malek was capable of doing the work, despite having a year of experience over him.
Caleb was solely responsible for putting the residents in line, but that didnât stop the doubt you sensed.
While staring intensely at the door, you caught it clicking open. Malek slipped through, gently closing it behind him as he whispered farewells to the McGuireâs. Your body jolted up. Waiting like a lion on the prowl, you joined Malek as he walked past you, stepping in harmony.
âHow did things go?â You asked in a hush tone. He didnât flinch as you settled beside him, shoulders partially brushing against one another. He was expecting the ambush from the small flex of his jaw.
He barely looked at you, preferring to scroll through the device in his hand. He kept trying to advance, swerving around people as he searched for someone other than you to speak with. âI donât know if I should be sharing this with you.â
âConsider this as consulting a colleague.â
The quickness of your comment had him halting in his steps. He turned to you, slight frustration in how you pushed for the answer. Although being a few years his senior, he exuded an energy that was fit for someone your age. He let his hands fall to his side, exasperated at this point. âThe girl is depressed. Hell, the mother too.â
You tucked the device under your arm, staring at Malek with desperation that he didnât understand. It mustâve made you look pathetic from an outsider view as he rolled his eyes in frustration. âJenny was with her sister and her husband when the assault happened.â
The deep breath you sucked in was stuck somewhere because the tightness in your chest didnât decompress. Your eyes darted across his face, trying to make out more with the silence. It couldnât have been a joke, that was distasteful, even for him. He had spoken it intentionally, trying to give you what you wanted while also warning you to stay away from where you shouldnât be.
That was your fault.
âThankfully she didnât see anything, but she heard her sister screaming.â He sighed, pretty devastated even while he put up the front. âImagine having to live with that sound for the rest of your life.â
âOutside of the fact her sister wonât be able to see or recover from the injuries on her face.â The vile taste in his mouth was evident as he scowled, personally hurt by the offense.
You faced away as he narrowed his eyes at you. With the tension, you were wishing Robby would suddenly need you for a consultation or pick a fight. Something of that sort would be better than the scrutiny of a colleague who was treading towards a scarily esoteric farce.
âNone of us understand why you defended that man.â Malek shrugged, lips tightening in a thin line. His nostrils flared and he shook his head.
Lifting your head, you looked at him with a blank expression. What the hell? Cocking your head to the side, you scoffed. âWhat is that supposed to mean?â
âHe assaulted a woman, and you, let us not forget.â He all but spat at you.
It was a reprimand for having come to ask questions. For lingering in a space, you knew better than to test. You shouldâve known the repercussions of being a recluse, of not putting in an effort to be friendly enough was going to come back at you.
He took a step forward, and the hallway you two stood in started feeling stuffy. Retracting your neck slightly, you futilely attempted to put a boundary. Malek's forehead creased, âHe had to pay for what he did.â
Smiling sarcastically, you chuckled dryly. âBecause suddenly you care about my well-being.â
Malek chuckled coldly, the same detachment you had heard from Robby before. At least now, you assumed there wasnât that animosity between you two. Malek had a fury that was unrecognizable, like he had spent time repressing that only you could pull out of him. âI think sometimes you forget youâre not as brilliant and perfect as you mistakenly think you are.â
âAll because I refused to let a sick man go to jail? For a mental condition he has little control over?â You retorted. It felt obvious. All the reasons you couldâve possible defended anyone who put their hands and weight over you shouldnât have existed,
Except, it wasnât for you and everyone was missing the point, just as Malek was opening up wounds again.
âBecause you believe youâre so virtuous. Too virtuous to put aside your beliefs and worry about how they mightâve felt about the verdict.â Malek motioned his head back to where the two of you came from. Where the McGuireâs were, confined in the same hospital Mr. Richman had unleashed a ruckus in.
Malek pointed a finger to his head, eyebrows furrowed down. âDid it ever occur to you that maybe he wasnât the right person for you to enact your crusade of righteous indignity?â
Your head was telling you to walk away. With the sudden rise of his voice, uneasiness settled in your weak stomach. The fogginess from before was more than just brain fog from being sick. This wasnât the typical arguments over patients and who presented the most competent plan of care. This was quite unsettling. Malek, who had kept his honest opinions about you hidden under sarcasm and cocky grins, was finally laying it thick.
âAll of us tolerate you because Jefferson dotes on you, but youâd be surprised to find out how few of us want you as an attending after your fellowship is up.â He bluntly stated with no shame as he stared you in the eyes.
He was suddenly closer in proximity. From the tunnel vision you were experiencing, your body was suffocated by his .You urged your feet to step forward. To react as quickly as you did with Robby. Witty and decisive leaving no doubt of your confidence within yourself.
It was like being stuck in paralysis. You mind kept wandering at a hundred miles per hour but your body was tossed to the side of the road like a carcass.
âDr. Malek,â
You welcomed the voice, turning away from your colleague to meet Robbyâs hardened stare. Pulling yourself away, you stood meekly in between both men. If your legs hadnât stiffened, you wouldâve taken the chance to run. Instead, you stood there, in the midst of the silent standoff the two were having.
âPlease show yourself out of my ED.â Robby ordered, crossing his arms and shaking his head. âI will not tolerate you degrading a fellow colleague in a department full of staff and patients to hear.â
Malek glared over to you, the tightening of his indifference to the entire situation. Chilling from the physical enmity, you learned Robby cutting swiftly through was a worse idea than you imagined. Robby inclined himself further, pushing his overbearing presence and standing prominently in Malekâs line of sight. âYou can debrief with Dr. McKay once you get your fucking act together.â
Robby didnât relent, and you were thankful once Malek resigned, huffing away with an agitated pace. You kept staring at his back, almost waiting for him to turn back and enforce himself again. When he disappeared behind the walls and into the rest of the chaos of the ER, you let a shaky breath go.
When you turned to look at Robby, he was already looking down at you. His eyebrows furrowed in the same effort heâd examine patients, sitting on a hospital bed, laying their health in his hands. You didnât want to play that role. You werenât defenseless as much as he saw you at the moment.
âI didnât need you to save me.â You muttered, heading in the opposite direction of where Malek went.
Your arm barely brushed by him, and he swiftly recovered by maintaining an equal steady pace behind you. âI was mostly sparing him. I sensed you werenât going to tolerate that shit for much longer.â
With a sour chuckle, you tried to hide how breathless you suddenly were. The stack of issues in the past three hours were losing its foundation. It was like the mountain of what was wrong with your life was crumbling with time, and you couldnât hold up the front you had worked on for years. âSounds a lot like an unwelcome intervention to me.â
With the speed you were walking, everyone could tell you were trying to evade Robby. Except, he was tailing you. A dog with a bone. Your eyes darted around, effectively trying to find some escape for the ER and everything reminding you of the shit-show.
âThis is my ER, anyways. I should be entitled to cut bullshit when I see it.â Robby pointed up, still trailing behind you. It wasnât a remark or sarcastic. It was a reminder that he was always aware of his department, and he didnât take disruptions lightly.
Finally looking ahead, the elevator beside the trauma rooms was right in front of you. Stopping in frustration, you bowed your head. Your hands clammed up beside you and the weight over your chest as you tried steadying your breathing was like lifting a boulder. It came back down with each exhale unsteadily.
After a moment, you turned around carefully. Your eye landed on Robbyâs feet, trailing up the dark cargo pants he wore. Eventually, when you stared directly back at him, you crossed your arm, hiding the trouble you had breathing correctly.
Shrugging, you scoffed. âHe's probably right, you know?â
Robby narrowed his eyes at you, suddenly confused from the immediate switch. You let him think it was a deflection. It was easier than trying to explain why you froze up in front of a hostile colleague, when you had encountered worse patients. âMaybe Iâm too holed up in my personal world to acknowledge the damage of my intentions.â
âAbout Mr. Richman?â Robby questioned, trying to make out from the cryptic look in your eye. He couldnât make out anything at face-value, and you were hoping heâd just walk away. âIâm sure the judge based his decision on different testimonies made. None of us know what truly sealed the deal for him.â
âBut I defended him, inside, and outside the courtroom. Morgan, you, even Jefferson warned me what might happen if I spoke out too much.â You explained, reminiscing over every occasion where you couldâve avoided this.
Mr. Richman was the catalyst for all these interactions. From Robby, to the McGuireâs, to Malek. You would never regret treating a patient, but you werenât sure you wanted to go out on a limb ever again.
You frowned, holding onto the strings in your heart tugged into all directions. There was too much at stake, and the last thing you needed was for Robby to pull at them like a puppet master. With a shaky smile, you let your hands fall to your side. âI just wanted someone to walk away from the entire process with something positive.â
The rattle of your body scared you. It had you turning away, trying to hide in plain sight from Robby. He stood still, straightening his posture. His hands were now on his hip, and you caught the slight air stuck in his throat.
âI havenât been able to stop looking over my shoulder since then.â
Your hand extended lazily in the direction of the patient's room. âBut that girl and her sister may never be able to go out in public without fearing something of this magnitude may happen to them again.â
Robbyâs stoic expression didnât pave anything for you to rely on. It gave little insight of whether he opposed Malekâs words or found you amateurish in the face of conflict. You were hopeless. Standing in front of the one man who could ruin your position apart from Jefferson. He was right.
It was practical to play nice and feed into the role Robby would need you to act. You didnât want to conform to giving into the challenge of the chief attending for the simple necessity of keeping a job. It was the only reason you had fought about Mr. Richman before, during, and even after the trial.
âIs it selfish to have wanted Mr. Richman to have the help he never did have?â You questioned, your wispy voice barely scratching through the noise of the ED.
Robby didnât answer. He wasnât sure you were searching for one. This was the one time he had seen you out of your depth in your facilitation in his department. Apart from the dinner, where you tested how close you could inch into the deep well of suppressed emotion, there wasnât anything personal of you in your work.
There was no way you could treat patients if you were stuck in the flawed aspects of your life. Today was making all of that evident.
âThe hospital where I did my residency has an outreach program. â You explained quietly, reluctant to tell Robby.
You pursed your lips, and the heat in your cheeks contradicted the shivering down your spine and the frigid coldness of your fingers. âTheir mission wasnât just to treat- and-street patients but to meet them halfway for them to have some continuation of care no matter their circumstances.â
Robby shook his head, âHas anyoneââ
âThatâs beside the point.â You interrupted, fluttering your eyes close briefly. The raise of his eyebrows finished the question you cut off rudely. You didnât need this to turn into another âbondingâ moment. âI was willing to do that no matter the danger of it.â
âThatâs what I tried to explain to the judge and prosecution and they made it sound like I had some hero-complex I hadnât resolved.â
The groan that escaped you was the subsided disappointment of your composure. Everyone around you had seen too much. There wasnât much to hide from Robby at this point, and once this shift was over, you were committed to the idea of planning where to run once your fellowship was done.
Your ears were tingling from how quiet the ED became. The department was attached to your soul, which only knew how to prioritize patient care. In your years of training, you heard all about compartmentalizing as well as the consequences of burning out. You thought you had mastered the first part enough that you wouldnât have to worry about drowning in a lake; but the rocks in your pockets were finally weighing you down.
âSo, the incident with Mr. Richman had been the first time a patient had assaulted you?â
When he gauged your reaction, he had a wide eye stare that tried to hide the intensity of his personality and role in the ED. It worked with patients well enough to foster a safe space for them to grieve or release what theyâve kept inside them.
It worked on patientsâbut you werenât one.
âI hadnât been punched, pinned to the ground, and choked before if thatâs what you're asking.â You scoffed, your lips curving upwards, but it missed the same sarcastic wit you would usually deflect him with. âEven when they spat, yelled, and fought the treatment, I reminded myself they were just scared people who needed help.â
Sacred. If you were treating yourself, maybe that would be the one word scribbled all over your chart.
Afraid of further repercussions from the Richman case. Frightened of how the rest of the staff would see you after Mrs. McGuire and Malek painted you out as a self-absorbed health-care worker unable to make out an indescribable debt. Terrorized by the idea Robby might concede to what he thought of you when you initially transferred to PTMC.
Months of unraveling to be burned by a spark and caught aflame.
The dinging of the elevator ringed behind you. Turning to the sound, you found a couple of respiratory therapists walking out, laughing at the conversation held. You pulled yourself aside, letting them past before stalking to the elevator.
When you faced Robbyâs direction, he stood stiffly, uncertainty in whether to approach or forget the conversation occurred. You made the decision, pressing the button of your assigned floor. âMaybe, you wonât have to worry about me overstaying more than I'm welcomed.â
As the doors closed, the last thing you saw was the slight twitch of his eye
12:00 PM
In the last couple of hours since you spoke with Robby, you were almost hoping not to work with him for the rest of your shift. Not because you were offended or mad about his course of action earlier. With the buffer since Mrs. McGuireâs blowup to that of Malekâs, you came to the realization Robby was sparing your dignity from worse.
He could have thrown you into the wolves. Make you pay for all the times you blew up in his face over the executive action of patients in his ER, but treated by you. A part of you believed he should have. Maybe putting you in âcontemptâ would teach you a lesson.
Instead, he was handling you like a box with a âFRAGILEâ label on the side. Wanting so desperately to open the gift, but too afraid to break it before he was safely able to.
Sitting in the ED, it was like an animal in a cage. You knew the staff passing by were likeliest engrossed in their jobs, patients, and lives to be distracted by you, but that didnât stop the onset paranoia; sensing eyes pitying you while behind your back.
You tried to focus, rolling your shoulders rhythmically as you typed away at the workstation. Every time a resident came by to grab a device on the docks, you would flinch before refocusing on what you were doing. As McKay stopped, putting the tablet on one of the slots, her eyes found you. Attempting to hold onto the current train of thought, you continued flitting your attention across the screen.
âMrs. McGuire is wondering when they can be discharged.â She mentioned casually, moving aside to not stand directly in front of you. She leaned forward on the nursing station counter.
When you lifted your attention from your work, she gave you a polite smile. You peeled your hands from the keyboard, which spent the better part of an hour stuck together. Returning the action rather stiffly, you tried easing your tense muscles. âI donât know. Iâm not the primary psychiatrist on their case, nor have I been updated on their plan of care.â
McKay stood there silently, letting her weight sit on the counter for a beat. She glanced around warily for anybody who might be looking for her. âI heard Robby kicked out Dr. Malek.â
Her words didnât prompt a visible response, but from under the desk, your leg was bouncing. She leaned in closer, her voice huskier as she spoke in a hushed tone. âAnd I also heard what he said. What an asshole. And heâs supposed to be the girlâs psychiatristââ
âI have another patient to check in with. Sorry.â You interrupted before McKay could utter another word.
Standing from the desk, you sauntered away as if your worst nightmare had walked into the ED. Hastily curving around McKay, you kept your head down. Your feet were practically guiding your decision. If you no longer wanted to face the music, they were moving before you could doubt the action.
Except, your feet werenât your brain.
When you did finally bother to look up and across, you noticed they brought you by central 14 again. You cursed under your breath when you noticed the glass exposing the department outside the room. Before Jenny or her mother could assault you with their eyes, you turned your back towards them, opting for a stealthy escape.
Your brain said to âmove forward.â If you left up to the behavioral floor or found some other passion project to screw up, you would forget them long enough for them to leave. The hospital. The forefront of your mind. Your life.
Cutting them out like a weed in your garden.
However, your feet halted you once more. This time, you werenât just stuck in place, you were turning back around to cross paths with central 14. With your feet moving disorderly with your brain, you hadnât made up your purpose for having to confront the situation. You knew you had to decide once daring to step into the room.
It didnât run as smoothly as you recklessly planned once confronted with Mrs. McGuire coming out of the room and running into you. Reacting rapidly to the intrusion, you stopped, stepping back a couple feet to provide space.
She firmed up in front of you, taking in your attire. Her eyes zeroed onto the badge clipped to the waistline of your black slacks. Hyper-aware of the conclusion she was reaching, you tried not to fuel the fire. You finally decided this wasnât worth the fight.
âWhen can my daughter be discharged?â She questioned brusquely while crossing her arms.
Her stare was just as hardened as Malekâs was. A warning. You shouldnât poke the bear and you shouldnât have put yourself in this position again.
Clearing your throat, you shook your head. âIâm not sure, maâam. I am not familiar with your daughterâs case. I can try to locateââ
âSo, unless my daughter is a deranged lunatic, she won't be receiving immediate care here?â
Your mouth remained agape, words slipping from your mind completely. Your defenses had been at an all-time low. Every chance to defend yourselfâwhere you would have shut down coolly and responded with the rapid professionalism Dr. Jefferson admired in youâ-was just another trap to drag you through shrubbery and dirt.
This shift may just ruin you before you even make it to the end.
âWith all due respect, the case was a little more complicated than that.â You mumbled in return, defeated over the same skipping record. It was painful having to remind yourself why you took an opposing stance. You could not cave in now.
Her sour scoff had you flinching slightly. âActually, it isnât.â
âYouâre the reason that son-of-a-bitch is locked in some cushy mental hospital instead of prison.â She enunciated, one of her fingers wagging at you, like she was scolding a child. âThe integrity of my daughterâs face was completely burned off by acid.â
âAnd all you see is some poor sick man? What about my daughters?â She begged, her voice trembling.
There were tears welling up in your tear ducts. You strained your jaw, containing the raw emotion. It had been reckoning brought by you. How dare you be sad now? Before you could open your mouth, respond with a weak excuse and weaker voice, you heard your name called from behind you.
âIs there a problem?â Robby questioned coming around you. He stood by your side, providing a shadow over your shorter stature.
You kept your eyes ahead, opting to let Mrs. McGuire paint the image. There was no repairing the damage to your reputation. It would have to linger and exist in the area, leaving everyone in the prerogative to make a narrative you had no control over.
She retracted herself, letting her arms fall to her sides in defeat. âI just want to take my daughter home.â
Knowing Robby, his eyes shifted towards you, hoping to read into the situation or possibly check in with you. The exhaustion had to feel as palpable as the bags under your eyes when you walked into the department. Avoiding his gaze shamelessly, he nodded to Mrs. McGuire. âI will go ahead and start the paperwork once I check in with behavioral health.â
Mrs. McGuireâs fury and desperation must have simmered as she dragged herself back in the room. Your body succumbed to the action of Robby, who was turning around and leading you gently away from the room. You sensed the presence of something lingering on your lower back, only hovering and not touching.
âYou shouldnât have been talking with her.â Robby warned, bringing his head closer to your ear. He remained even in his expression, just two colleagues conferring with each other closely. âThat couldâve gone a lot worse.â
âI can control my emotions.â You muttered, flickering your eyes side to side. At this point, you were depending on Robby like a north starâallowing his burly body to hide and guide you elsewhere.
âThatâs not what I was referring to.â He motioned softly, shaking his head slightly. âIâm not concerned over your objectivity more so her apprehension in a busy ER. Youâve dealt with enough for one shift.â
When you stopped by the elevators, the coldness of his hand coming away made you cower. It was as if the only form of physical protection from your mishaps was tearing itself away. You were a soldier stuck in a landmine without Robby. Sniffling slightly, you nodded in understanding. The meekest you have probably been taking something adjacent to a command.
âYou should stay up there. I can handle whatever consultation comes in with Caleb.â Robby suggested politely.
He stared at you, taking in the daunting expression. You felt like a ghost, stumbling around the halls of the hospital, equally haunting anyone in your path. Everything you touch turning as sickly as you are. After a beat, you nodded cautiously. âThis doesnât make me incapable of doing my job.â
âI never said it did.â Robby assured quietly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
He reached over to press the up-arrow. With the glow of the button, he stood in wait with you. He was now sporting his black scrub top with a gray long-sleeve under top, stuffing his hands in the pocket. A silence settled. If this were any other person watching you slowly decompose, you would have escaped away and ran for the stairs.
Except this was the same person who you debated and reasoned about a plan of care for patients. Who, at times, made you feel alienated enough to push his buttons. You treated him with sarcasm and embittered his fizzling emotions, evoking responses unsuited for an attending physician who should have better governed his reactions.
He didnât owe you kindness, and yet he was extending an olive branch for you to make peace with.
When the elevator dinged, he outstretched his arm, holding it open for you. Once settled inside, he reached in to press the numbered floor for you. Standing on the opposite side of the threshold, he smiled earnestly, lips curling upwards, crinkling the corner of his eyes. âTake care of yourself.â
Then the doors shut.
You werenât sure that was a task you were capable of. If it were, you would have protected yourself from all the previous heartbreak. From your failed attempts at becoming a neurosurgeon, to coming to terms with your illness, to moving across the country with little emotional support. The lack of practice you had regulating your mind and body outside of working was making itself obvious and you hated the sensational need to be comforted.
When at the behavioral health floor, you walked around like a zombie straight from the ground. You beeline for the dictation room. At least you had enough charting to be done to keep you away from the public eye for the second half of your shift.
Situating yourself in the far corner of the room, you opened your laptop and went straight to the full inbox. Most of the messages you had been ignoring were requesting professional statements of Mr. Richman in a medical and observational sense. News outlets and publishing journals begging for statements to contradict one another.
You knew neither were worth participating for, with the current rising waters you were drowning.
The rest were administrative notices youâve missed since you were gone. As you scrolled through the latest of your e-mails, you eyes landed on a new chain of a previous conversation that hadnât existed before.
JEFFERSON, CALEB 6:46 AM (unread)
FW: INTERNAL REVIEW W/ ADMIN
Whenever you have the time, review the testimonies. Robby and I discussed scheduling a time to sit down to review timelines and order of events. With your unexpected absence, we were waiting until you came back to plan that out accordingly.
Do not fret over the logistics. This is customary when an incident occurs, especially with the arrest of a federal crime. The objective is to protect other staff from this type of violence. This shouldnât affect you finishing your fellowship (not if I can help it), but you will be interviewed alone with the compliance and risk management panel.
They will reach out when they have the schedules available.
STILES, MORGAN 4 days ago
To: ROBINAVITCH, MICHAEL, JEFFERSON, CALEB
42 attachment >>>> click to view all
Attached are the current translated transcripts for the upcoming internal review. (I happen to know the stenographer closely, so appreciate this favor.) Please be made aware you will be asked about all aspects of the decisions made while Mr. Richman was under the hospital's care.
Brace yourself for questions regarding the testimony of the victim and witnesses as well as those relating to the assault of hospital staff. Their testimonies were included.
Thank you,
Morgan Stiles, MHA, J.D., CPHRM
PTMC - COMPLIANCE HEALTH ATTORNEY
ROBINAVITCH, MICHAEL 4 days ago
To: STILES, MORGAN, JEFFERSON, CALEB
Thank you, Morgan. Is there any legal repercussions either the ER or Psychiatry should expect up to this point?
STILES, MORGAN 3 days ago
To: ROBINAVITCH, MICHAEL, JEFFERSON, CALEB
The internal review is an evaluation of the course of events to analyze flaws in the plan of care for the patient (and defendant, in this case), in which the hospital may improve on. A compliance-focus meeting handled through the course of a few days by interviewing the involved personnel. The hospital will not contradict the judgeâs ruling. As of now, they seem agreeable to the reason for the ruling.
There are current discussions of the family suing the city for their failures during and after detainment, specifically in their failures to contain Mr. Richman while here. You will need to answer questions of the test, examination, and protocols applied regarding the incident.
The hospital has been receiving criticism publicly for treating Mr. Richman. I do advise you and your staff to refrain from making public acknowledgment of the ruling, the defendant, or the actions whether they occurred in this hospital or not. I do not believe any explanation needs to be given about the matter.
JEFFERSON, CALEB 3 days ago
To: STILES, MORGAN, ROBINAVITCH, MICHAEL
All is appreciated, Morgan. We are mostly pleased Mr. Richman will be receiving the care he needs.
We will be awaiting further instruction from admin regarding the reviews.
Your fingers scrolled up towards the attachments Morgan included. Each labeled with the name of the witness and the date of testimony. The âMcGuireâ name stood out on the document titles. Jenny had testified a few days after all the expert witnesses including you, Robby, Jefferson, and the court appointed psychiatrist to reevaluate Mr. Richman.
The cursor of your mouse hovered over the files warily. Reproachfully, you swallowed a lump down your throat. To have access to all the testimonies as if they were secrets made you shift.
All court records are public, you reasoned.
After a beat, you decided on starting with what mattered most to the hospital admin. You did not need an awful replay of your amateur display of defensive strategy.
Your mouse moved to the right of your testimony, clicking onto the file âROBINAVITCH_M.â
3:00 PM
To say your eyes were sore was an understatement. Two hours behind a computer screen, reading and logging every small detail you could devour through words was bound to do that. You hadnât bothered to get up and do much. Once for the restroom, once to grab water, and the rest of the time you spent it stationed in the corner.
Some of the younger residents and interns came in, charted for a few minutes before leaving again at the sound of another page. None of them made too much noise to distract you, just a shy greeting as they walked in and then busied themselves with their work.
You had lost track of time as you stared down at the last few pages of Robbyâs first testimony. You would have assumed you would be much farther in your preparation for the internal reviews, but the line of question and responses had you glued to the particular file.
It wasnât questions regarding Dr. Robbyâs ability to lead a department let alone his credibility as an emergency physician. They were punitive judgments they disguised as questions for Robby from the prosecution. All judgments made about you and the testimony you had given a week prior. With that understanding, you couldnât just look away while the judge and the rest of the court had to listen to the prosecution tear your credibility without your knowledge.
Robby hadnât bothered to bring it up either. You rubbed your eyes lazily as a way to reboot its ingrained focus. Scrolling towards the next page, you started on the first line.
MR. FOWLER: In your professional opinion, did any course of action taken by the psychiatrist involved with Mr. Richmanâs care raise concern of her judgment?
MR. HUDSON: Objection. Beyond the scope. Dr. Robinavitch is not a psychiatrist nor the chief of psychiatry.
MR. FOWLER: Your honor, the witness is an emergency physician. His professional judgment is still pertinent to the psychiatrist involved. She is a fellow, who is specializing to work alongside the department Dr. Robinavitch supervises.
THE COURT: Prosecution may proceed, but tread lightly, Mr. Fowler. Witness may answer.
THE WITNESS: No. She presented reasonable judgment when she requested nurses to remain as witnesses while evaluating Mr. Richman. She consulted with the arresting officers before entering the roomâ
MR. FOWLER: Whom she rejected the request to have inside the behavioral room the defendant was in, is that correct?
THE WITNESS: I am unaware if the officers made an offer to be present. Whatever executive decision made complied with the type of care provided to any patient who comes into that ER.
MR. FOWLER: But not every patient brought in is detained for a felony-level crime. Nor are they prone to having an outburst, which results in the assault of a healthcare worker, correct?
THE WITNESS: Violence against healthcare workers is an ongoing issue with no resolution. Staff in my department do constantly fear the next time a patient may punch, scratch, spit, or shove them. It happens more often than I would like.
MR. FOWLER: Please answer the question, Dr. Robinavitch.
THE WITNESS: [pause] No.
MR. FOWLER: So, did you agree with the approach taken with Mr. Richard, understanding the circumstances he came in? As you said, violence against healthcare workers is of utmost concern to you.
THE WITNESS: I do believe that what occurred in my department was unfortunate, but it wasnât an error on the decisions made in the plan of care.
MR. FOWLER: [pause] Isnât it true you and the psychiatrist involved have had previous conflicting opinions about patient care?
THE WITNESS: Yes.
MR. FOWLER: Enough so to question her judgment or her psychiatric opinion?
MR. HUDSON: Objection. Beyond the scope, again, your honor.
MR. FOWLER: Rephrase. Has it made you doubt whether the plan of care for patients, who have come to the ER needing a psychiatrist consultation, is in their benefit?
THE WITNESS: No. My conflicting opinion isnât a question of her competence, as you allude to. It is to challenge her recommendations, as I would any resident or consulting physician. Thatâs how we all learn. It is how I ensure enough consideration has been put in all aspects of a case.
MR. FOWLER: So Mr. Richman, is what, negligence on her part? So much to ignore precautions in order to prevent the assault? What if it had been one of your doctors or nurses?
MR. HUDSON: Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence. Prosecution is arguing with the witness over lack of foundation.
THE WITNESS: Mr. Fowler, you are making a judgment from words on paper and images you do not have the comprehensive knowledge to understand. This delicate case was handled by someone who has more experience with patients of this caliber than you and even I have.
MR. FOWLER: Your honorâ
THE WITNESS: Mr. Richman is an individual deemed to be in need of care from someone whose professional opinion I respect. If she sees it that way, so do I. What concurred from that was unpredictable, but in no way is it a representation of what she is incapable of doing. It should be a wake-up call about the issues in our healthcare system from those inside as well as outside the hospital.
THE COURT: Please contain yourself, Doctor. [pause] Mr. Fowler, you were warned to tread light. Either move along or rest your case.
Before you could scroll to the next page, something vibrated on the table beside you. With the screen of your phone pointed up, you simply turned to the side to view the incoming message.
DR. KYLE MALEK now
There are a couple consults down in the ER. Got tied up with Jefferson.
Dr. Robby couldnât reach you.
When you opened the call phone, you noticed no notification except from Malek. Pausing, you stood from the chair, wandering to where you had left your backpack across the room. When you pulled your personal phone out from the side pocket, you found the missed messages from Robby.
ROBBY 15m ago
I didnât want to bother you unless necessary, but Caleb got caught up in an emergency upstairs.
Have a couple of other pediatric psych consults. Nothing urgent or serious. Just some concerned parents.
You knew it must have been a last resort if he messaged you privately. From the verbiage, he was probably agonizing whether to finally pull you down to the depths of the ER after two hours of solitude. It was considerate, which was more than anything you had received now and days.
When you made your way down, you headed straight for the nursing station, starting the manhunt for Robby. Stopping by the station, you picked up a device. Glancing around, your eyes caught Dana stalking around the station, glasses propped on the lower bridge of her nose.
She smiled when she looked at you, moving towards you. âWell, thank goodness youâre here. I have patients in need of a psych consult and we need beds.â
Trying to muster as joyous a smile as she had, you chuckled nervously. âSo I heard. Whoâs first on the list?â
âCentral 12 is a 13-year-old boy. Dr. Mohan is the primary, but he is all yours, honey.â She instructed with a small wink.
You nodded, listening to the information. When you lifted your gaze, you noted the illuminating patient board. Fractured wrist was the primary complaint. Your eyes went further down the list to Central 14. Still occupied by the same patient.
Taking in a deep breath, you composed yourself to head in the dreaded corner of the ER. You were hesitant, hoping another altercation of some sort wouldnât occur. That your paths would not cross to forsaken you again. Keeping your head down you thought would be a worthy way of disguising your presence.
From McGuire's accusatory stare. From Robbyâs genuine concern. You needed to stay concentrated on the patient you could help. You were no use if you couldnât unscramble your brain enough to do that.
However, to curse your already terrible day, you caught the exact people you were hoping to avoid exiting central 14 together. Slowing down your pace, you watched with careful eyes as Robby stood facing Mrs. McGuire, one arm draped across her daughter's back, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. They must have been discharging as Mrs. McGuire carried her purse with her and a packet in her hand.
Something told you there was no reason to linger. She had said her piece and there was no way to explain yourself to them. It wasnât gallant to stumble over your words and teeter on the edge of breaking down when you came off vehement in court.
Except, despite that new look that you were sporting since then, Robby hadnât changed from the time you met him. You had been focused too much on everything else to realize he extended that warmth towards you.
Thatâs when Robbyâs voice cut through your indecision. His furrowed brows were trying to understand why you stood alone in the hall, device in hand. He instructed with his head to come closer, and when you woke yourself from the daydream, you approached cautiously. You tried not to zone in on the McGuireâs staring at you like a prey approaching a much smaller, weaker predator.
âMrs. McGuireâs here wanted to speak with you.â He initiated, scratching the side of his beard. With one-step back, he let the attention be centered on the two of you, but he remained in the background. You could sense his presence like a bug on your shoulder.
Mrs. McGuire, with wet eyes, cleared her throat. She looked at her daughter before facing you with her chin held up. âI wanted to apologize early. What happened was uncalled for. Youâre here to do a job.â
âEarnestly, I signed up to do this job regardless of what came with it.â You responded, hands gripping on tighter to the device.
If that hadn't been the case, you would've quit after Mr. Richman, and you wouldn't have willingly stood in front of her and Jenny--who was shrinking the pink hoodie and avoiding obvious attention on her.
She hummed, eyeing you carefully. Your body tensed, as if bracing for some blow yet to come. Your shoulder sat up higher as the silence fell. With your mouth agape, the words stopped as Mrs. McGuire sighed. âWe wonât see eye to eye on the verdict made, but I am sorry he did that to you."
"In our grief of what occurred, Iâve forgotten that you also fell victim to his hands. Iâve been recently reminded of that.â Her eyes flicked to something behind you, and you knew she was staring appreciatively at Robby.
You put on a shaky smile, nodding in gratitude. The skin where the punch landed and his hands squeezed around your neck heated up. It was like his life marked you, but you did your best to hide the grimace. âLikewise. I am hoping for the best for you and your family moving forward.â
With a stiff nod, she glanced over at Robby, indicating a conclusion with actions only. You stepped aside, putting on a polite smile as Mrs. McGuire guided her daughter to where Robby was motioning. While he stepped behind them, he looked at you over his shoulder. The encouraging smile that was gently reminding you that it wasnât ill will. There weren't huntsmen coming for you and your strong sense of identity in your work.
They were people who were confused and hurt, similar to how you were after the assault and with the reminder of the trial. He was still here telling you there was nothing wrong with you or the work, and you didnât have to feel let down by the reaction alone. You sighed, before clearing your head once more to approach Central 12.
8:00 PM
âI donât need to be safeguarded.â You sighed out, sitting across from Caleb in his office. You had managed to catch up with your charting at a decent time. If it hadnât been for the emergency on the behavioral floor, you wouldâve gone home an hour ago.
But you knew Caleb would need the help after sending home one of his residents.
âItâs not pity. He acted out of line for a fourth year resident and I wonât tolerate harassment in the workplace.â Caleb spoke definitely, staring at you from above the rims of his glasses. He was typing away on his computer. You didnât want to know if it pertained to the discussion at hand.
You groaned lightly, uncrossing your legs while sitting up taller. âIt's fine.â
âNo, it isnât.â Caleb emphasized, stopping his typing. He repositioned his wheelchair, before slipping off his glasses and letting them fall against his chest. âI wish you would stop pretending it is. Itâs okay to be mad or upset over what he said. It was uncalled and unprofessional.â
âAnd heâs a fourth year resident with one foot out the door! Itâs not personal, whatsoever.â You joked, chuckling tiredly as you stood up. Grabbing your backpack from the floor, you slung it on your shoulders. âHis residency is almost over along with my fellowship. After that, neither of us will have to worry about the other ever again.â
Caleb sat pensively, hands folded in his lap. From the small scrunch of his face, you knew another question was brewing. He pushed his thumbs together. âAnd what do you plan to do after your fellowship?â
You scoffed with a tight grin on your face. âAfter the shit-show today? I donât think you or Robby need me as a liability, let alone this hospital. Iâve brought on enough issues.â
âIs this about what Malek said? Or the McGuireâs?â Caleb questioned his voice softer as he probed. The same technique you used on Jenny that morning. It was a sad reminder of failures you should have been able to control on your own.
âAnd if it was?â
âIâd tell you not to fixate on these lapses alone.â He suggested firmly. âThey are in no way an accurate representation of the type of character and work Iâve seen.â
You glanced away, the attention too centered on you for your liking. It wasnât bad attention (compared to the scrutiny from earlier) but it was attention that focused on the part of you that didnât belong in work. The insecurity you had walking PTMC that you had managed to keep wrapped under the fold of your personality. Cold and calculated while protecting the intimacy of your thoughts.
Or at least, what was once protected.
âI should probably head home. I have a night shift coming up soon.â You excused yourself by making your way to the door.
It was a somber conclusion, like you might never see him again. Your depleted energy had no effort to give to anything else--especially regarding your emotion convocation.
âYou are good at what you do. Inside and outside of here.â Caleb announced, like it was a doorknob concern you joked patients always had. One last anchor thrown into the sea like a redeeming feature. The difference between walking out of the office with nothing and walking out with salvation from ailment.
Your hand grasped the doorknob, not turning back. You silently nodded, gesturing to him that you were listening. From the small twitch of your lips, you knew better than to turn around and worry him with your fractured emotional boundaries. Instead, you wished him a quiet âgood nightâ before closing the door behind you.
Your brain was running on autopilot and before you could process your decisions, you had taken the elevator down to the Pitt instead of the main floor to head to the parking garage.
When the elevator doors open to reveal the chaos of the night-shift settling in, you cursed under your breath. You had been too exhausted, bone-dry for too long, that you were questioning if it was a good idea to drive.
Thankfully, it was enough to obscure you from any lingering day shift. You merged around like high-traffic, curving around nurses and other ED staff. Whenever you catch wind of a night-shift doctor, you lower your head further.
Your eyes landed on Shen, who waved at you lazily while holding a Dunkinâ iced coffee. Thatâs when you scurried out towards the ambulance bay. As wide automatic doors slid open, the breeze hit your cheeks. Your eyes fluttered from the heaviness of the wind kissing your face.
The red lights from the ambulance glowed sitting stationary on the driveway. You proceeded carefully; making sure a couple of paramedics werenât going to jump out the vehicle with some trauma patient. Looking around like a kid lost, you turned your head to the right.
Kneeling down, craning his head to the side, Robby was fiddling with something on a motorcycle. Despite the body of the two-wheeled vehicle, Robby taunt muscles still seemed wide in comparison to his ride.
âDo you wear a helmet with that thing?â You asked aloud, stopping away from the emergency entrance.
Robby looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. You flashed him a playful smile, tired albeit, hardly capable of synchronizing with your eyes. He still chuckled hoarsely. âYes. I am an emergency physician. I know better.â
Tossed aside, you could see the durable backpack. Clipped to the handle at the top was the helmet in question. You hummed, nodding lazily. âSo what? Your ride broke down on you?â
âYeah. Perfect way to end a 12-hour shift.â He huffed out. âFirst time I test drive this thing and it fails on me.â
He cursed under his breath at the same time something clattered on the ground. You inched forward, standing beside the wall of the hospital, you could see the ratchet on the ground glinting against the light.
Scrunching your nose, you sat yourself slowly on the small ledge wide enough to sit. âThis is your first time taking it out for a spin?â
Robby had grabbed the ratchet again, twisting it against something in the body. With a heavy sigh, he let go, letting his elbow rest against his one lifted knee. âLonger distance than from my house to my local grocery store. Figured it was about time to see how it ran before commuting over hundreds of miles with it.â
âYouâre still adamant on that spiritual journey of yours?â
When Robby turned to look at you, he hesitated on his response. He put on a charming smile, even when his body would heave with every breath out, as if the weight of the shift was dragging him. âItâs the only thing close to a vacation I have to look forward to.â
Scoffing unconvinced, you narrowed your eyes at him. âMost people go somewhere tropical or at least choose not to bet against the odds.
âWhat odds?â He questioned the back of his exposed to you as he continued tightening something. His hands reached up toward the ignitions, twisting the key, the motor came to life. The low grumbled emitted loudly from where you stood. Robby smiled appreciatively at the sound, before shutting the ignition.
âThe odds that the only thing guaranteed for us on this Earth wonât come get them first.â You crossed your legs, leaning forward slightly as your voice lowered. You knew the wind would carry the vibration of your voice, and Robbyâs body gave him away as he squared his shoulders. âYou should know the statistics of motorcycle accidents by now, Robby.â
âIâm a safe driver.â Robby assured, groaning as he pulled the ratchet off. He secured whatever area he tinkered with, standing up slowly. He reached down for his backpack, resting it over the seat of the motorcycle. âI wear my helmet. I donât speed.â
âThatâs not the point.â You mumbled. After putting the ratchet away, he slung the backpack on one shoulder, holding it up naturally. He turned his body in your direction, staring at you absentmindedly.
Sighing, you rolled your neck. It wasnât the type of night to be picking a fight, not that you had the energy; but youâd shelf the conversation for another day when your mind wasnât exhausted. Robby tapped one foot on the ground, watching your body slump back into the wall. âHow did the rest of your shift go?â
With eyes closed, head pressed against the brick of the building, you snickered. âFantastic. Iâm excited to come back and do it all over again.â
When you opened an eye to gauge his reaction, he shook his head trying not to appear amused by your sarcasm. From the way he slouched, you assumed he felt the same after today. Playing mediator while running a department was not for the weak. You had proven you werenât up for half the responsibilities he currently had.
âIâm sorry if I wasnât much help today.â You apologized, while wiping your hands on the side of your pants. âI know I brought on more problems for you.â
Robby stood silently, the small crease in his forehead giving him away. He softly negated the statement with his head, âYou couldnât have predicted how today would go. Iâm sorry this is how we welcome you back after being gone for a week.â
Your hands ran down your face, laughing out tired and still in denial of the entire day. Even if you had a magic eight ball that could warn you of the choices you made up to this point, you wouldâve made them all over again. âI wouldnât have expected it to go any other way.â
Cocking his head to the side, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack while the other he stuffed into his jacket pocket. âAre you starting to see the appeal of this place?â
When you pulled your hands away, you stared at Robby with furrowed brows. Over dinner, Robby had inquired of your plans. He knew you were planning to stay in a clinical setting, considering the fellowship you chose, but you made no affirmative decision of where you wanted to work.
You made it clear California was no longer an option, despite the fact you did your residency there. You could go back to Boston, where you went for undergrad or settle back in your hometown trying to remember old stopping grounds. Whenever you thought of the projection of a life like that, it didnât align with what you had envisioned before.
Pittsburgh happens to have the best emergency-psychiatry fellowship. Even though you have spent less than a year establishing yourself, it felt more like a sanctuary than all the places youâve been.
âI think Iâve dug myself a hole too deep to climb out of.â
Robby resonated with the statement. He examined you carefully. You were certain you looked exhausted. The bags under your eyes weighed heavier as you delayed your trip home.
Before Robby could follow up with some smooth distraction or deflect from your current disappointments, you sat up taller. âWhat did you tell Mrs. McGuire?â
He paused, inhaling a sharp breath. Glancing around warily, he considered his words. You chewed the inside of your mouth, bouncing the one foot on the ground rhythmically. The night was filled with dying anticipation, which sat much thicker than smog.
âYou must have told her something. She was cursing my existence in the morning.â You tried to lighten the mood, but the joke didnât land the punch.
There was a timidity in Robby as he stared down at his feet. He wasnât the assertive chief of a bustling ER department outside under the glowing lights of the ambulance. He was irresolute because you were sitting in front of him about something. You feared he thought this was some ploy to dig venomous fangs in him.
âShe asked me what I thought about your position during the trial.â He clarified, lifting his one free hand to rub the back of his head.
âAnd what did you tell her?â You questioned with a meek voice. The shaky breath released a clear indicator of the lump forming in your throat.
He let his head hang, the disheveled top of his head now clearly visible. âI explained that as someone who has worked with you for the few months I have, I donât need to question your judgment.â
When he peered at you through his eyelashes, he saw you unravel your legs. Both hands grabbed the edge of the wall you sat on. You lean forward, eyes darting across his face. âMr. Richmanâs state of mind is complicated, and if anyone was more than capable of making a clear evaluation of his needs and rationale, it would be you.â
Instead of giving in to the misty sensation of your eyes, you composed yourself, glancing at a rock on the ground. âHow did she take that?â
âThe wound is still fresh and she may still hate him for what he did, but I think she came to terms we are all flawed individuals.â Robbyâs words were melodic. It was like reading off a fortune cookie. A well-rested you mightâve made that joke out loud, instead you caved into yourself as Robby readjusted his backpack. âIt wonât necessarily make sense now, but maybe in the future, when the tensions have settled.â
It was ironic, if anything. After what Malek said, it made it clear that Robbyâs incessant indifference came from what he interpreted as defiance. The perfectly educated persona you put on while in the hospital to make patients trust your easier was all he saw.
He had found a weak spot, though. Even through the immaculate professionalism, he realized there were attributes within yourself you let weigh you down. It somehow didnât confine you to the âFRAGILEâ box. It made him more attentive and invested in watching you succeed.
âI saw Morganâs email this morning.â You mentioned casually, standing up tall. You inched one-step closer. âI read over the transcript.â
He simply nodded, making no indication he noticed the hints you were dropping. I know what you said about me. I know how you truly see me. âI read over the transcripts of your testimony. Most of the prosecution's questions, at least.â
With the truth out in the open, Robby straightened himself, curtly nodding. He awkwardly chuckled, finally understanding the subliminal message you were sending him with your wide, eye gaze. With his silence, he was inviting you to criticize him, even if he wasnât sure he wanted honesty.
The part you read was familiar to the Robby you faced while in the ED. Unrestrained when pushed. Brutal honest if necessary. Except, he wasn't fervent. He didnât tell you he pushed you while fully convinced of your training and competence to treat patients. That he never questioned whether a patient was safe under your care. He trusted you to enact respectably, and he let the court know that too.
âYou shouldnât have stuck out your neck for me.â You scolded gently, sighing in defeat.
âI didnât do it just for you.â Robby countered, as if attempting heroism while too overworked and beat by the day would convince you both of the noble effort. He meant it though. The way the corner of his eye crinkled while his cheeks flushed a color too crimson for the spring air.
âAnd the stuff with Mrs. McGuire? Malek?â The questions came out like digging with desperation. You had to find something more, because you couldnât accept the charity from a man whom you tortured for his respect.
It was as unethical as lying on the stand, swearing an oath to attest to the truth of the facts and events. You knew Robby wouldn't have lied about that. He was aware of the risk to himself and the hospital if he tried to spin what occurred, because he had thought about being in the room with you.
And if you had known what you did now, you might've initiated that conversation.
âDr. Malek was out of line and frankly, Iâve never liked him.â Robby laughed dryly, his shoulder shrugging. You rolled your eyes at him, head cocked to the side. He scratched the side of his beard, eyes fluttering lightly. âAnd I was simply having a conversation with Mrs. McGuire.â
Simple. Nothing about that was simple, you thought. When you finally reached a point to be professional partners, it was like the universe was reminding you that âpartnershipâ wasn't in your vocabulary. Trusting so blindly to let yourself guide by the reasoning of another man. You hadn't given Robby an inkling of that impression. He must have known that from the times he stared at you once something else blew up in your face.
He considered turning his back and looking the other way, but some line and hook sunk him into the cold waters of your pond. It was temperatures he was learning to survive in, and you were adjusting to sharing the vast, sparse space with something other than your thoughts.
You turned to the hospital walls, scaling the sides with your eyes. He classified you the most competent person to do the work. Even when you doubted it, and even after admitting psychiatry was never your first choice. Despite that, your judgment was the one he relied on without your realizing it. âYouâre making it harder to settle on where I want to go once Iâm done with this fellowship.â
You raised your eyebrows at him, noticing the grin. His eyes sparkled, playfully wounded by the words. âWould it be so bad if you stayed?â
âAfter today, it might be.â You tried not to mellow the energy. Maybe he took it as a joke, but you knew he was reading in between lines to understand your shrewdness.
âI disagree.â Robby responded automatically. It was instinct. After spending most of his shift listening to the strong superficial beliefs of your character and intention, he must have been too used to speaking nicely about you.
Clearing your throat, you started slowly making your way closer, wrapping up the evening to just rot in the same bed you had been forsaken to a week prior. Reaching towards the side pocket of your bag, you pulled out your keys. âWe shall see what the hospital review brings. Maybe then Iâll change my mind.â
âIt won't be as bad as the trial, thatâs for sure.â Robby assured you. With the red lights still flashing, his freckled skin stood out more with each crease and wrinkle accompanying every time he stretched his lips into a smile.
âLike I said, we shall see.â
You flashed him a tight smile, the fabric of your cardigan brushing against the thicker, canvas material of his dusty, brown jacket. Before you could disappear into the darkness of the side of the hospital, you spun back around.
Robby was already looking at you.
With your hands clasping onto your keys, you tried focusing on the smell of the metal and the cold material stabbing into your skin. âIf it doesn't pan out, I still appreciate all of it. Just thought you should know.â
You didnât clarify what âall of itâ was. In eight months, Robby made an everlasting mark. Whoever was supposed to follow him wouldn't get to taste the bitter sweetness of your inner soul. Robby fought for that satisfaction, and you didn't think anyone except him could attempt to do so again.
He stifled a boyish grin on his face. âI hope it isn't the last of it.â
àšà§ pairing .á.á michael robinavitch x psych fellow!reader
àšà§ summary .á.á you and michael had an agreement: you both would treat patients cordially, and nothing more. that didn't stop the lingering glares and quip remarks from either of you. you both assumed you had dr. jefferson fooled. you both were mistaken when he separately invited you both to dinner with the other sitting in his place.
àšà§ tags/warnings .á.á female reader, no physical description, no use of y/n, mental illness, references to self-worth struggles, emotional repression, mentions of assault, mentions of chronic illness and disability, professional misconduct & workplace conflict, trauma (physical & psychological), healthcare burnout, enemies-to-lovers, slow burn, forced proximity, workplace rivals, accidental date unresolved sexual/romantic tension, miscommunication, robby being and ass
àšà§ authors note .á.á i'm so glad to finally be posting this!! this is the second part to 'the slippage in the system' !! i was excited to work on an enemies-to-lovers but with a lot of tension...hopefully this lives to yall standards.
i strongly recommend reading the first part if you haven't yet <3 also still trying to figure out a theme, so bare with me lol
àšà§ word count .á.á 15.7 k
prev: the slippage in the system >> next: two against three
The elevator dinged, a totem toll of dread Robby had personified. He wasnât typically caught in the upper levels of the hospital, not unless he had some sort of meeting with Gloria or another admin. With his position, all he knew was the chaos of the basement floor. He resigned himself to that environment since.
Outside the Pitt, Robby was out-of-place internally. It was somehow colder and bleaker as he was walking down the hallway to the Behavioral Health unit. The thumping of his feet echoed louder on the ground, even as staff passed him.
The chaos didnât end as patients transitioned further up the hospital.
If anything, worse came up to the behavioral unit at times. He had to admit he was glad he didnât settle on psychiatry after the nightmare of his first ER rotation during clinicals. He does applaud their efforts, considering the type of work Jefferson has done in the time heâs known him. However, on some occasions, he wondered if they werenât as unhinged as their patients.
He knew you had him questioning that judgment.
Since the incident with the detainee and at the bar before Christmas, you both had made well on each other's vow. He didnât act like you two were anything but coworkers. You didnât psychoanalyze him. So far, you two have managed to make it work.
You swoop into the Pitt like a hawk staking prey and when you finished speaking with a patient, youâd flap away with wide wings. He rarely spoke to you now because of it. You handled the cases with whatever doctor was assigned and if it warranted his attention, youâd find him. All talk was about patients, and anything else was just for the act.
Occasionally, youâd be roped into conversations that Robby happened to be a part of. Since everyone witnessed you sucker punched by a man completely out of his mind, everyone had greater considerations for you. They didnât exactly pity you or act overtly nice to alert your sirens, but they made more efforts than before. A simple question of your day or cracking more jokes in your presence.
Things were definitely different from what Robby noticed.
Although you only still felt comfortable around Shen, you were more relaxed than you had been before. He thought the holiday spirit made you soft. After more consideration and observation of your nature, he was sure you were just an anomaly.
You smiled wider, sat around to listen to Javadiâs nervous rambling or Santosâ defenses over certain patients. There was a new calm overcoming you after the New Year began, and Robby thought he was paranoid.
When the double doors to the behavioral unit clicked open from his badge, he made his way around the nursing station like he was familiar with the area. It wasnât the Pitt, but it was set up like most of the units in the hospital. Wide counters, curved edges, and bright lights.
He glanced through the rooms of patients, similar to that of the behavioral room in the Pitt. Wide glass windows and sparse space. The patients inside were mostly sedated, sitting or sleeping on the gurneys, but he couldnât imagine what they were going through psychologically. It was strange how humans could hide their true intentions and instincts.
Robby opened the wooden door, revealing an open working station for the staff. Some of the night residents were sitting, dictating notes. He saw the tired expressions, practically drooling over the keyboards. Chuckling to himself, he welcomed himself to the direction of Dr. Jeffersonâs office.
He halted his steps when he heard the conversation happening inside.
âI know youâre not happy about this, but there was bound to be a trial.â Calebâs voice rang, loud enough for everyone else to hear from the crack of the door.
A displeased scoff followed, âDoesnât mean I have to make it easy for their punitive hunger.â
With Robbyâs hands stuffed in his pockets, he listened intently. From around the corner, the voices came louder. He heard one of the residents tsked, motioning disapproval of the conversation. âI donât get why he pushes it so much. Maybe putting her in contempt would teach her something.â
Robby furrowed his brows at the comment. This was the current ongoing issue. No one was pleased when the hospital legal team had sent out professional correspondents summoned for the trial of Mr. Richman v the People. It was bound to come, but no one puts âtestifying at a trialâ on his or her New Yearâs resolution.
However, it was the exact reason Robby had come to work earlier than his staff. The hospital's legal team needed you two to be on the same page of the assaultâto agree it had occurred.
âDo you speak that way with Dr. Jefferson present?â Robbyâs voice boomed a bit from the suddenness. The resident who spoke, some young, blonde muscular manâwho could pass as an ortho jockâturned with raised brows. Robby stared down at him, a sarcastic smile on his face, âIf I were your attending, I would have HR remind you of appropriate conversation in the workplace about colleagues.â
âItâs a good thing you arenât then.â
When Robby turned his head, he saw you standing with an annoyed look on his face. Except, for once it wasnât meant for him, instead for the blonde resident now leaning back in his chair with a smug look. You shook your head, âHeâd never survive a day working for you.â
âIâm made with thick enough skin for the ER.â The resident pointed out, a smirk on his face. Robby stood back with his arms folded, staring skeptically between the two of you. From what he could see on his badge, Dr. Malek was sickly photogenic. Full, bright set of teeth visible on the badge.
âSo, youâre helping mentally ill people out of the kindness of your heart? Cute.â You simply stated a tight lip smile on your face. Dr. Malek scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest.
âDonât worry, Dr. Robby,â Dr. Malek stood from his chair, grabbing his energy drink in one hand. Robby shook his bowed head, scratching the back of his neck. âI know better than to disrespect women. I was raised right.â
Dr. Malek spared you a look, which you ignored, shooing him. Robby finally looked at your attire. You were wearing a long black dress, pleated at the skirt. It covered most of your legs, but left enough space to show off the shine on your heels. Despite the brown blazer covering your arms, the V-neck of your dress showed modest skin, enough so to bring some attention to the dainty necklace you wore around your neck.
âMichael,â Dr. Jefferson announced with amusement, calling for his attention with the sharp pronunciation of his name. He must have caught Robby examining your different business wear by the raised eyebrows and quirk of his lips. âHow may we help you so early in the morning?â
Robby instinctively stared down at his watch; it was barely 6:30 am. He stretched his neck, offering a close-mouthed smile. âI am here to talk about the prosecutionâs case against Mr. Richman.â
âThereâs nothing to talk about.â You quickly remarked, crossing your arms, which did nothing to stop the fact he couldnât stop acknowledging the fact you were dressed differently than usual. âActually, I think the prosecution might get the wrong idea if they caught us talking about the case.â
Robby cocked his head to the side, keeping his expressions minimal. Civil. âWell, the hospitalâs legal team seems to think otherwise.â
You frowned, shoulders shrugging. âI already spoke with them.âÂ
Robby silently reminded himself to not lose his patience. With an audience of your peers in the dictation room, theyâd be able to sense the tension if he spoke too curtly or sharp. Especially so with Dr. Jefferson.
You must have kept your word that night at the bar because Caleb no longer herded him in your direction. When you werenât around, it was easier for Robby to fake pleasantries. Heâd ask how you were holding up after the assault, listen to whatever Caleb had to respond, and the two could continue with business.
It was a bit trickier when you were around while in Calebâs presence. The two of you knew he watched with a keen eye, not that he had any reason to suspect anything, but it wouldnât be misplaced skeptics. You give him enough of your attention to appear interested, but when Robby looked back in your eyes displaying a taut smile, there was nothing on the surface.
Robby was uneasy by how detached you were to him. Enough so when you spoke, it felt more like monologues than conversations. He agreed to those terms, but it only provoked him more.
âThey felt you didnât actually listen to what they said.â Robby folded his arms, leaning forward from the hip. He hadnât even started his shift and the balls of his feet were already sore. âThey just want to make sure we are both on the same page over his medical care here.â
âThat he isnât suffering through severe psychosis, including audible and visual hallucinations, which removed his ability to rationalize his actions?â You rhetorically asked, lifting a finger for each comorbidity Mr. Richman had. He saw the small tick in your jaw, inching to laugh over an argument you felt was pathetic and ridiculous.
Robby sighed, pulling his shoulders back. âI agree that Mr. Richman was not okay to the extent beyond his external injuries.â
He paced his words carefully. Robby wasnât known to be a mediator. Years training under Adamson and becoming an ER attending taught him what he knew, but occasionally it blew up in his face. Adamson always warned him he was so short-tempered, bordering passionate with certain causes.
âBeing human isnât bad, itâs how your reaction affects everyone else that needs to worry youâ Adamson once told him after Robby let his frustration fluster a second year resident during a code.Â
âBut Morgan is afraid theyâll paint you out as a cynic on the stand.â Robby explained, staring at you pointedly.
Regardless of how he worded it, he would bet it would still earn him an eye roll and a scoff with disturbed annoyance. Robby's eyes landed on Caleb, who was gripping onto the wheels of his chair. He chuckled, tutting his chin upward, âWhy donât we let you speak privately? I have rounds to do with the residents anyways.â
You glanced at Caleb who gave you a firm assurance. The other two residents sitting off in the corner pretending not to listen stood up promptly. One of them, gingered curls on his head, aimed straight for the door, opening it to let Caleb through. The smaller, blonde residents with doll-like features offered a small departure wave before stuffing her hands into her jacket pocket. Both of them trailed closely behind their attending, ear red and hot.
When the door closed, you stalked off, heels clicking against the freshly polished floors. Robby stood silently in the room, unsure how to proceed. He couldn't exactly ask you if you were nervous about confronting Mr. Richman, because that would be too personal.
He heard the clinking of the coffeepot, watching your arms move. The splash of the liquid hitting a paper cup confirmed his suspicion. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when you glanced over your shoulder. âTheyâre afraid Iâll be too politically expository for the hospital liking?â
Robby raised his eyebrows in amusement. In so few words, that suspicion was correct. He wouldnât tell you exactly how they interpreted your defensive emails, even quoting one of the jabs you sent in response. He had to refrain from laughing in Morganâs displeased face.
âFrom my understanding, their concern is protecting your reputation and ability to continue your fellowship.â Robby responded stoically, shoulders squared and lips pursed.Â
Your furrowed brows caught him off guard. The cup you were bringing up to your lips stopped midair. âDid the prosecution insinuate theyâd be gunning for my license?â
Robby didnât need to be a psychiatrist to note the small gulp or strain in your voice. He adjusted his stance, staring pensively. Sure, he had made it obvious that you were a standoffish person. Sarcastically witty and defensive in nature, but heâd never testify you were a bad physicianâenough so to prevent you from practicing.Â
âItâs a criminal trial that resulted in irreversible facial tissue, nerve, and vision damage on a 26 year old woman.â Robby recalled. He obsessively read over the case reports of the woman who transferred to Presby. He was silently grateful worse hadnât occurred while you were evaluating Mr. Richman. âThe assumption is they will exhaust every option to make their case.â
While drinking your coffee, you visibly relaxed. That didn't stop you from raising your eyebrow as a challenge. âEven if that means incarcerating a man who is the textbook definition of an insanity case?â
He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he did agree persecuting him for the sake of making a career felt ethically wrong. The media publicized Pittsburghâs district attorney as a gunner, looking for any chance to make a name for himself. Robby raised his hands, wiping himself clean of the arguments. âLook, Iâm not here to argue over the law. They sent me as their messenger. Iâve accomplished all they asked me to do.â
You nodded slowly, the corner of your lip twitching. Respect or maybe amusement for his reluctance to argue with you. Not because heâd lose, but because that required caring of your opinion. Staring down at your cup, you swirled the liquid around. âWhen do you testify?â
âNext week.â
Robby watched as you grabbed a bag from a nearby office chair. Tossing it over your shoulder, you approached his direction. You spared him an up and down look. When brushing past his shoulder, a small snicker came from your throat. He couldn't help but look back as you headed straight for the door, not bothering to look back.Â
âGood luck.â
Anyone reasonable would take any excuse not to come in for one more grueling shift at the Pitt. God knows none of them get enough consistent days off. But, when you spend it at the courthouse, stuck in a stuffy suit and tie, trying not to lose patience over the redundant questions of lawyers and judgesâRobby would pick the Pitt every time.
He had testified in plenty of medical lawsuits, responding to his own depositions, grilled over procedures and processes in the hospital. Robby tasted the hunger of vultures wearing four-figure suits as they hungrily clawed for gaps in the tapestry to shred. It was no different in the courtroom. The prosecution was stubbornly pushing for incarceration, and the pro-bono defense attorney was not letting them manipulate him into relenting.
Robby sat on the witness stand like a child witnessing a messy divorce. The legal jargon they threw out every time he testified became a game on who objected the most during his examinations. He wondered if the stenographer ever had the urge to stand tall and tell them to slow down or shut up for a change.
He wouldnât have minded the whole shakedown if they stuck with questions based on his medical expertise or professional relationship with the defendant. The last thing he expected was for it to become an interrogation of your character.
Your testimony was a mystery to Robby. He didnât know whether you headed the warning of the hospitalâs legal department after all, but based on the questions he was asked from the prosecution, something made them doubt your credibility.
How would you describe her work ethic? Has she ever made questionable judgments on patient care? Do you trust her course of action while treating Mr. Richman?
If the case were tried with a jury panel, Robby was sure the line of questioning would have them questioning who was really on the stand. He knew his reluctance was clear to the prosecution from his stoic expression. They both wished they were not in this position together in very few words.
He was acutely aware the stenographer documented every single word for evidence. Not that heâd have anything improper to say in regards to the case, but he did think a lot harder before answering some of the questions.
Robby breathed in the antiseptic air of the Pitt, allowing himself to assimilate in his natural habitat. Jack asked him questions on how the trial was going, but everyone else acted according to their role. The heaviness of his formal responsibility slowly drifted as he could put the thought of expert testimonies away. He walked around the ER with newfound determination to get back to work.
He belonged in the disruptive nature of the ED, not playing political chess at the courthouse.
Except, he didnât truly escape the split banter. In his world, he was finding ways to live in peace with you. He hadnât spoken to you since your appearance at court. All Robby knew was you had survived the questioning (even summoned the next day). He overheard Caleb tell Mohan that you were working nights for the week, but when shift change came along, he barely saw you. He didnât actively search for you per se, but he was slightly intrigued on how you fared with the lawyers.
Right as he walked by Central 7, he heard Dana call him over for an incoming patient. The snapping of gloves and the announcement of chief complaint and vitals followed as EMS brought in a middle-age Asian woman. A biking accident later, and she was suffering different fractures or breaks along both arms, a grade 1 concussion, and obvious fracture of the thighbone.
When brought into the trauma room, Whitaker and Mohan worked on examinations, checking her neurological abilities, mobility in the obvious fractures and breaks, as well as pain tolerance. Robby stood back, staring at her vital signs, watching nurses administer medication for the pain. Radiology moved quickly enough to capture images and despite Ms. Chen being in obvious discomfort with her arms, distraught from her unfortunate accident, she was still alive.
Calls were made, and in no time, the atmosphere in the department was chilled with anticipation that came with the most intimidating predators. Therefore, when the doors flew open, and Dr. Brendon Park glided his way inside the trauma room with a reputation that could not be replaced, everyone remained silent. While he never paid any mind to the students or residents, he did flick his chin upward to Robby, who earned his respect as a colleague just up to that measure.
âPresent.â Park commanded as he stalked the patient, staring intensely at the obvious comorbidities.
Robby allowed Whitaker to take center stage. If he wanted a position in the next yearâs residency program, he needed to command equal control. He tried to hide the tremor and wide-eye stare he gave the orthopedic surgeon, which did nothing to appease his stoic expression.
âWhere are the images?â Was the follow up question, cutting off Whitakerâs anxious ramblings. Robby motioned to the X-ray captured. Dr. Park leaned over the machine, examining the femur followed by the displacements of the wrist and fracture involving the elbow.
âI shouldâve known better.â Ms. Chen breathed out, her head thrown back as she held in the welling of tears. âIâm a physical therapist. I work with athletes. Iâm so stupid.â
Mohan offered a sympathetic smile, âI understand your frustration, Ms. Chen.â
âDr. Park here is our best orthopedic surgeon.â Robby followed up, posting himself beside Mohan. He stared down at Ms. Chen, too embarrassed to make any contact. âYouâre in good hands with him.â
âDonât get all sappy around me, Dr. Robinavitch.â Park spoke from the opposite side of the bed. He continued staring at her arms, gloved hands masking over her leg to map out a better understanding for a surgical approach. He leaned down; making what he could from the debris Whitaker was working on flushing out.
âMoving ahead with reduction and fixation.â Park announced, standing up tall with his back straight and shoulders squared. âIâll book the OR.â
Park didnât wait for anything, immediately heading for the same door he walked out of. Robby took one last look around the trauma room, noticing the relief that came from Dr. âSharksâ departure. He nodded to Mohan who silently understood her assignment.
He walked out the trauma room, hands in his pockets as he glanced around the other end of the Pitt. As he turned his head to the right, he almost missed the peculiar sight of plum scrubs still lingering. Robby stopped in his steps, eyebrows furrowed as he stood and watched. When Park took a step to the side, burly arms crossed over his chest, he finally saw whom he was conversing.
You stood across from him, head cocked to the side as you looked as stoic as him. Could you be old friends? If you were previously involved in the surgical world, maybe your paths crossed, the way Shenâs had before. Robby hung beside a wall, attempting to mask his presence that stood out without much effort.
While watching your body language, the most he could make out was you were peeved. Park kept talking (which was the most he had seen him talk to anyone), but you kept staring around as if you would rather be anywhere else. The heavy deflate of your chest as well as the fiddling of your necklace told him as much.
Robby knew he was in a visible spot considering the area wasnât as congested as it could get. And as if the world was screwing with him, you happen to glance to the elevator, visibly frenzied, spotting a nosy Robby already staring at you.
Silently cursing under his breath, he pretended the moment was a coincidence, frantically looking for some other place to look. If the universe decided to swallow him completely, heâd be beyond grateful; but instead, he was welcomed with the oncoming panic of you striding in his direction. His instinct just so happens to fail him this time, giving him no reasonable escape off the top of his head. He glanced through his eyelashes, Park tailed behind you, his voice quieter as you gained closer.
You paused in front of Robby, offering a polite smile. Robby provided it back (albeit it was stiff and confused), before looking back at Park brushing behind you. He nodded once at Robby before his eyes instinctively landed on you. âOR should be ready within the next hour.â
âThanks, Shark.â Robby responded, following his figure to the elevator, held open by one of the RTs. Park pressed a button and the door slid closed.
You released a breath you were holding, hands crossing tightly around your chest. There was uneasiness that settled between you and Robby, not the typical pressure of your subtle distaste with each otherâs presence. Robby stared down at you, avoiding his obvious looks, and he couldnât ignore the discomfort in your stance.
âDid Park mention anything about the patient?â Robby asked his voice low as he tried to decipher what was going on with you.
âWhat patient?â You questioned, face scrunched, finally staring him in the eyes.
Robby motioned in the direction of the trauma room. Through the glass of the windows, you barely made out the patient who was sitting up on an incline. You shook your head, âI know nothing about her.â
Robby made an ah sound, attempting to hide his increase in confusion. If it wasnât regarding a patient, what could you and him have talked about? Robby crossed his arms, craning his head lower, âI assumed you two were talking about Ms. Chen. She suffered multiple fractures, breaks on her tibia, and arms. As a physical therapist, she seems to be taking it pretty hard.â
âSheâs in distress. Iâm sure she is aware she will require some PT or OT coming out of here. Nothing that wonât resolve with time.â You simply said, shrugging your shoulders as if the situation were menial. He knew it was anything but from the way Mohan and Whitaker were both gazing at Ms. Chen with sympathy and compassion.
Robby stared at you, puzzled by the sudden distance in your voice. You continued looking at the scene inside the trauma room, but from your side profile, your vision was unfocused and distracted. He must have been staring more intensely than before because you noticed and shook yourself from the daze.
With a careful step back, you stiffly excused yourself at him. The distance reminded him of your opposition and he suddenly felt the tug to be pulled elsewhere. âIf there isnât anything you need from me, Iâll be heading upstairs. Page if you need me.â
Rubbing his hands together, he silently agreed, letting you leave with grace. Your back turned to him, and instead of walking with profound confidence and comfort in the Pitt, you walked with your head down. His eyes twitch watching your hands clam together, grasping onto each other. He was confused from the entire interaction.
Between watching Park speak purposefully with you to you running off to him for an escape was all strikingly odd. You and Park. Was there something beyond professional? Certainly, Park wouldn't advertise a relationship with another hospital employee so shamelessly. He never entertained the gossip train, but he knew better than to be caught speaking with anyone comfortably beyond one-word sentences and sharp, bitter analyzes.
Maybe Robby's dissection was based on his paranoia; obsessing over the strained relationship every time you crossed the forefront of his mind. Even if he opposed every curious instinct to make sense of all your nuances, he couldnât let it go. With time, maybe the itch would go away.
Yet, that all failed almost three hours later.Â
Trauma after trauma wheeled in through the ambulance bay, and Robby wouldnât have thought of you through any of it, until one particularly agitated man came in. He didnât know what to expect with the patient, but he knew it was out of his league when he tried biting Princess.
Robby approached Dana at the nursing station who was speaking in hushed whispers with Perlah. Dana sensed the looming presence of Robby, especially when Perlah looked behind her, promptly stopping. Spinning around, she flashed him a tense smile. âHow are you holding up, cap?â
Lightly groaning, he shook his head. His hands instinctively rubbed the back of his head and neck, hoping to alleviate the mass of stress settling in his muscles and pushing against nerves. âWe have a problem down in South 16.â
âSo, Iâve heard.â Dana mused, turning her back perfectly in front of Perlah to allow her to slip away. Nodding her head slowly, she took in Robbyâs disheveled look. âWhatâs your plan? I donât want any of my nurses losing a finger because of that man.â
âThey wonât.â Robby chuckled dryly, reeling in his growing agitation of the issue.Â
âWhy havenât you moved him to the behavioral rooms?â Dana motioned to the currently empty rooms.Â
Robbyâs hands fell to his hips, turning away from the sight of the rooms. âBecause I donât want to call unnecessary attention.â
Dana gawked at him, watching Robby walk away to the other side of the nursing station. She followed without missing a beat. âHate to break it to you, but he already did it himself.â
Whilst craning her head to look at his face, she could see the jarring tenseness in his posture. Rigid and disciplined, but overwhelmed. Robby's chest was heaving as if something weighed on him as he attempted to inhale a sharp breath. âWe need someone from psych to evaluate. Iâm afraid he might be suffering from paranoia.â
âPerfect.â Dana announced, hands clapping together. She immediately searched around her view, speaking your name aloud. âShe was around here. Iâm sure sheâd be happy to assist.â
âIâll call Dr. Jefferson down.â Robby intervened before Dana could finish her thought. She stared at him with raised eyebrows, offended and confused. He barely spared her a look as he began dialing a number on the phone. âMake sure nurses are accompanied when in the room.â
Dana took the instruction silently, standing still as she listened to Robby speak through the line. She could make out the muffling sounds of someone responding on the other end. Pretending to depart, she slowly strolled behind him, rubbing her earring.Â
âSheâs busy with another consult, and Iâd really like to expedite Mr. Murphy's care to prevent an incident.â Robby tentatively spoke through the phone, watching the staff pass by in front of him.
Dana didnât understand some of the decisions Robby made, and even if she didnât question them vocally, he was aware of her hesitations. She didnât try to fish out an explanation when she watched him wait for Dr. Jefferson, who met him at the nursing station no more than ten minutes later.
âMichael, you have a patient for me?â Jefferson mused, wheeling in tandem with Robby, who held a tablet in his hand.Â
âThirty year old male who suffered a mild-concussion after running into oncoming traffic. Presents moderate neuro functions, but has persistent agitation and paranoia.â Robby listened, his glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed the notes put in by McKay.
Jefferson hummed, following smoothly beside Robby. Before approaching the room, Jefferson pulled to the side, hand stretched out. Robby passed the device permitting Jefferson to read the information for his own accord. âHow did testifying go the other day?â
Robby hummed, arms resting on his hips. He awkwardly shook his head, actively looking elsewhere. âAs per usual. Too many suave jabs made between Harvard law jocks with ego-complexes.âÂ
Jefferson peered at Robby through his eyelashes, the corner of his lips curling upward. He lets out a scoff, âNot something youâre entirely unfamiliar with, it seems.â
âOh, come on, Caleb.â Robby snorted, arms crossing over his chest. The corner of his eyes crinkled as he softly grinned. âWe both know this is some lousy attempt for the district attorney to build a campaign off of cleaning the streets overseeing the root of the issue.â
âYouâre starting to sound like someone I know.â
Robby tensed his smile, upholding the facade he had built brick-by-brick. There was a method to the madness you compromised on. It wasnât a hostile-free environment, but the two of you remained civil and respectful. He knew from the look of your eye when he was pushing it, and you never spoke more about what you saw in him.
He was acutely aware you were observing him methodically, as if he was a patient in the wild, but you kept it to lingering stares. The way you silently analyzed his every movement made goosebumps rise on his skin. Even if you both hardly spoke during a shift, he could sense when you were across the floor, watching him from a distance, especially when he was especially exhausted and irritated.
You saw past the mask of his low moments. Many would miss the small laps of his wrath and self-worthlessness blend in his professional life, but you somehow caught it all.
Robby shrugged, his head moving up and down along with Jefferson despite his mind wandering elsewhere. âLet me know what you make out of Mr. Murphy.â
When he walked away, he couldnât ignore the deafening chill of doom he sensed. He was no fortuneteller, but he knew his actions had consequences. Especially those he made on behalf of others.Â
His job as an attending was to let his resident and med students learn through their own methods. Examine each case and turn over diagnosis until they landed on the correct piece. That didnât go without his discretion at times, but they needed to learn what he already knew as well. Robby was used to inserting himself, guiding the process with his two bare hands to get the job done.
That didnât work all the time; especially when he was navigating the decisions of someone who was a colleague, not a student.Â
Therefore, when Robby stood across from the nursing station watching Caleb speaking with Mr. Murphy nearly an hour later, spotting you staring confused from the sight, he panicked. It was a decision of his own making, but he thought that maybe the universe would grant him this one favor.
You were passing by the room, a device in your hand. You happen to look up to see Caleb through the glass of the door, speaking with the patient. The surprise caught you, stopping you in your tracks with a slight alarm.
As the current emergency-psychiatrist on-call, you were always notified when patients needed evaluations, regardless if you were predisposed. You certainly wouldâve heard if Caleb was assisting to cover the workload. You worked hard and tirelessly to make sure that wasnât the case. There was enough happening upstairs as it was, and you didnât want to pull Caleb down because you couldnât handle your one job.
You dragged your feet away, still dumbstruck. When you lifted your gaze, Robby was standing across the room, inadvertently watching you instead of Jefferson. With a calm demeanor, you bee-lined for him at the workstation. He leaned forward, bracing himself for the impact of the storm. You had a greater composure to your mask, and he almost resented you for it.
When you stopped beside him, you pretended to be reading off the chart, scrolling slowly. âWhat is Dr. Jefferson doing down here?â
Robby hummed, putting on a strained smile for McKay who was passing by. She glanced at you before disappearing elsewhere. âWe needed a psych consult for an agitated patient.â
You raised your eyebrows, continuing to scroll through the device, clicking drop down tabs. âStrange. I didnât see you or anyone put in a request.â
âI heard you were busy.â Robby smoothly explained. When he looked down at the movement of your hands, he noticed you stopping briefly in-between actions, stretching your fingers uncomfortable. âI called down Caleb to assist.â
You stared at him from the corner of your eye, skeptical of his explanation. Your fingers continued scrolling through the device, âMr. Murphy came in with a concussion. Excelled neuro exam, but persistent agitation and hesitation with treatment continued.â
When Robby leaned over to read what you were looking at, you had already skimmed through all the recent notes and updates on the patient. Caleb had yet to submit his notes, but he knew you were aware of that. You finally looked up at him, adjusting the oval glasses on your face. âI fail to see what I couldnât have assisted on.â
Robby scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. Somehow, his honorable efforts of avoiding a conflict landed him in a landmine of troubles. You stared straight at him, expecting an answer no doubt.
He fixed his posture, âIt wasnât a question of your capabilities. I was trying to prevent delay of treatment, which in turn could allow opportunity for him to lash out on my staff.â
You furrowed your brows at him, eyes shifting to look at both of his dark irises. Your head barely shook as you tried to deny what your ears were hearing. âSeriously? This is about Mr. Richman?â
The sharpness of your tone sounded like hissing as you lowered your voice. You leaned forward, head cocking to one side as your eyes narrowed into slits. âIs this all some ploy between you and Morgan to keep me out of âtroubleâ?â
âNo, this is about actively fighting against a nationwide issue that will continue costing us staff if we let it continue to happen.â Robby punctuated his words with a matching condescending smile on his face. His hands were now curled around his hips, gripping onto the skin and muscle as a release of the current storm brewing in his head.
You scoffed, sounding amused from the irony only you found humor in. âSo, you think I canât handle an agitated patient?â
Robby pressed his lips, grumbling within himself. It was like arguing with a teenager over why they couldnât do certain things all their friends were doing. Stubborn and relentlessâit was going to cost him more than his sanity.
âI canât have another incident in my ER that will result in more strain and insecurity in my staff and their job.â Robby hurriedly spilled, leaning forward on his feet, imposing his height over you. With your menial glare, the scene looked almost normal for anyone passing by. âI was trying to protect you along with everyone else who is my responsibility.â
âI donât need you looking out for me, Dr. Robinavitch.â You spat back, positioning your body to face him entirely. If you took a couple of steps closer, your chests would be touching. âOr making calls about what patients I am capable of treating alone. Maybe I havenât made myself abundantly clear.â
Robbyâs chuckle was merciless and detached from any professional respect he held for you. His current shades that hide the detest he had for your attitude were being ripped off as his pupils dilated right in front of you. âOh, I wouldnât want you wasting your breath. I know you donât like wasting your time.â
âAmong other things.â
You spun around, looking down at Caleb with wide eyes. Taking a careful step back, you stood beside Robby who was sucking in breath. It was a comedic sight to see the two of you brushing shoulders and holding in the fright of being caught. Robby had less to fear from you, but even Calebâs amused glances brought him unease.Â
Caleb swiped off his glasses, letting them rest against his chest held up by the strap. His hands folded gracefully on his lap along with the device. His careful examination of the two of you took place quietly, the bustling of the Pitt filling in the silence. âAm I interrupting something?â
Robby fleetingly attempted to quip up, refiguring his domineering command, one you carelessly stripped every time you pushed his buttons. Yet, you beat him to the punch. Repositioning the tablet, you smiled down at Caleb. âRobby was just informing me of Mr. Murphy. If youâre done with the evaluations I can proceed with follow up.â
Caleb raised a hand, waving it lazily. âAll good. I am glad Robby called me. I found out some interesting information from him that Iâd like to personally follow up on.â
âWell, I know youâre busyââÂ
Caleb announced your name, a soft smile on his face that interrupted and politely stopped your rambling. Robby stuffed his hands in his pocket, tucking his chin in as a foolish attempt to hide from you. He didnât need to be ashamed of his decision if Caleb agreed on its benefit, but your subtle disappointment didnât go unnoticed.Â
âMr. Murphy exhibits signs of OCD that Iâve experienced with other patients.â He explained, returning to the posture of your attending. He was your friend a lot of the time, but he didnât demean his responsibilities as your mentor for the sake of getting to know you better. âI know some resources that could be of use to him. Plus, we both have fondness for â80s rock.â
Disheartened, your shoulders sagged along with the escape of air. Robby glanced at you from the corner of his eye, and the tension in your jaw and temple were prominent. He had never seen you shrink up so much in front of Caleb. You, who had always stood firm and proud in your position in his department, were turning meek like one of his junior med students.
You stiffly agreed, readjusting your grip on the device. Robby would have missed it if he hadnât turned to look at Caleb at that moment, but something clicked in his eyes. Robby saw the shiftiness in his gaze and the turning of gears in his mind. Caleb offered Robby a polite smile. âWe have to head up for a meeting, but I will catch up with you later on Mr. Murphy.â
Robby stepped back, allowing a space between you and him. It allowed Caleb to proceed straight without much maneuvering. You stood still, staring at the ground. When Caleb wheeled past the both of you, Robby caught the small glimpse you took of him from your eyelashes.
You had hardened your expression, barely letting any once of your reaction to being dismissed through. Robby caught the flicker from before, but whatever he saw before, you had tucked away under lock and key. Watching your back as you began putting distance, he saw Caleb look up at your direction, muttering something with a concerned tone.
Cursing under his breath, Robby rubbed a hand down his face. Right when he thought he could ride things through without conflict, debates, or heated remarks, youâd topple over his plans of surviving whatever was left of your fellowship.
A lot was still a mystery on whether youâd seek a permanent position at PTMC in emergency psychiatry. Caleb could use the help, and he didn't seem to hate the idea whatsoever. But, Robby still counted the days. Truth was, he was already planning an escape, coinciding with the time in which you may or may not return as a permanent physician.Â
At least, if things become official, he may buy himself a little time of bliss before the incoming storm of your indefinite practice with him. Robby could pull his hair out at the idea. Just make it to the sabbatical, he reminded himselfâitâs only a few months away anyways.
A couple of days had passed and your slight energy had gone amiss. Maybe Robby had jumped the gun, completely hay wiring your momentum and stability in the department. He had scrutinized your decisions and pushed for explanations, but he had never jumped over your authority.
He thought he made his bed over your constant presence in his department. One could even argue you worked under his discretion more than Calebâs from how often you consulted with him. Yet, that didnât erase the impression you made on him.
He was officially hitting the noon mark and all he had was half a protein bar in his stomach. Sneaking off to the break room to eat the leftover sandwich he had in the refrigerator for the past couple of days sounded appealing at the moment. Right as he was about to, Dana had stopped him, as he was bristling past the nursing station.
âRobby, have you seen anyone from psychiatry?â Dana questioned, pulling off her glasses as Mel stood beside her.Â
Robby rubbed his hands together, thinking with great effort. He did recall Dr. Jefferson planned to take the day off and he had seen you and psych residents wandering from patient to patient. He hummed, mumbling your name. âShe was supposed to do an evaluation for a patient in North 5. Concussion and road-rash patient from an e-scooter accident.â
Dana let her hands fall to her sides. âDr. King has a patient waiting for an eval.â
â30-year-old mom suffering from second-degree burn wounds.â Mel recited, awkwardly fiddling with her hands.Â
Robby nodded, inhaling sharply with a tired smile, he reached over and grabbed a device from the dividers. âI will go find her.â
âThank you, Cap.â Dana exclaimed, patting Mel on the shoulder as she pushed her to continue working.
Robby shook his head to himself, trying to muster professionalism for the interaction to be simple and passive. All he needed to do was check in, alert you of a patient, and move on. Maybe itâd be easier said than done, but some things were always simpler in concept. He almost considered the plan perfect until he heard something approaching the pulled curtain of North 5.Â
âHave you ever felt like you have no control? Over your body or your mind?â A female voice asked, different from yours. She seemed exhausted, her voice breathy and sad.
He took a careful step back, preparing to turn away, he in no way was supposed to listen in on the conversation. He was a physician, but the atmosphere felt too intimate for him to intrude. He stared down at the girlâs chart, finding a reason to prompt the consultation.
The accident was caused from a lapse of focus. The 20-year-old patient had been distracted from nearby music playing while riding the scooter. A song triggering a state of catatonic shockâwhich reminded her of the events at PittFest.
As if his feet controlled his mind, he found himself stopping before taking a complete step away. Just the sight of the words had his body halting in place. He heard the faint sound of humming. âAs someone who suffers from a chronic disease, I know exactly what that feels like.â
Chronic disease? If Robby were in your situation, he would expect you to turn away without much though. He almost expected from how little you seemed to be interested in his personal affairs, but he couldnât find it in himself to do so. Morally, he had mixed feelings about his decision.
âHow do you live with that?â The girl, Savannah from the chart, asked. From what Robby could hear, she was hesitant to ask, afraid to impede a doctorâs life. You had opened the door, casually, which sounded unfamiliar to Robby. âSometimes, I canât help but hate living like this.â
There was a pause, and the sound of the Pitt filled it from the outside, but he couldnât envision the heavy moment of vulnerability between you and Savannah. âYou know, psychiatry wasnât my first choice as a specialty.âÂ
Yes, Robby thought. Which was about all he could say confidently. That information was no-thanks to you, and neither would anything else he learns from eavesdropping on your conversation. You chuckled, and he almost would describe the sound as melodic. âI wanted to become a neurosurgeon.â
âI joined a competitive program in California.â You shared, and Robby imagined sitting across from you as you spoke. With your voice ringing loudly from the other side of the closing, it was easier to see. âDuring my third year in residency, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that was attacking my good tissue, which affected the joints in my hands.â
Robby held his breath. He sensed the devastation from the weight of that news. Being young and aspiring to join a field recognized for its meticulous work, the two could never be compatible. You had made it through half a residency program with the hope of accomplishing a dreamâsuddenly ripped from you.
âIt changed the entire trajectory of the plan I had for myself.â You mumbled, but Robby made out what you said. Despite his bowed head and the screen illuminating his face, he was paying little attention to the words. âI almost quit medicine entirely, until I remembered I still wanted to help people, even if it wasnât my first choice.â
This was wrong. The sudden rush of guilt that rushed over Robby was instantaneous. Regardless of his intentions with the information about you, he should have reasoned how inappropriate listening to a conversation from a psychiatrist and a patient was. Savannah was obviously distraught over her situation, the wounds still raw and tender, and he should have at least considered her dignity of the situation.Â
Slimy and disgusted with his choice, he started tuning you out, shaking his head and excusing himself. Before escaping the vicinity, he heard the scraping of the curtain rings. With it pulled back, he met you staring back at him. Your eyes were wide and your face scrunched from the confusion and surprise of his presence.
âDr. Robinavitch,â Your voice was sharp, and he noticed the tightness in your lips. âDid you need something from Miss. Lorence?â
Robby, caught off guard, quickly shook his head. He glanced back at Savannah sitting on the gurney with her knees bent close to her chest. She wiped away the few tears that had escaped her eye, avoiding Robbyâs gaze. He cleared his throat, âNo. I was actually looking for you, if you have some time.â
His voice was hoarse. Nervously aware you caught him, burning holes through him with your steely eyes. You glanced back at Savannah with a soft smile, âIâll be back.â
Robby opened his mouth, before screwing it shut. Fuck. He had messed up big time, and he didnât need to see the clinch in your facial muscles to confirm it. In your hand was a gray cup and without any more delay, you pulled the curtain close, brushing past him with a newfound anger.
Fuck his life.
He didnât waste the time, following your tail. Your shoes clicked against the ground and the sound was like a hammer hitting the head of the nail. He followed you to the corner of the Pitt where the industrial ice and water dispenser were for the patient. With your face obscured, he couldnât make clearly what you were feeling, but the displeasure was clear from your silence.
When your name escaped his lips, curt and professional, you scoffed, gripping the cup away from the sensors so as to not activate them. âOne of my residents needed a psych consult, and I was looking for you. I shouldâve walked away once I heard your voice.â
The sound of the water splashing in the cup fulfilled your response. You stared at the cup slowly reaching the brim. âYou have a lot of nerve trying to excuse yourself.â
âItâs not an excuse,â Robby whispered, leaning forward to hide the rising color on his face. He was beyond flustered. He didnât expect the sudden turn of events. He didnât know why he stood in place to hear you share details of yourself you were using to connect with a patient. It wasnât within his right. âI just want you to know I donât listen to your conversations for the sake of scrutinizing you.â
âWeâre beyond that at this point.â You exclaimed, a bit louder as you spun to face him. Robby retracted from the escalation. He gripped the device in his hand, grinding away at his teeth. âThis is about your blatant disregard of respect for my patient.â
You let the cup sit on the dispenser tray while crossing your arms over your chest. As he stared down at you, he could see your pupils dilate. It was strange to see you lose the control of your expressions. The faint grins and displeased looks you sent him was something he welcomed at this point. He knew this side well without delving his over pour into your cup. Without the mess of knowing you, and vice versa.
âYouâve made it clear that you donât like having me around your department, but you couldnât even respect the integrity of the job for the sake of patient care?â You rhetorically asked with your eyes narrowed at him.Â
Robby made the mistake of glancing around and the peculiar stare sent your directions fueled something in him. Nurses were sluggish in their movements as the raised voices interrupted their task and conversation. He even noted a couple of his residents staring. Public humiliation in what he knew was a disgraceful move.
Shaking his head, he scoffed. âActually, you donât know anything. So donât presume to know what I am doing in my department.â
Agitated and pushed to a line Robby didnât know existed, your hands fell to your sides with aggravation. âYou scrutinize my judgment, dismiss my capabilities, and then invasively listen to my consultations.â
âI recognize what I did was inappropriate, but we donât need to be having this fucking conversation right now.â Robby emphasized, dark eyebrows shadowing over his eyes; this added darkness mightâve frightened his underlings.Â
He motioned his head to the staff standing feet away, evidently listening to the argument. You followed his direction from the corner of your eye, which immediately alarmed the rest, forcing them back to their current tasks. When you looked back at Robby, he couldnât ignore the way you gnawed at the inside of your cheek.Â
Maybe he overthought the action, but he saw the same anxious glancing from when Dr. Jefferson dismissed you. He didnât do it in a punitive fashion, or even rudely, but something about your work seeming unimportant hit a nerve. Your fingers waved nervously by your sides. âI fooled myself into thinking we could work together. Treat patients mutually, but I see I was wrong.â
âWe only have to endure this for five more months. Think you can manage that at least?â You spat out, grabbing the cup as you brushed past him, making a point to avoid any contact.
Robby knew the few who dared to continue staring were gawkingâpossibly marveledâby how you whipped him with your words. Not many had ever stepped toe-to-toe with him, especially not in the comfort of his department. The staff who worked in the environment of trauma with surgeons like Garcia stabbing at his side with a fencing sword wouldnât compare it to this scene.
You had brought a gun to a knife fight.
Some would argue that as a psychiatrist, you knew to hit where it hurt. Robby considered it something worth penalizing; which is why he had fought over your arrogance with Jefferson before. It had all proven him right all along. He couldnât change your flaws for you, and he was done repenting over his thoughts.
Only a few weeks ago, Robby was warning you about the legal case against Mr. Richman, and now, he couldn't be more scorned in your eyes.
Hesitantly, Robby walked into the dictation room, where he was told Jefferson was last seen. He knew you had worked the night shift and was hoping youâd be gone by now; but when he opened the door and found you tossing back a couple of pills, he froze.Â
You paid him a look from the corner of your eyes as you took a sip from your metal water bottle. You didn't bother to hide the small eye roll, and Robby turned away, hands in his jacket pockets. He let out a sigh, peering around the dictation room like heâd find something more interesting.Â
He knew eventually the two of you would need to talk, but things were too fresh. You were visibly indignant to the sight of Robby, and he was so close to turning away and never coming back up to the floor. He grumbled to himself when he saw Caleb coming from around a small hallway in the room.Â
Caleb first smiled at Robby and then his eyes immediately gravitated to you, zipping up your backpack. When he looked back at Robby, he noticed how he positioned his body to face his back in your direction, keeping you out of his view.Â
With his eyes back on you, he wheeled closer to your direction. âHave a goodnight. Make sure you sleep.â
You hummed, slinging your backpack over your shoulder as you exited out the door. Without much else, the door slammed behind you, leaving the two attendings in tense silence. Caleb turned his chair, pointed towards where Robby stood still, afraid of Caleb noticing his demeanor.Â
âThat couldn't have been more uncomfortable.â Caleb verbally noted a small smirk on his face. Robby turned around lazily, his head swiveling with his body. When he looked at Caleb, tucked his chin, staring at him through his eyelashes. âWorse than when I scold my daughter when she comes home later than she should.â
Robby chuckled, tossing his head back. âWhoâs the daughter in this scenario?â
Caleb chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. âYou tell me.â
The deafening silence that followed told Caleb that Robby was completely aware of what's to come. It couldnât have been a surprise that Caleb would want to talk after the blow out the two of you had. Cocking his head to the side, Caleb hummed. âIâm sure you're aware of what this may be about.â
Robby scratched the side of his beard, confirming with tight lips. Caleb followed his movement, watching every piece of ticking of his demeanor. âI was under the impression the two of you had worked it out. Now, Iâm hearing the two of you had a screaming match in front of the staff?â
The humorless chuckle Robby gave in response warned Caleb of what to come. From the distance he saw between him and you, Caleb sensed whatever had occurred disrupted the routine Robby had for himself. The Pitt was tainted by the memory he shared with you, disturbed by you. If he didn't feel a dread of the idea of working with you every time he came to work, it was now settled in the atmosphere surrounding him since that shift.Â
âYou canât call it a match if she was the only one fighting.â Robby muttered with his hands on his hips. The slight tilt of his head was a familiar look Caleb had seen before. The rare sight of his pupil and the squaring of his shoulders. Tense and bothered. âAnd honestly Caleb, you should talk to her about it.â
âIâm talking to you.â Caleb motioned, wide eyed as he tried to assemble to puzzle blindly. âSurely you can enlighten me as to what led to the argument.â
Robby grievously shook his head, âShe was upset, thatâs all I know.â
With that vague response, Caleb was burning deeper holes with his stare. Robby wasnât panicked, but he found himself in a hard place to crawl out of. Obviously, Caleb didnât find much from you, which left him to resort to questioning Robby. He stared down at the ground, more interested in his shoes than in Caleb.
Caleb hummed, pensively tossing around the excuse, like there was true validity. âDoesnât sound like her.â
âWell, maybe you donât know her as well as you think.â Robby chuckled dryly, rubbing at his forehead with his pointer finger and his thumb. They ran against the wrinkles of his age, trying to alleviate the throbbing sensation of an oncoming headache.
Caleb paused, examining Robby up and down. Curing himself internally, he squeezed his eyes, shaking himself into reason. âI mean, everyone has bad days. Sometimes we fuck up because of it.â
âI get that.â Caleb rationalized, completely understanding. Too understanding, even, with his tone reflecting the cadence he used with some patients. Robby skin prickled with the sound. âDo you know anything about what upset her?â
Coming clean would let Jefferson know that you had shut down all possibilities of there being anything amicable between you two. You, who had created this âsystemâ that prevented anyone from coming near, but also aimed arrows straight to the soul to keep them away.
Every time you two ran into each other, up to the last interaction, it was as if you had prepared secret attacks against him. Your snarky words or your harsh resolutions ticked Robby, who was like a bomb around you, creeping closer and closer to explosion.Â
It was as if someone pulled a string with the incident between you two, and his whole resolve was collapsing with it. The professional mask he put on for show not just for Jefferson, but for the rest of his department as well, was beyond cracked and broken. Robby tried to collect the pieces as he actively defended himself, but he was missing the glue to keep it together.
Robby resorted to shaking his head. Maybe if he didnât say anything at all, Caleb would let it go. He squeezed his arms tighter, constricting his chest cavity against his beating heart. He was reminding himself there was still reason in your agreement.
Caleb accepted the response, nodding while also carefully watching Robby. He could sense the thickness in the air around him, a dark storm cloud that followed him wherever he went.Â
Everyone else must have seen it so clearly.
Days had passed. Santos walked alongside him, approaching a patient in Central 14. When she first came up to him, he was already grumbling, a hardened expression after cleaning up from a trauma. Something had been ticking her boss off, and the rest of them were walking on eggshells because of it.
His muscles were flexing with discomfort, constantly shifting his head to glance around every space he entered. She would describe him as paranoid. Not to his faceâshe would let Dana do that for her.
They were currently on their way to check in with the 40-year-old patient they requested a psych consultation. She was on SSRI medication, and there were concerns she mentioned vaguely. When the two of them approached the room, you were typing away on the WOW in the room.
Your back was facing the door, glancing occasionally at the patient. Robby approached the door, knocking before entering and presenting Mrs. Myers a polite smile. âHello Mrs. Myers. Iâm Dr. Robby, I am the attending physician here. How are you doing?â
She softly smiled, trying to bear the slight discomfort in her fractured ankle. She readjusted herself on the hospital bed. âIâm okay.â
âGood.â Robby whispered, standing at the foot of the bed. You were closer in proximity, still confined to the WOW, typing away gently as the two spoke. âWe spoke with orthopedics and they will be recommending a boot to help stabilize the bones in your ankle and feet.â
Mrs. Myers groaned lightly, throwing her head back. Santos stepped forward, hands folded in front of her. âThe good news is, you will have more mobility than if you were in crutches after two weeks.â
âI wonât be able to go running.â Mrs. Myers sighed out, exasperated, as if she was told the worst news ever.Â
Santos scrunched her face, while Robby provided a sympathetic smile. Santos stuffed her hands into her pocket, leaning back on her heels. âBest case scenario, the boot will be on for a minimum of 8 weeks.â
âFucking great.â Mrs. Myers muttered, running a hand down her face. She gritted her teeth, moving her one good foot to plant flat on the bed.Â
âSomeone from orthopedics will come down to apply the boot and go over precautions.â Robby added, leading Santos out the door. He glanced carefully at you, as you continued typing in silence. He saw the subtle twitch in your hands, peaking at the figure by the door.Â
Promptly, you logged out of the WOW, readjusting a pen you clipped onto your pant pocket. Offering Mrs. Myers a smile, she grimaced, watching you with less bitterness than Santos. âI will come back to check in with you.â
You followed behind Santos, pointedly avoiding Robbyâs gaze as you passed in front of him. When the three of you emptied the room, Robby closed the door behind him. He saw Santos let out a sigh, shaking her head. âThese health nuts are so self-absorbed, youâd think she cares more about her blaring fractured foot instead of her reaching her daily step count.â
âDr. Santos, you would never say that in front of the patient, right?â You questioned, hand motioned back to the room. Santos warily looked past you, glancing awkwardly at Robby then back at you.
She opened her mouth to respond, but you beat her to the punch. âI shouldnât have to remind you of proper etiquette, regardless of whether the patient is present or not.â
Robby positioned himself in your view, folded arms as he leaned in. âI think Dr. Santos presents a concern for psychiatry to follow up on.â
The hardened glare you sent in his direction didnât dismay him. He remained stone cold in his position. Santos was left in a worse position, not wanting to fall in the middle of whatever beef you and Robby had.
âWhich I was, until you bustled in.â You replied, raising your eyebrows. When you turned back to Santos, she straightened her back, feeling suddenly chill, hands absentmindedly rubbing her biceps. âWord of advice, when a patient seems distressed by news, you donât console them by spitting out incessant information.â
Robby warningly called out your name, quiet enough for you to hear the caution in his voice, He was withholding the distaste of your reproach, but you didnât bother to heed it. âAnd for your information, she is severely depressed and utilized running as a form of medication.â
âWith her current dosage not satiating her needs, she resorted to running for the endorphins,â You informed, crossing your arms over your chest. âWouldnât you be upset if that was no longer an option in this situation?â
Santos swallowed thickly, nodding her head hurriedly. She avoided your gaze, staring down at her shoes. âI misinterpreted her intentions.â
âBig time.â You replied, smiling with slight displeasure. Santos didnât seem as rattled as the one he recalled last year. Her skin was thicker and she didnât let herself be pushed over. Robby liked to think the Pitt was helping her become a doctor confident in herself.Â
He didnât want to think of how this place may ruin her.
Robby announced your name one more time, finally capturing your attention. âI believe Dr. Santos has another patient to check on. Iâll check in with ortho.â
Without saying a single word, Santos excused herself, walking away while aimlessly looking at the ground. Robby watched carefully for her to disappear before turning slowly to glare down at you, eyes wide in disbelief of your confrontation. You always spearheaded the care of any patient you took on, which he believed, had you tossing all esteem and cordiality out the window.
âIf youâre upset with me, that's fine, but I would appreciate it if you didnât take it out on my residents.â Robby warned with one hand stretched out, slicing away the thought. He needed the point to drill into your head. He didnât want to be dismissed as Santos was.
âIâm not upset.â You corrected, nose scrunching in offense, as if you smelled something foul from his words. âAnd I was simply telling Trinity the importance of selecting her choice of words and making judgments before she knew the patientâs circumstances.â
Robby took a step back, furrowing his eyebrows. Trinity? He didnât even recognize the name from how little he heard it. Everyone was called by his or her title and surname. âTrinityâ was a foreign subject. âDidnât realize you two were on a first name basis.â
âIs it so hard to believe I can make friends?â You rhetorically asked. If you had seriously considered his answer, it would be an indefinite yes. Even if you still spoke with Shen like old pals, he still found it hard to believe it was authentic. âWeâve managed to get along without you meddling.â
âYou were the one who said you didnât befriend coworkers.â Robby recalled dumbfounded.
âThere are exceptions.â You plainly said, turning back to look at Mrs. Meyers.
âAnd Iâm not one of them.â Robby bemused. Since he officially began working with it, you have always made yourself abundantly clear.
With your attention back on him, you raised a single eyebrow. Your lips tensed, before you scoffed. âDr. Robinavitch, after the charade you pulled last week, can you blame me?â
âI apologized.â Robby huffed out annoyed.
âOnly because you were caught.â
Robby clapped his hands, rubbing them together. Your sights caught his every movement, entranced on what he might do next. His stiff smile and wide glare had you readjusting your body to face him entirely. Hands flattened together he motioned to you, âYouâre entitled to your opinion, as I am entitled to mine.â
âAnd I think Mrs. Myers needs a follow up with psych regarding her prescription and the fallout of her fracture.â His hands choppily moved to himself then to South 14, where Mrs. Myers sat with her hands over her face.
âMarvelous thinking, Dr. Robinavitch.â You dramatically mused, putting on a charming smile. You began to take a careful step back, cocking your head. âI would invite you to sit in, but you have a tendency of welcoming yourself where you arenât invited.â
Before Robby could put in the last word, he was welcomed with the sight of your back walking into the room again, closing it behind you. He saw from the glass how you closed the shutters, closing him and everyone else from the solace. Robby let out a frustrated sigh, hands immediately landing to the back of his neck.
This was his nightmare reincarnated. He was supposed to be focused on his job, his residents, and the fact he was about to go on a three-month vacation in July. He shouldnât be worried about what you might do the next time your paths cross. Every dread that filled him coming into his shift stemmed from all the ill in his life and you were a part of that.Â
When you finally left Mrs. Meyerâs room, you headed straight for the elevator, keeping to yourself. Enough trouble had occurred in the shift, let alone the seven months youâve worked on your fellowship. When you stopped at the elevator, you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. Without second thought, you answered, stating your name lazily.
Caleb chuckled from the other end. âLong day?â
âSomething like that.â You responded, stepping into the empty elevator. Pressing the button of the behavioral health floor, the doors slid closed. Leaning back, one hand holding the small metal bar, you threw your head back. âEverythingâs under control here though.â
âI donât doubt it.â He said coolly. You could vividly see the ghost of his smile.Â
âSo, why did you call?â You asked, elongated your words as a way to hide the current nerves bustling. Your hand gripped onto the railing tighter.
âI wanted to invite you to dinner tonight.âÂ
You internally cowed, trying to omit your current reluctance to play niceties after a busy shift. You just didnât have it in you to entertain someone, even Caleb, at some dinner. Caleb must have expected a polite decline from your part as he chuckled lightly. âI know itâs last minute, and after a shift, but I just got the reservation to a new place in town. I'd hate to be the only disabled man, and eating alone.â
âI think only you could rock that look.â You joked, watching the door slide open. Stepping out, you stopped to the side of the hallway, before entering the patient care areas.Â
Caleb hummed light and amused. âI know it's last minute, but my daughter has soccer practice.â
âAnd your wife?â You teased him.Â
âSheâs got a book club meeting with her girls. I know better than to intervene with that.âÂ
You stifled the laugh. All you could recall was the one phone call you had walked into in Calebâs office. You can attest she was not a happy woman when her plans were ruined.
Tapping your foot incessantly and gnawing on your bottom lip, you internally flipped the invitation. When was the last time you had gone out?
âFine.â You huffed out, and you were silently pleased no one passing by could see the girlish smile on your face.
âGood.â Caleb responded, too elated, not that you had noticed. âIâll see you tonight.â
You were sitting at the restaurant, twiddling with your phone. Briefly, you glanced at the time, swiped up on the screen and you had no new messages. Grumbling to yourself, you continued spinning the phone in your hand, lightly tapping the table. You were starting to regret agreeing to dinner with Caleb.Â
He had never bothered to treat you to something as fancy as a sit down restaurant that required a reservation week in advanceâuntil now. When you first joined the fellowship at PTMC, you two had take-out in his office and âbondedâ over your careers. You didnât think the two of you had grown close enough to go to dimly lit restaurants together, but maybe you underestimated how responsible Caleb felt for you.
At least, you thought that until now, whilst Caleb ghosted the second text you sent. If you werenât sitting alone at a reserved table for two with heels, a dress, and makeup on, you wouldâve felt differently.
You 7:53pm
Iâm having flashbacks to the many dates Iâve been stood up at.
Donât make me look like a fool in stockings, Caleb.
You were counting down the minutes until you walked out. After waiting almost half an hour, your patience was withering. The idea of stripping yourself clean and substituting a luxury dinner with a tub of ice cream seemed more and more appealing. The way time was inching closer to 8pm, you might get exactly what you want.Â
Carefully, you looked around for a waiter, expectantly preparing to pay for the one drink you did have while you waited to make the perfectly executed escape. Right as you spotted your waiter, you heard your phone vibrate on the table.
Caleb Jefferson 7:59pm
Donât panic and donât leave.
Just follow my lead on this one.
What? Your one hand you had raised to capture the waiterâs attention slowly came down. Without second thought, your hands began typing out a message, and before you could hit send, you sensed a figure looming over the table. Quickly lifting your head, you were met with the equally confused gaze from Robby,
You glanced down at your phone, quickly scanning the new message to pop up like it carried the answer to both your confusion.
Caleb Jefferson 8:01pm
Be open minded
I tend to be right about these things : )
When you brushed your loose hair out of your face, you noticed Robby looking around, like he was waiting for Caleb to wheel out the corner and exclaim that it was all a prank. You took in his clean, casual look, which made you feel overdressed. He wore a black, wool coat, button over a gray shirt. He had straight, dark blue washed jeans, paired with black leather boots.Â
He sported the round, black glasses, and his hair casually combed to the side. Some strands fell on his forehead, as if intentional. It left you speechless, the same way he probably would say the last person he expected to have dinner with was you.Â
You groaned lightly, placing your phone firmly on the table. âCaleb played us.â
Robby raised his bushy eyebrows, awkwardly staring between you and the empty chair across from you. âSo, this was his plan on getting us alone in a room together.â
You let out a dry laugh, leaning back in your chair and looking up at him âSeems like.â
The silence that befell you two stretched the air and folded it to form layers of brewing resistance. Since you caught him eavesdropping on you and a patient, you didnât bother to play nice anymore. There was nothing more to hide from Caleb. Your long-lasting distaste for one another was out in the open, and the two of you were out of energy to continue posturing.Â
You tapped your foot under the table, thinking to yourself. Twirling around the idea, which you may regret, opened a pit in your stomach, tearing away your appetite. You rolled your head to the side, sighing. âYouâre already here. We donât have to talk, but we may as well not let this reservation go to waste.â
Robby paused for a moment, glancing at the chair. He realized how weird he must look to the other clients as he stood shadowing over you. He shuffled his way into his seat, rubbing his hands on his denim-clad thighs.Â
You took a careful sip of your fruity cocktail, something fresh, sweet, and tart. Something exciting to pass the time, awaiting your inevitable fate. When the waiter came back, Robby only asked for water. You scoffed, putting your drink down. âWorried you might let your inhibitions go if youâre inebriated?â
Robby stared at you, considering his next words. He curled his lips, crossing his arms. âIâm no lightweight, if thatâs what you mean. Havenât been since my med school days.â
âWhen they used to chart by candlelight?â You joked monotony, tracing your fingers across the edge of your phone.Â
You didnât have to lift your head for Robby to see the small smirk on your face. He didnât expect this dynamic. Shamelessly jabbing at him like you were friends. Similar fashion that Dana would, that came with years of a fostered relationship. He would never replace Dana, and he got the sense that you werenât doing it out of friendliness.
The water was placed in front of him, and before letting the waiter leave, he requested a whiskey neat. You nodded with approval, grabbing one of the menus sitting at the center of the table. Eyes scanned the egg white sheet, pretending to be engrossed in the meals and their complimentary ingredients.Â
Robby was tapping his finger rhythmically against his thigh. He didnât hide the fact he was staring at you, trying to read into what to expect during a dinner with you. If the first few minutes told him anything, he was in for an interesting night.
âDid you hear about Mr. Richman?â Robby questioned, cradling the glass of water in one hand. He quickly gauged your reaction, before staring back at the glass.
Your eyes stopped on the menu. Slowly, you lowered the menu you held up, glancing warily at Robby. He heard you suck in sharp breath, laying the menu down. You nodded, âI did. Iâm more than pleased the judge was willing to hear his lawyer out.â
âIâm sure the expert witness testimony helped him reach an appropriate conclusion.â Robby mumbled back, shaking his head as he furrowed his brows. It was bittersweet to think if it hadn't been for Mr. Richman, maybe the two of you could work better together.Â
You cleared your throat, leaning forward. âIs that a compliment?â
Robby sheepishly smiled, scratching the side of his beer. âOnly if youâll accept it, I suppose. Itâs no secret that you were his biggest advocate, despite everything.â
He motioned to you, more specifically, your face. The bruising was gone by now, no longer needed to be caked over with color corrector and makeup. When the trial had first begun, there was still slight discoloration. Now, everything was returning to a sense of normal for the better. Mr. Richman would receive help, and you no longer had the scars to carry off the brawl.
âThatâs my job. To make sure my patients have some decent quality of life.â You sighed out, smoothing out the wrinkles in your dress, mostly to keep from staring across the table. âHe needed the absolute maximum care, regardless of how I felt about what he did.â
Robby hummed, noting the obvious distraction you created for yourself. You in no way coward from him, but he sensed he was treading in deep waters. Too close for comfort. âThatâs honorable.âÂ
You shook your head, âNo. Itâs my job.â
Briefly interrupted by the waiter dropping off Robbyâs liquor, checking in with the both of you. He dismissed himself with a polite smile as you asked for more time. With you two secluded to each other, you took one more sip from your drink, taking steady breaths. âI should apologize for the way I reacted the other day. It was unprofessional and uncalled for.â
âDo you mean it?â Robby asked curiously.Â
Your choice of word told him you didnât know how to broach the subject, but your intention was clear. He didnât seek to humiliate you, but he needed to push for this social experiment of Calebâs to work.Â
Sharply nodding, you swallowed thickly, staring at his eyes that seemed darker under the restaurant lighting. âItâs not my place to scold anyone, let alone the chief of the emergency department.â
Robby shook his head, âI deserved it.â
âStillââ
âI crossed a boundaryââ
âI shouldnât have taken out my frustrations on you.â You announced over his overlapping voice. It was also loud enough to capture the attention from a few of the nearby tables, staring concerned from the corner of their eyes.Â
You gritted your teeth, attempting to ignore the fact you always seemed to earn uncalled attention. Robby leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. âFrustrations about what?â
If Robby were sitting closer to you, he could possibly hear the hammering of your heart. You drowned in the sound as the pulsing filled your ears like a thumping drum in your head. This moment was a break in the messy equilibrium you had fed. The âagreementâ the two of you had sealed that night at the bar was pointless. With Caleb directing the pawns to his liking, he left you two with no choice.
âI was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis.â You spoke clearly, leaving no doubt or confusion needing clarification. Your hands on the table trembled slightly as you eased your body into uncontrolled waters. âThatâs the reason I had to quit my surgical residency.â
âIâve come to terms with that. I recovered by joining an equally satiating program that taught me more about myself than surgery ever did.â You laughed, glistening eyes sparkling as you tossed your head back lightly.
It was a rarity to Robby. He had seen the human tenderness when Mr. Richman first came in. He heard it in the way you spoke with Savannah, utilizing your experiences as more than just an anecdote. You formulated your life into a way to help others. Robby didnât see the intention behind your action; and if he wasnât so bothered and engrossed in his own troubles, heâd notice it more.
âWhat stuck with me though was my attending's reaction.â
Robby felt his breath be stuck in his throat. Adamsonâs words echoed in his mind and what followed was the dark memory of Robby shoving Langdonâs backpack into his chest, cursing him out of the Pitt. When he saw the dread in your face, the small frown and the repulsion of the recollection, he almost sank in his chair.
âHe was the one who noticed the inflammation in my hands and the fatigue.â Subconsciously, you motioned to your hands, turning them over before intertwining your fingers. âI always thought I was overworking myself in the simulation lab, but he pushed for me to get a second opinion.â
The wet scoff that followed had you turning away to hide the shame. âI didnât even tell him when I found out. He personally reached out to the head of ortho to get the results.â
When you leaned back in your chair, Robby saw your squared shoulders. Despite the conversation being private, the closest table over five away, you looked paranoid. You had the same guardedness when he had walked into Mrs. Myers room earlier. The hesitancy to do your own job in his presence.Â
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. âI stupidly attempted to scrub into a surgery a couple of weeks after. He took me to the gallery instead and gave me an ultimatum.â
âHe told me I either resign from the program or he would have me forcibly removed, emphasizing my defiance.â You had finally looked up to meet him in the eye. He almost hated to see the repulsion of yourself in your eyes. It felt too real of his current situation, and he was certain someone is currently noticing his downfall. âHeâd personally ruin me in the medical world if it meant I never risked anyoneâs life for my ego.â
Robby felt the words punch him in the gut. As a mentor, he tried everything in his power to aspire his students to do better. Be smarter, kinder, and quicker than he is. As a department head, he emphasized that need even more to his senior staff.Â
But, how do you do that when youâre drowning in a sea of everything youâre meant to do? You tide over your shame onto everyone elseâs shore, he supposed.
âHe abused his power,â Robby affirmed, shaking his head in disappointment. âIâm sorry you went through that.â
He was off put by the small grin on your face, like there was some inside joke he was missing. You shrugged, straightening the skirt of your dark dress. âNot your mess to try and clean up.â
âHe was part of the reason I left California, even when they offered me an attending position.â You confessed, smiling sadly. Robby wondered what his life would look like without you here. After briefly sipping your drink you sighed, âI sometimes wonder if that was the best decision.â
Robby remained silent. Maybe his life wouldnât look so complicated or he wouldnât feel like he was constantly under a microscope by your stare. He could probably get away with his current deranged way of acting. Although he wasnât at rock bottom yet, he may agree that he was on a steady decline to a point of no return.
âThere wasnât any way of preserving your joints?â Robby asked curiously, changing the subject with ease. If you noticed, you didnât make it obvious.
âMy doctors told me surgery would be too aggressive. They wanted to attempt the medication before jumping the gun.â
âAnd how are you doing now?â Robby followed up, a brief sincerity escaping his lips. He didnât attempt to take it back or excuse it as a mistake.
âItâs been five years, give, or take.â Your eyebrows flinched, the realization a shock to yourself. âI understand where my attending was coming from. But when youâre young and after fighting for a spot in that program, it all feels like a personal attack.â
Yeah, it does, he silently thought. He shouldnât have resonated with those words. His mentors pushed him to be the doctor he was, and even if he felt he wasnât living towards the standard they set, it didnât change how they formed him. Adamson remained a core pillar in his practice, and every day since his passing, he felt he was losing the part of him that shaped and molded a worthy attending ER physician.Â
After a beat, Robbyâs eyebrows dipped, turning his head slightly as he thought. âIs that why you were talking with Park?â
âI had narrowly been trying to avoid him and his offers of surgery for a while now.â You snickered, shaking your head. Robby bowed his head, masking the fleeting break in his stoniness. âHe finally found me, but Iâm beyond broaching those choices.â
You seemed comfortable. Removing himself from the objective light he saw you, he had noticed you submerge yourself in the staff. He shouldâve known you wouldâve found a safe place to land in the Pitt. It had a type of energy that kept him coming back, even when he dreaded it most.
âIf you donât mind me asking, why psychiatry?â
You hummed; almost amused he dared to ask the question. It might have been as thrilling as surgery, but with the sort of drive he saw buzzing within you, it still felt it missed the specialty of surgery. âHonestly? It was Shenâs idea.â
âWhen he was doing a surgical rotation, we debriefed a patient; he offhandedly said Iâd make a good psychiatrist.â You smiled brighter, your expression brightening with your mood. Robby would be a fool to say the woman sitting across from him was different from who he worked with.
He was starting to come to terms that he didnât know the type of person Caleb and Shen knew. Laid back and genuine. You shrugged, âI guess that stuck with me.â
âYou are good at what you do.â Robby affirmed instinctively. He didn't think when he said that, but after a beat, he confirmed the thought with a nod. He watched you sit silently; staring at him like you couldnât believe he could think that highly of you.
He groaned lightly as he leaned back, one hand rubbing against his jean-clad thigh. His closed mouth smile pushed up his glasses, letting you see the darks of his eyes better. âWeâre lucky to have you. And itâd be a shame if you left us so soon.â
You paused, tilting your head as you let your mind run wild with thoughts. The fellowship was temporary, safely branching out your options to a more permanent place to stand. You never expected more than just another line on your resume, yet the idea of leaving haunted you. âPTMC has some charm, I suppose.â
The words came out as a thought, quiet and long. You leaned onto the table, elbows resting on the edge, and he couldnât deny the glint in your bubbled something exciting in him. He didnât expect a few minutes of dinner to leave him wanting more conversation with you. The corner of your mouth twitched upward, eyes squinting at him. âThe real question is would you want to continue working together.â
Would he? That was something he had debated, skipping like a broken record. He could learn to be more courteous and understandingâcompassionate evenâbeyond the sake of patient care. If the last few minutes conversing told him anything, it was that he had yet to learn all facets of his job.Â
Robby shrugged, agreeing nonchalantly. âIâm sure we can make it work.â
You pursed your lips, watching him skeptically. Had he been so unconvincing? He wouldnât swear anything, he was taught better than to breed false hope, but he did mean it. Before he could affirm his stance, you interrupted, âCan I be frank about something?â
You waited until he gave you subtle confirmation, readjusting your posture with careful precision.
âIf youâre serious, we need to discuss keeping each other accountable.â
Accountability. Dana wouldâve laughed at that. Sheâd argue that doctors never voluntarily took the blame of their wrongdoings. She tried it herself with Robby, and she saw how nasty of a game that was to play.
Once he furrowed his brows, you sat up taller. âWhat I said at the bar, I meant it.â
âI am personally concerned youâve neglected yourself for too long.â You earnestly shared, clear as day. The professional mask slips on easily. It was almost intimidating to be seen under your gaze.
Every effort he made to not alarm anyone had let him down. That last person he expected to notice or care enough to address it with him was speaking as if he were a patient. He didnât like being objectified in that light. âIâm fine.â
âAre you?â You questioned, striking a nerve in Robby.Â
There was no mistaking the shift in Robby, gently grinding his jaw as he stared blankly at you. His crooked smile was an impersonation of pleasantry. He wasnât pleased with your hyper awareness of him. âLook, it must not be easy to handle an entire department. Even Caleb struggles from time to time.â
âAre you doing anything for your stress? Or giving yourself a break?â
Robby could scoff. It was hard to squeeze in a break of any kind while running the emergency department of a trauma-1 hospital. It was like asking a marine to let go of the hyper vigilance when deploying back home. It seemed futile and perhaps his more intimate circle, like Jack, would describe it as cynical. But there was no point in beating a dead horse.
âIâm rebuilding a motorcycle. Plan to take a sabbatical in the summer. Just me and the open road.â Robby coolly shared. Was it a dream resort? Not for many, but it meant stepping away from the chaos.
He had yet to tell everyone he was planning on disappearing. A small part of him found an appeal of waiting a month from his departure. Leaving without a big rollout of his three-month absence would be an ideal exit. He didnât need to hear the âbest travelâ and warning of staying safe. He knew some would even have a thing or two to say about road tripping on a motorcycle from the cases theyâve worked on.
You raised your eyebrows at him, âAnd thatâs a break for you?âÂ
âThe longest Iâve been away from the Pitt was five days, and that was cut from the original 2 weeks I had planned.â Robbyâs hoarse chuckle was rhythmic, hitting all the right decimals to sounds engaged. You couldn't help but think it felt staged. Practiced. âThey granted me three months.â
âThink youâll be able to handle it?â You followed up, and the question was vague, enough so that Robbyâs eyes twitched. Only someone who replayed all the possible conversations that could emerge from his spontaneous rendezvous could interpret in-between the lines you had set. âThree months of solitude and self-reflection is a lot for people in our line of work.â
âIâm looking forward to it.â
You tried to contain the discomfort you felt from his statement. It fell flat from his tongue. It felt reminiscent of some of the patients you spoke to, those coming in with cuts and burns and other superficial wounds that scarred too deeply. Too intentional. You were acutely aware of when someone was crawling towards an edge of no return.Â
There was an undeniable vastness in his eyes. Sometimes, when shadowing over you with a flame, you still didnât see the desire there, waking every day wanting to be in a place filled with havoc. If you had to describe what you saw while staring him in the eyes, youâd say he was a lost soul inhabiting a tired, ran down body.Â
A part of him was giving up. You knew what resignation looked like, and you had a responsibility to stop it, right?
You lifted your glass, holding out to him, eyes sparking under the light and a smile curling upward. âWell, I suppose you and I have a lot of bonding to do till then.â
summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changingâuntil you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.
notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfectly, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.
word count: 15620
âHeyâoh, thank God.â You kick the door shut behind you. âCan you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.â
Ellis sighs. âReally? I was just about to leave.â
âFive minutes,â you say again, already moving toward your room.
You donât bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.
âArenât you gonna shower?â Ellis calls from the living room.
âWe showered before I left,â you say, âbut I didnât have a clean pair of scrubs.â
Ellis gags. âGross. Whyâd you have to say âweâ?â
You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.
âBecause we had some really great shower sex too.â
Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.
âI thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,â she says.
You shrug. âScheduling conflict.â
She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. âYou are the schedule.â
âIâm restructuring,â you say lightly, falling into step beside her. âDonât think Deranâs making the cut.â
Ellis doesnât say anything else. She just watches you for a secondâeyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighterâbefore shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellisâ car.
The drive to the hospital isnât long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because heâd googled itâand sheâs still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.
âI swear,â she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, âif I hear the words âbut I googled itâ even once tonight, Iâm going to lose my mind.â
You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney throughâsomething about chest pain, you overhear.
âTrauma oneâs open,â Dana calls.
âDr. Toomarian, with me.â
Your head snaps up at the sound of Jackâs voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.
Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.
âHeyâdonât disappear. I need to talk to you after this.â
You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. âMe?â
He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.
âOoh,â Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. âYouâre in trouble.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, right.â
âMaybe heâs restructuring,â she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. âThink youâll make the cut?â
You shoot her a flat look. âVery funny.â
Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the sameâmoving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.
You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.
âEvening, ladies,â Lena says from behind the nursesâ desk. âGet a good sleep?â
âAlways,â Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.
âGood enough,â you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.
âMm.â Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. âWell, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.â
Ellis snorts beside you.
âLena,â you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. âI donâtââ
You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.
âYou have my badge.â
You frown. âWhat?â
âMy badge,â he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.
He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.
âAttending physician, huh?â
You shrug. âThought it was time I got a promotion.â
He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.
âTry to keep track of it,â he mutters, already turning away.
You donât respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nursesâ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.
âYou didnât even notice?â Ellis asks.
You lift one shoulder. âI just grabbed it off the floor.â
âOkay,â Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. âIâm choosing not to know.â
Ellis shakes her head. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âI know,â you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. âBut you love me.â
She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.
âCome on.â You bump your shoulder against hers. âLetâs go check out the elbow dislocation in One.â
âFine,â she sighs, âbut Iâm not doing traction.â
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expectedâmid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.
âAlright, Mr. Donovan,â you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. âLetâs have a look at that shoulder.â
His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âAre you a doctor?â
âSure am,â you reply as you step closer to the bed. âAnd with me is Dr. Ellis. Sheâs going to help me get that bone back in place, but first youâre going to have to tell us how you did it.â
He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.
âYeahâuhâI was just at the gym,â he starts, voice strained.
âBenching?â Ellis asks.
He nods. âYeah.â
âLet me guessâpersonal best?â
He nods again. âYeah. How did youââ
âHappens more often than you think,â you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. âMove your fingers.â
He wriggles them slowly.
âAny numbness?â
He shakes his head.
âI was just putting the bar back,â he says. âMy arm twisted a bit and it just⊠popped.â
You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.
âOkay, Mr. Donovanââ
âYou can call me Chase,â he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.
You nod once. âAlright, Chase. Weâre going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so itâs easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.â
âWill it hurt?â
âNot much,â Ellis replies. âMaybe a little discomfort, but itâll be quick.â
âOkay,â he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.
You look at Ellis. âFentanyl and midaz?â
She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.
âWeâll be back in about five minutes,â you tell Chase. âJust as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.â
âFive minutes, huh? Thatâs just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.â
You snort. âLetâs just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.â
âOuch,â he chuckles. âIs that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?â
You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.
âUhâno,â you mutter. âNo boyfriend.â
He smirks. âSo I have a shot?â
You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. âLike I saidâletâs see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.â
He doesnât say anything elseâjust lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.
Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing thereâarms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like heâs waiting for something.
âOhâhey,â you say. âNeed me?â
He shakes his head. âNope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?â
âNah, Iâve got Ellis,â you reply, starting back toward Central. âBut youâre more than welcome to supervise.â
He scoffs, falling into step beside you. âYou donât need supervising.â
âI know.â You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. âBut I know how you like to watch.â
His mouth quirks, like heâs trying not to laugh.
âCareful,â he murmurs.
âOr what?â you tease, stopping just before the nursesâ station.
His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.
âYou donât want to find out,â he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
Something twists low in your bellyâand you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.
âAbbot,â Lena calls before you can say anything else. âTrauma inboundâcyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.â
Jack pauses for a half a secondâthen nods. âAlright, letâs prep Trauma Two.â He looks at you. âYou in?â
You pull a face, all mock disappointment. âOh, I wish I could, but Iâve got that reductionâŠâ
He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. âMm. Tragic.â
âGood luck, though,â you add, flashing him a grin.
You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isnât long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurneyâand you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.
âAlright, Chase,â you say, pulling back the curtain. âLetâs do this.â
He gives you a lopsided smile. âI was hoping Iâd see you again.â
Ellis snorts. âMidaz is working.â
You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.
You look at her. âReady?â
She nods once.
âOkay, Chase,â you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. âStay loose for me.â
You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.
He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.
âThatâs it,â you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.
You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady untilâhis shoulder drops.
Ellis nods. âGood. Now rotate.â
You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shiftâthe soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, thenâ
âOhââ He blinks. âOh, thatâsâthatâs way better.â
You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.
âMove your fingers,â you tell him.
He does.
âAny numbness?â
He shakes his head.
âGood.â
You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.
âComfortable?â she asks.
Chase nods slowly. ââM tired.â
âThen have a nap.â
You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.
âWeâre going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everythingâs back in place.â
âYouâre leaving me?â he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.
You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. âIâll be back in a bit to see how youâre feeling, alright?â
He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but itâs too soft for you to hear.
Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. âGonna give him your number?â
You roll your eyes. âUm, no.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause I'm notââ
âRosterâs looking a little thin,â she says as she turns and steps out of the room.
You follow her, frowning. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
She shrugs. âNot that Iâm keeping track, but⊠by my count, youâre down to one.â
You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. âOkayâwell, not that itâs any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.â
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. âAnd you dropped Deran, soââ
âLike I said,â you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. âIâm restructuring.â
âRestructuring,â she repeats mildly, âor retiring?â
Before the words have even landed, sheâs goneâslipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.
Retiring?
You blink, your brows drawing tighter.
Retiring?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?
From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?
Itâs not like youâre some irresponsible party animalâyou barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug youâve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, youâd argue that youâre the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You donât take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.
Which is exactly why youâre not going around giving out your number to random patients.
You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that theyâre not going to ask for more, that theyâre going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.
You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.
Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isnât wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.
Except for...
Wellâexcept for Jack.
But thatâs different. He knows what heâs doing. You trust himâand youâre on birth control.
So it doesnât really matter if, occasionally, he finishesâ
âYou good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?â
Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Hendersonâs gaze.
âUhâyeah, sorry, I was justââ
He chuckles. âNo need to apologiseâbut if youâre bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.â
You tilt your head. âWorth it?â
âForearm lac. Exposed tendon.â
You nod. âIâm in.â
The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdnessâa woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.
You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelveâwhen you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?
In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, âTo infinity and beyond, I guess.â
Thatâs when you lost itâmuttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.
âOh my God,â Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. âI love the night shift.â
You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.
âStopââ you gasp, shaking your head. âI canât go back in there.â
âIn where?â Shen asks, appearing in front of you.
You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.
âActually,â Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. âI think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.â
You nod. âOh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.â
Shen frowns. âWhatâs the case?â
âItâs hard to explain,â Ellis says quickly. âYouâre better off seeing it for yourself.â
Shen isnât stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curiousâas most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.
Ellisâ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.
âTrauma Oneâget in here,â Jack says, waving a hand.
You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.
âTwenty-four-year-old maleâfell onto a plastic prop sword,â the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. âPenetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.â
You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.
âAlright, weâll take it from here,â Jack says. âCan you tell us your name, sir?â
âJosh,â the patient replies, his voice strained.
âStabilise the leg,â you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. âOn my countâone, two, three.â
You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.
âJosh!â
A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same partyâwearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurseâs uniform.
âOh my God. Is he bleeding out?â
Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. âI donât remember approving that uniform.â
You shoot him a look. âVery funny, Dr. Abbot.â
His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.
âNot that Iâd object,â he murmurs.
You arch a brow. âThe nurses might.â
âIâm not a nurse,â the woman says, indignant. âIâm a sexy doctor.â
You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with âDr. Feelgoodâ printed in bold pink letters.
You hum. âRight.â
âStill not the sexiest doctor in the room,â Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.
Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.
âHave you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?â you ask.
Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.
âIâve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,â Jack notes.
Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
âWeâre going to get you something for the pain, alright?â you say, watching Olive insert the IV. âBut first, I need to know what happened and how much youâve had to drink.â
Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Joshâs pants, fully exposing the entry site.
âIânghâI fell on itââ Josh manages. âItâs not evenânot even realâfuckââ
Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.
âWhat about alcohol?â you ask again.
âLikeâtwo beers,â he replies.
âAny drugs?â
âNoâahâno drugs.â
You nod. âOkay. Letâs give another twenty-five of fent.â
âCan we get surgery down here?â Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.
Mateo moves to grab the phone. âCalling now.â
Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. âAlright. Whatâs next?â
âRepeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, donât remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.â
He nods again. âGood.â
You try to ignore the way heâs watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.
âPulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,â you report.
âGood,â he says again. âKeep checking. If that changes, we move faster.â
You nod once before turning back to Josh.
âDo you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?â
He shakes his head faintly. âNo.â
âOkay, tetanus boosterââ you glance up at Jack, âand antibiotics.â
âWhich antibiotic?â
âCefazolin?â
He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightlyâthen he turns to Olive. âYou heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.â
You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.
âLetâs flag contamination risk for surgery,â Jack says, pulling off his gloves. âAnd X-ray forââ
âPosition and fragments,â you cut in, finishing for him. âAnd CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.â
He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.
âAlright,â he says, mildly amused. âI can see Iâm no longer needed in here.â
You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.
âEntry looks clean, bleedingâs controlledâletâs pack around it and get him to imaging.â
Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesnât shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure youâve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.
You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. Theyâre just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.
When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nursesâ station. You donât quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before youâre dragged into another trauma.
You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. Youâre halfway through the patientâs intake whenâ
You stopâthen take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.
âDeran?â
The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.
He smiles. âHey, doc.â
âWhatâre you doing here?â you ask, despite the obvious.
Heâs got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag thatâs already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.
âI was helping a friend with his truck,â he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. âThe prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.â
âOuch,â you murmur, stepping forward.
He huffs out a short laugh. âYeah. Ouch.â
âMind if I take a look?â
âGo for it.â
You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at whatâs underneath. Itâs not that deformedâjust swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise itâs mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he wonât need stitchesâmaybe some steri-strips and a splintâbut youâre more concerned about the dirty rag heâs got wrapped around it.
âWhat dâyou think?â he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. âAm I going to make it?â
You tilt your head. âMaybe. If we act fast.â
He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.
You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. âDo youâuhâhave you seen a doctor yet?â
He shakes his head. âNo. Just you.â
You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twentyâs chart.
âCool. Iâll be your doctorââ You pause, glancing back at him. âUnless you think thatâs a conflict of interest?â
His smile widens. âYou mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburghâs gonna fix me up?â
You roll your eyes. âJust Pittsburgh, huh?â
âWell, I couldnât say the worldâthatâd be way too cheesy.â
You snort. âAll your lines are cheesy.â
He gasps. âAll of them?â
âAll of them,â you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.
âWow,â he mutters. âTough crowd.â
You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.
âAlright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.â
You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.
âThis might sting a bit,â you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. âLet me know if you want me to stop.â
âDo I need a safe word?â he asks smugly.
Your gaze flicks up, unamusedâthen back down to his hand without a word.
âIâm gonna go with meatball,â he decides. âBecauseââ
ââyour favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,â you cut in. âI know.â
His brows lift. âWow.â
Your eyes flick up again. âWow what?â
He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. âNothing. I just⊠didnât think you paid that much attention.â
You donât look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldnât turn this into a deeper conversation than youâre willing to have right now.
After a beat, Deran hums. âStill doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?â
You roll your eyes. âItâs not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.â
âYeah, I know,â he says, glancing back down at his hand. âI guess I just figured since I hadnât heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.â
You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. âYeah, wellâyouâd be wrong.â
He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.
âAlright,â you say, turning back. âLift your hand for me.â
He lifts it slowly.
âCan you move your fingers?â
His eyes go wide.
You give him a flat look. âJust try.â
His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.
âOkay, thatâs enough,â you say, scooting forward again. âAny numbness or tingling?â
He shakes his head. âNo.â
You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinkyâuntil it turns whiteâthen watch the colour return beneath his nail.
âCap refillâs good,â you mutter, more to yourself.
He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.
âSo, whatâs the verdictâis my weekend ruined?â
You snort. âNot entirely. Iâll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch itâI need to see exactly where the fracture is first.â
âWell then,â he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. âGood thing Iâm right-handed.â
It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.
Then it clicks.
âOh my God,â you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. âWhat is wrong with you?â
He grins. âWhat? You said it yourselfâmy weekend isnât entirely ruined.â
You shake your head. âI didnât think you meant that.â
âWell,â he says slowly, leaning in, âI donât have plans yet, but if youâve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we couldââ
âEverything alright in here?â
You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.
You straighten a little and nod. âYep. All good.â
âExcept my hand,â Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.
âRight.â You shake your head once. âDeran, this is Dr. Abbotâheâs the senior attending on shift tonight.â
Then you glance back at Jack.
âCrush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intactâcap refillâs good, no numbness or tingling. Iâve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.â
Jack nods once. âGood. Any pain management?â
You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.
âI was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.â
He nods again. âSounds like youâve got everything under control.â
You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. âHang tightâIâll come find you once I get your X-ray results.â
He pouts. âYouâre just going to leave me here?â
You roll your eyes, already turning away. âUnavailable, remember.â
Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.
âYou know him?â
You glance up from your tablet. âUhâyeah. Old friend.â
He lifts a brow. âFriend?â
You give him a look. âWhat do you want me to say?â
He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. âFriend works.â
âGood,â you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.
Jack pauses beside you. âMeet me in Central Twelve once youâve put the orders in.â
You frown. âWhy?â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âBecause Iâm your boss, thatâs why.â
Then heâs gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deranâs chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelveâs chartâif only to annoy Jack by getting a head startâbut thereâs nothing in the system.
Great. Must be a brand-new patient.
You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.
The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isnât unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.
You take a breath, turn the handleâand freeze when you spot the empty bed.
âShut the door,â Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer heâs rummaging through.
You hesitate. âAm I in trouble?â
He sighs. âDo you ever just do what youâre told?â
You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.
âSometimes,â you say. âDepends whatâs in it for me.â
Jack straightens, turning toward you. âThatâs a remarkably transactional approach to life.â
You shrug. âI believe in reciprocation.â
He takes a step closer. âThatâs not what reciprocation means.â
âReally?â you ask. âBecause last time I checkedâin the shower, by the wayâyou were getting a pretty good deal.â
His mouth quirks. âAre you saying I owe you?â
You step forward. âWhoâs keeping count?â
âMaybe I am,â he murmurs.
Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugsâjust enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isnât an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.
He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing moreâand for a second it almost feels like heâs going to give it to you.
Then he pulls away.
Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.
You blink. âWhat was that?â
He lifts a shoulder. âNothing.â
âNothing?â
He steps toward the door.
âDr. Toomarianâs got a patient to present.â
You stare at him. âSeriously?â
He reaches for the handle.
âSouth Sixteen.â
Then heâs gone, and youâre left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.
That was weird.
Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.
It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.
The department is exactly as youâd left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.
âHey,â you say, stepping up to the nursesâ station. âGot anything easy for me?â
Lena glances over the top of her glasses. âEasy left three hours ago.â
You sigh. âCome on. Thereâs got to be something.â
Her eyes flick back down. âIâve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.â
âPerfect. Iâllââ
âIâve got this one,â Jack says, appearing beside you. âDr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.â
You frown. âBut Iââ
âNow.â
You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.
âFine,â you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. âBut when Iâm admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that youâre the reason why.â
Then you turn and head for the South hall before youâre tempted to say something even less professional.
You donât normally snap like thatâespecially not at an attendingâbut something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasnât settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jackâs stupid little half-smirk after heâd kissed you, youâre annoyed.
You just canât figure out why.
He doesnât normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.
He doesnât normally order you around like youâre a lost med student.
And he definitely doesnât volunteer to see migraine patients.
But you donât normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. Itâs what you do. So whatâs so different about tonight?
âHey.â Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. âYou good?â
You blink. âYeah. Why?â
âYou look like youâre contemplating homicide.â
âAnd if I am?â
âIâd be obliged to remind you that weâre here to save lives, not end them.â
âDamn. Guess Iâll just have to wait until after my shift.â
Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. âIs this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?â
You frown. âWho did you think you saw?â
âDeran.â
âOh.â
You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.
âThat was fast,â you mutter.
Her brows lift. âWait. Youâre his physician?â
You shrug. âYeah.â
âIsnât that a conflict of interest?â
âIsnât my life a conflict of interest?â
She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. âItâs one of those nights, huh?â
You sigh. âYep.â
She puts a hand on your shoulder. âGood luck.â
âThanks.â
Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you donât recognise as if to rub it in that sheâs having a far more pleasant shift than you are.
You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient whoâs convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time youâve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isnât a substitute for medical advice, youâre finally able to move on.
The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.
It isnât until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nursesâ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink sheâd forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.
âShen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.â
Lena tilts her head. âButt Lightyear?â
âYou donât want to know,â you murmur into your drink.
âThey tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,â Ellis explains.
âThe wings?â
She smirks. âYeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.â
You shut your eyes. âOuch.â
âLet me guess,â Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. âHe slipped?â
Ellis nods. âYep. Total accident.â
âYeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,â you add.
Lena sighs. âEvery day I learn something new against my will.â
You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversationâand the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. Youâre about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.
You narrow your eyes. âWhy is he still in there?â
Ellis shrugs. âNot sure. I thought it was just a migraine.â
âLaughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,â you mutter.
Ellis glances at you. âDo you know who she is?â
âNope.â
âHuh.â
You look at her. âWhat?â
She shakes her head. âNothing.â
âI have no idea who she is,â you say, grabbing your tablet. âAnd frankly? I donât care.â
Ellis nods. âOkay.â
âGood.â
Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient youâre actually on your way to see.
It isnât long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahanâs room to see if sheâs been discharged yet. Which she hasnâtâbut at least Jackâs not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you canât imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.
Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because youâre looking this timeâyouâre genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstationâbut sheâs still in there. And she certainly doesnât look like sheâs in pain anymore.
If you were her, youâd be demanding discharge papers by now.
The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart youâve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.
âYou know thatâs Abbotâs ex, right?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Shen nods toward Central Nine. âMs. Callahan. Sheâs Abbotâs ex.â
You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.
âOh.â
Shen nods slowly. âAnyway. Heâs looking for you.â
You frown. âWho?â
âDr. Abbot.â
âWhy?â
Shen shrugs. âDidnât say.â
You sigh. âGreat.â
He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.
âDid he say where?â you ask.
âSouth.â
You nod once. âThanks.â
Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still donât entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.
You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patientâand heâs leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that heâll admit it.
âShen said you wanted to see me.â
He glances up. âYour friendâs imaging came back.â
âAnd?â
âHand surgery wants him,â he says, offering you his tablet.
You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. âFracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.â
You flip through the images and skim over the surgeonâs review.
âOkay. Iâll send him up.â
Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.
âHave you eaten?â
You frown. âWhat?â
âHave you eaten anything tonight?â
âI had an energy drink.â
He stares at you. âThatâs not food.â
You shrug. âI havenât had time.â
âMake time.â
You roll your eyes. âFine. I didnât bring anything.â
He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deranâs X-rays and brings up another patientâs chart.
âThereâs a container in the fridge.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âTop shelf. Left side. Blue lid.â
Your brows lift. âYou brought me food?â
He glances up again. âI brought extra food. Itâs that pasta you like.â
As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.
âGo eat,â he says. âI doubt surgeryâs coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.â
You want to argue. You really do. Because you donât need to be looked after. You donât need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and youâd have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three oâclock in the morning.
âFine,â you mutter, already turning away. âIâll eat.â
âYouâre welcome.â
You donât look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then heâll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.
You donât even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.
âOh. Hey.â
Ellis waves her fork. âHey.â
You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jackâs blue-lidded tupperware.
You donât answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.
âSheâs his ex, by the way,â you say without thinking.
âHuh?â
You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.
âThe woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me sheâs Jackâs ex.â
âOh. Yeah.â Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. âI know.â
You tilt your head. âHow do you know?â
âI asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,â she says, as if it were obvious.
âOh.â
You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jackâs container rotating slowly inside.
âWhatâd he say?â
Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. âJust that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasnât ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now theyâre friends.â
You frown. âFriends? Heâs never mentioned her to me.â
Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. âWhy would he?â
You hesitate. âBecause weâreâwell, you knowâŠâ
Her mouth twitches. âI thought it was casual.â
âIt is,â you say quickly. âI just thought he wouldâve mentionedââ
âDoes Abbot know who Deran is?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Ellis smirks. âYou know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, orââ she tilts her head, âI guess itâs former Mr. Thursday mornings now.â
âWellânot exactly, but thatâsââ
The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.
âThatâs different?â Ellis offers.
You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.
âYes,â you say firmly. âItâs different. Jack knows weâre not exclusive, but he doesnât need to know who the other guys are.â
Ellis snorts. âOr were.â
You glare at her.
âAlright,â she says, leaning back in her chair. âThen why do you need to know who she is?â
You stab a piece of pasta. âI donât. Iâm just... curious.â
âYou mean jealous.â
Your head snaps up. âIâm not jealous. I donât care what he does when heâs not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.â
âI am not,â you protest. âItâs casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I donât need him. I donât need anyone. I mean, sure, itâs fun when theyâre good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I donât need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. Iâm happy exactly the way things are.â
Ellis nods slowly. âOkay, Miss Independent. I get it.â
âThank you.â
âJust to be clear,â she says, pushing her chair back, âyouâre standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?â
You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
âYour hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and Iâm pretty sure those are his socks.â Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. âYou havenât slept in your own bed once this week and, unless Iâm forgetting somebody, you havenât seen another guy in...â She pauses, pretending to think. âWow. Almost four months now.â
You stare at her.
âAnd when you got that stomach bug last month,â she says, grabbing her container as she stands, âhe called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.â
She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.
âThatâs not casual.â
The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.
âAnyway,â she says lightly, reaching for the handle. âLet me know when youâre ready to admit youâre in love with him.â
Then sheâs gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.
You donât move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isnât that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.
No.
Itâs notâ
It canât beâ
You would know if you were inâ
Fuck.
You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.
This is ridiculous.
Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.
Youâre not inâ
God. You canât even think about that word.
You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.
Itâs almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isnât enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.
Jerk.
You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellisâ tupperware.
Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what youâre going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.
âHey,â you say, pulling the curtain back. âHow are you feeling?â
Deran glances up. âHey, doc. Long time no see.â
You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.
âBeen busy,â you say. âAre the painkillers working?â
He lifts his hand, wincing. âA little.â
You glance at the clock on the wall. âYou could probably get some more soon.â
His brows pull together slightly. âIs that your way of saying Iâm not heading home any time soon?â
You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.
âNot tonight, no. Iâm sorry.â
He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.
âI know,â you murmur, leaning in. âBut one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and youâve got a fracture right here.â You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. âI was expecting a break, but itâs lower than weâd like and close enough to the joint that this isnât something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.â
He lifts his head.
âThereâs also some concern about the tendon around it,â you continue. âThe finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeonâs worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âTheyâll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.â
His brows draw tighter. âRepair?â
âThe fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once theyâre in there.â
He lets his head fall back again. âGreat.â
âYouâll be okay.â
âI know,â he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. âJust not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.â
You roll your eyes. âReally?â
âWill you be here when I wake up?â
You snort. âHopefully not. If all goes well, Iâll be at home asleep.â
He sighs. âDamn.â
You push the stool back and stand. âAny other questions before I sign you off to surgery?â
He lifts his head, frowning slightly. âYeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.â
You tilt your head. âWhat guy?â
âThe one that came in here before. The attending.â
Your stomach drops.
âWhat about him?â
âI thought he was your boss.â
You fold your arms. âHe is.â
âHuh.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âItâs justââ He hesitates. âI donât know. You just donât usually look at your boss like that.â
You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.
âYou sure you didnât hit your head?â
His brows lift. âWait. Did I hit a nerve?â
âNo.â
âYou sure?â
Your eyes narrow. âWhy donât you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?â
He shakes his head. âI already called my mom.â
âGood,â you mutter, already turning away. âGood luck in surgery.â
âTell your boss I said hi.â
âBye, Deran.â
His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.
You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.
The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shiftâbut tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything youâve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.
Not that youâre feeling anything.
At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks youâre feeling.
You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.
By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.
Because thatâs exactly what it is.
Ridiculous.
âDr. Abbot,â Bridget calls from behind the desk. âCan you take a look at this for me?â
You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nursesâ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.
He needs to wear his glasses. Youâve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.
Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isnât worthy of his clear vision.
Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time heâd worn them during sex. The time heâd insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.
You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.
Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you canât quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what sheâs saying. Youâre too busy watching the way Jackâs left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.
It must be really sore tonight.
He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridgetâs askingâbut heâs tired. You know heâs tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way heâs shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that heâs counting down the hours to the end of shift.
Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.
His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.
âYou alright?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. âThatâs the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. Whatâs going on?â
âUhââ
You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lipsâand your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.
What the fuck?
You clear your throat. âYeah. No. Iâm fine.â
âYou sure?â
Hendersonâthe perceptive bastardâglances toward the nursesâ station, and his eyes widen.
âOh, shit. Did something happen between you two?â
Your stomach flips. âWhat?â
He gestures vaguely toward Jack. âYou and Abbot. Did you break up or something?â
âWhat?â you say again, louder this time. âWhy would you evenâI mean, weâre notâweâve never dated. Why would you think that?â
He tilts his head. âReally? I thought Ellis saidââ
âEllis?â
âNot just Ellis.â
Your eyes go wide. âWho else?â
He shrugs. âEveryone assumes you guys are together.â
âTogether?â
He frowns. âYouâre not?â
âNo,â you say, almost too fast. âNo. Weâre not together, weâre justâitâs⊠casual.â
His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. âCasual?â
âYes,â you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. âAre you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?â
Henderson laughs. âActually, now that I think about it, I donât think Iâve ever heard Shen mention it.â
Your head snaps up. âPeople talk about it?â
Henderson shrugs. âItâs gossip.â
You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, whenâ
âTrauma inbound,â Lena calls. âMale, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.â
âShit,â Henderson mutters. âThatâs not gonna be fun.â
Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. âTrauma Two. Letâs go.â
You hesitate, taking a step back. âIâI canât. Sorry.â
âItâs alright,â Henderson says quickly. âI can jump in.â
Heâs already moving before heâs even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then anotherâand just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.
He hasnât moved. Heâs still standing by the nursesâ station. Watching you.
Your stomach twists.
Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.
And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isnât long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and youâre forced back into work mode.
The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jackâs name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jackâs and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.
By the time youâre halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasnât settled and youâre no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, itâs getting worse.
Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patientâs intake form, determined to stay distracted. Youâre just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance upâand there he is.
His brows lift, just slightly. âA word?â
Shit.
âUm. Sure.â
You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nursesâ station that no one nosy can overhear.
When he finally stops and turns to face you, youâre remindedâquite aggressivelyâjust how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.
âWhat was that?â
You take a small step back. âWhat was what?â
He nods vaguely toward Central. âYou completely dodged that trauma back there.â
âYeah. Sorry.â You look away. âI justâI had a patient I needed to get back to.â
âWeâve all got patients,â he says, folding his arms. âBut this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumasâyou know that.â
You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. âI know. Iâm sorry. Iâm just... a little distracted tonight.â
âDistracted?â he echoes. âIs this about your friend?â
Your head snaps up. âMy friend?â
âThe one you just sent up to surgery.â His jaw tightens, just briefly. âIf Iâm being honest, Iâm not even sure you shouldâve been his physician.â
You frown. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âItâs a conflict of interest.â
You scoff. âA conflict of interest? Seriously?â
He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.
âYes.â
You lift your chin. âAlright. Howâs Ms. Callahan, then?â
He blinks. âWho?â
âCentral Nine. Your ex.â
He stares at you for a second.
âWho told you that?â
âIt doesnât matter,â you say quickly. âWhat matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âSo heâs not just an old friend.â
You tilt your head. âYou knew that, Jack.â
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jackâs looking at you, youâre not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as youâd hoped.
âLook,â you say, desperate to end this interaction. âIâm sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right thereâitâs not like I left you hanging. I knew heâd jump in.â
Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. âYouâre right,â he says. âIâm sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.â
You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.
âGuess I should stop playing favourites, huh?â
You frown again. âFavourites?â
He lifts a shoulder. âYouâre always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.â
Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.
âWhat about Dr. Robby?â you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.
He leans in slightly. âIâd still choose you.â
The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.
You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they donât. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.
Whatever.
Maybe they donât mean anything.
You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart youâd been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you heâd still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.
Ridiculous.
You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college studentâs knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again itâs almost seven.
âShit,â you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nursesâ station.
You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.
âHey.â Henderson sits at the computer across from you. âLittle girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.â
You glance over at him. âOh. Nice.â
âHer mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.â
You snort. âBetween the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.â
Henderson huffs a laugh. âApparently sheâs been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.â
Your brows lift. âReally?â
Henderson grins. âAnd now she wants to be a doctor just like you."
âYeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?â
âAssuming you had one to begin with,â Robby cuts in.
You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
âAnd here I was worried youâd be in a good mood this morning,â you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. âCareful.â
You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.
It takes exactly eight minutes before youâre interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.
âAlright,â Lena says as she hangs up the phone. âMale, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.â
âIâll take it,â Robby says, setting his coffee down. âLetâs prep Trauma One.â
He glances around the unusually empty floor.
âIâll jump in,â you offer, pushing your chair back.
Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nursesâ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. Itâs not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you havenât had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and youâre starting to feel a little guilty about it.
âSee,â Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. âThereâs hope for you yet.â
You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isnât long before you hear sirens.
The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldnât be older than four.
âThirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,â the paramedic says. âPositive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.â
The second paramedic circles the van from the driverâs side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.
Robby nods toward the daughter. âYou check her out?â
âWe did a quick assessment on scene, but weâve been focused on Dad,â the paramedic says, still holding her.
âAlright. Weâll get somebody to take a look at her.â
The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the manâs forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.
âStay with me, sir,â you say, squeezing his arm. âCan you tell me your name?â
âBarry,â he murmurs.
âWhere does it hurt, Barry?â
He winces. âMyâmy stomach.â
The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly youâre back under the bright fluorescent lights.
âAbbot,â Robby calls. âCan you take a look at the kid?â
Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.
âHey, sweetheart,â he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedicâs arms. âYour dadâs in good hands. Come on, letâs get you checked out too.â
You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.
The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.
âPressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,â he reports.
Olive quickly cuts Barryâs shirt open.
âSeatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,â you say, pressing gently along his stomach.
He grimaces when you reach his left side.
âLeftâs worse.â
Robby holds out a hand. âUltrasound.â
Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barryâs abdomen.
âRUQ,â Robby says.
You glance up at the ultrasound screen. âClear.â
âLUQ.â
âClear.â
âPelvis.â
âNothing obvious.â
âGood,â Robby says. âFAST negative. Heâs stable enough for CT.â
You turn to Olive. âCT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.â
She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isnât a guarantee, but itâs a promising start.
Barry groans, trying to lift his head. âWhereâs my daughter? Whereâs Ellie?â
You press a hand against his shoulder.
âHey, donât try to sit up. Your daughterâs okayâsheâs just outside with another doctor.â
âSheâs okay?â
You nod. âSheâs okay.â
He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.
âHold on.â
You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.
âForehead lac,â you tell Robby. âAbout three centimetres.â
He glances over. âAlright. Weâll close it up before he goes to imaging.â
He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.
âLidocaine,â Robby says.
You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.
âStay still for us, Barry,â you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. âThis might sting a little.â
He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.
âSaline,â Robby says.
You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.
âHowâs the pain?â you ask.
ââS okay,â Barry mumbles.
âForceps.â
You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.
âLight,â he murmurs.
You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that itâs in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.
You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barryâs heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.
âScissors,â Robby says.
You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barryâs vitals.
âYou with us, Barry?â Robby asks.
âYeah,â Barry murmurs.
âCanât feel the needle, can you?â
âNo.â
âGood.â
You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.
But it isnât Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.
Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nursesâ station is Barryâs daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but sheâs not crying anymore. Sheâs got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.
Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.
Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You canât hear what heâs saying, but you can make an educated guess.
Ellieâs tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jackâs chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesnât topple backwards.
Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.
Sheâs taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.
âDoctor.â
You blink, glancing back at Robby.
âYeah?â
He gives you a look. âScissors. For the third time.â
âOh. Sorry.â
You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. Sheâs giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jackâs cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.
âForceps.â
You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.
His eyes flick up. âYou alright?â
âYeah. Why?â
âYouâre smiling.â
âNo, Iâmââ
Oh my God.
You are smiling.
You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.
Oh my God.
Youâre in love with Jack Abbot.
âAlright, Barry,â Robby says, peeling his gloves off. âWeâre gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didnât miss anything.â
You take one unsteady step back from the bed.
âCan someone call my wife?â Barry asks, his voice strained.
Robby nods. âI'm sure somebody already has, but Iâll check.â
Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.
âWhat about Ellie? Can I see her?â
âOf course,â Robby says. âSheâs right outside.â
Barry lifts his head slightly. âAm I okay?â
âWell, youâre talking to me, your pressureâs holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.â Robby looks at you. âIsnât that right, doctor?â
Your head snaps up. âHm?â
He frowns. âYou sure youâre alright? You seemââ
âIâm fine,â you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. âI justâI have charting to do.â
Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.
You donât stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You canât scream. Canât shout. Canât drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just⊠breathe.
Okay. Maybe youâre being a little dramaticâbut can anyone blame you?
You donât want this. You canât want this. You donât have time for this.
Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. Thatâs all you want.
Or⊠all you wanted.
Now?
Now youâre not sure what you want.
Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you canât imagine doing either of those things without Jack.
You canât imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You canât imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.
You canât imagine anything without Jack.
Which is terrifying.
Because it isnât just sex anymore. It isnât flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. Itâs the way heâs somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. Heâs just there. Everywhere.
And now... he matters.
You sit up and drag in a deep breath.
You need to pull it together. This isnât the end of the world. Itâs not even a thing. Itâs only a thing if you let it be a thing, which⊠youâre not going to do.
With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.
You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings willâ
âHey. You okay?â
Your heart lurches, but you donât stop.
âI was going to come over there,â he says, keeping his voice low, âbut I didnât want toââ
âIâm fine,â you murmur, without even looking at him.
His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard itâs almost nauseating.Â
âYou sure?â
You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
âIâm fine,â you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. âSeriously.â
He gives you a look. Not one that says heâs offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesnât believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.
âI need to finish my notes,â you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.
You turn down the North corridor and donât stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.
It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a fewâmostly coherentâsentences. You type Jackâs name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.
Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.
Now you just need to handover your patients.
You find Langdon by the nursesâ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.
âHey.â You step up beside him. âYou got a minute for handover?â
He glances at you. âOh. Hey. Didnât know there were still any night crawlers left.â
You frown. âEveryoneâs gone?â
âEveryone but Dr. Abbot,â he says. âAnd you.â
Your eyes go wide. âEllis is gone?â
He nods. âSaw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.â
You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.
Ellis: Abbot said heâs giving you a lift, so Iâm headed out.
Ellis: Need anything from the store?
Your stomach drops.
âEverything alright?â Langdon asks.
âUhâyeah. Fine.â
You tuck your phone back into your pocket.
âIâve only got two patients. Can you take them?â
He nods. âOf course.â
âAlright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECGâs clean, waiting on the repeat. If thatâs negative too, he can go home.â
âMhm.â
âAnd South Nineteenâs the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said theyâd come see her, but I wouldnât hold my breath.â
Langdon snorts. âGot it.â
You nod. âGreat. Thanks.â
âAnything else?â
âNope.â
He smiles. âGreat sign-out.â
âI try,â you mutter, already turning away.
You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.
You: Youâre dead to me.
You: And toothpaste.
When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You donât bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket onâyou just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.
Maybe you can catch a bus home. Orâhellâyouâll pay for an Uber if you have to.
âHey, slow down,â Dana says as you rush past the nursesâ station. âWhatâs the hurry?â
âSorry,â you call over your shoulder. âJustâreally need to get home.â
Youâre moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.
You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.
Only, you canât remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?
âYou ready?â
You flinch. âJesus Christ.â
Jack huffs a laugh. âNot quite.â
You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.
âIâm this way,â he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.
You hesitate. âIâuhâI was just going to grab an Uber.â
His brows lift, but he doesnât look all that surprised. âYou were?â
You nod. âYeah. Iâm good. Thanks.â
âYou sure?â
âYep.â
You turn away, but he doesnât leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack thatâs slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.
âIs there something going on that I should know about?â he asks finally.
âNope,â you reply, too fast.
Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.
âWhere are you going?â
âThe bus stop,â you say, without looking back.
He follows you. Because of course he does.
âYouâre going to catch a bus?â
âYep.â
He laughs again, but this time itâs more disbelief than dry amusement.
âIâm offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and youâd rather catch a bus?â
That makes you stop.
You turn around. âNo strings attached?â
He lifts a shoulder. âIf thatâs what you want.â
âWhat I want?â
âIf you want me to just drop you off, Iâll just drop you off.â
You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.
âJust drop me off?â
He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.
âAnd then what?â you ask.
He tilts his head. âWhat do you mean?â
âThen you just leave?â
âIf thatâs what you want.â
Your throat tightens. âStop saying that.â
He frowns. âSaying what?â
âIf thatâs what I want.â You drag a hand through your hair. âYou keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like itâs my choice and you donât get to say anything orâor feel anything, and thatâs not fair.â
He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.
âWhat are we talking about here?â
âI donât know!â You throw your hands up. âThis. Us. Whatever this is. I donât know what weâre doing anymore, Jack. I donât know what Iâm supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.â
His eyes narrow. âIâm... too reasonable?â
âYes! Godââ You laugh once, sharp and humourless. âWhy are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everythingâs fine and maybe thatâs worked up until now, but I don't think itâs working anymore.â
âOkay,â he says evenly. âTell me whatâs not working, and we can talk about it.â
âTalk about it?â You stare at him. âTalk about what? Thereâs nothing to talk about, because thisâthis isnât anything. This is casual, Jack. Itâs supposed to be casual. And maybe thatâs the problem. Maybe weâve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space orâor something.â
His brows lift. âIs that what you want?â
You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. âYes.â
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.
âOkay,â he says again. âIf you want space, I can give you space.â
âSeriously?â You let out another sharp laugh. âOf course thatâs your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and youâre just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.â
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. âDo you want me to argue?â
âMaybe!â You throw your hands up again. âI donât know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, youâd give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, youâd end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, youâd just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me thatâs okay too.â
You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.
âAnd donât tell me thatâs not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasnât paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. Youâre a doctor. I know that. I know Iâm being irrational.â
You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.
âAnd thatâs the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. Thatâs the problem. Itâs not about her at all. Itâs about the fact that youâre always fine. Youâre always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I donât know how you do that.â You let out an unsteady breath. âIt's likeâlike none of this matters to you. Like you donât care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.â
Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard youâre almost sure he can hear it.
He doesnât say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly youâre struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what youâve been trying so hard not to say.
âYou think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?â he asks, his voice soft. âYou think I could walk away from you?â
He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.
âWhen this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didnât want a relationshipâand if thatâs still not what you want, then okay. Iâm not going to pressure you into something youâre not ready for. Iâm not trying to be overly reasonable, and Iâm certainly not trying to make you feel like youâre losing your mind.â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âWhen I ask you what you want, itâs not because I donât care what happens. Itâs because I do. Itâs because Iâd rather be patient than push you into something before youâre ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then Iâll give you space.â
His gaze holds yours.
âBut donât mistake that for indifference. Because thereâs no version of this where walking away from you is easy. Thereâs no version of this where I donât care. And if one day you tell me thatâs what you really want, then Iâll respect it. Not because itâs what I want. Not because what I feel doesnât matter. But because I respect you.â
His expression softens again.
âDo you understand?â
You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.
âNow listen to me.â
He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.
âI know youâve had a long shift. I know youâre exhausted. I know youâre standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and Iâm not trying to make your day any harder than it already isâbut I need you to hear this.â
His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.
âI love you too.â
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.
His lips quirk. âYou alright?â
âNo,â you breathe.
And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.
He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.
You step in until thereâs nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that youâre standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.
And for a second, neither of you seems to care.
The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows heâs got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.
Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.
âDonât,â you murmur against his mouth.
He doesnât say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way heâd just been holding you.
Then he pulls back completely.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.
âStill catching the bus?â
You immediately let go of his shirt. âShut up.â
He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.
âMy carâs the other way,â he calls.
You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.
Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
âShut up,â you say again.
His smile only widens.
You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.
You donât need to look back to know heâs following you.
You just know.
And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise youâre smiling.
