Content warning; Mentions of prosthetic limbs, shower sex, female reader
Summary; You want Jack to feel comfortable in your space, even if that means making a few home improvements
He knocked twice, then let himself in with the key you gave him last month, takeout bag in one hand, an easy grin already on his face in anticipation of seeing you.
"Hey, I brought, " he stopped in the hallway. The bag crinkled as his grip tightened slightly. He could hear you in the bathroom, the hum of a drill, and a thick air of concentration. He set the food down on the counter then he stopped. Leaning neatly against the arm of your sofa was a brand-new pair of crutches.
They weren't his.
The rubber tips were spotless and they still had the plastic films wrapped around the length. He reached out, running his thumb over the plastic.
"What?"
A mumble floated out of the bathroom, and he followed the sound. The bathroom door stood open with you, kneeling on an old towel spread across the tiles, drill clutched in one hand as you tightened the final screw into a stainless-steel grab bar mounted beside the shower. The room looked like a renovation site. Your toolbox laid open on the floor, surrounded by scattered screws, instruction booklets, a tape measure, and a level. Fine white dust coated the towel beneath your knees, and another streak dusted the front of your jean shorts where you'd wiped your hands without thinking. You leaned back, squinting at the grab bar before holding the level against it.
"Hey." His voice was careful, the ER calm he uses when he doesn't want to spook someone.
You jumped, looking over your shoulder. "Jesus Jack!" The drill nearly slipped out of your grip and you pressed a hand to your chest. "You scared me."
"I wanted to surprise you." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely, eyes tracking over the rails, the seat, even a small rubber mat waiting to be unrolled, then back to you.
"What is all this?"
Your smile became suddenly unsure and you didn’t know what to say.
"There are crutches on your couch." He said, pointing to the living room.
You glanced past him.
"I was wondering where I left them." You joked, and he crossed the small bathroom in two steps, crouched down next to you, and wrapped a hand around the rail, testing the give. Solid. Level. Anchored properly.
"I watched a lot of YouTube videos." You told him and he laughed, but it caught halfway and when he looked at you his eyes were too bright for it to just be amusement.
He didn’t say anything else for a moment. Just stayed crouched there next to the rail, one hand still resting on it, like he needed the solid weight of it under his palm to believe it's real.
"Jack?"
"Yeah. Sorry. I'm," he shook his head, huffed a breath out through his nose, and when he looked up at you his eyes were shining in a way that caught you off guard. "Can I sit down a second?"
"Of course."
He didn’t go far, just sank down right there on the closed toilet lid, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them like he was trying to hold onto something.
“You never stay here, you always find an excuse why we should go back to yours instead, and I realised that you’re not comfortable here.” You gestured to your handy work, “but I want you to feel comfortable. I want you to be able to come back here, and not think.”
He lifted his head looking at you through his lashes.
“I know your apartment is easier, but I want it to be easy here too. So after work, if you come here you’ll have crutches and you won’t have to put your leg back on in the night to pee, and I don’t know.” Your voice trailed off, going quiet. You and Jack had only been dating a month or so, and you weren’t sure if you had overstepped.
"I've spent years figuring out how to walk into a room and just read it," he said, eyes drifting back to his hands. “You get good at doing the math so fast nobody even notices you're doing it." He laughed, but it didn't have much air behind it. "I'm good at doing the math." He looked up at you, and there was nothing guarded in his face then, none of the easy charm he wore at work. Just him. "Nobody's ever done the math for me. Everybody loves me, everybody's kind, but it's always me figuring out how to fit into their space. Their apartment. Their life." His jaw worked for a second.
Your throat went tight, and you tried to hold back tears. "It's just grab rails."
"It's not." He reached over and took your hand, turning it over like he was checking it for damage, thumb tracing over your knuckles. "It's you looking at your apartment and thinking about my body instead of just my company." His voice cracked slightly on the last word and he pressed his lips together, blinking hard.
"Hey." You slide onto your knees in front of him, hands coming up to his face. "Hey, look at me."
He did, his eyes were wet now, unashamed of it in a way that undid you a little. He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into him, forehead dropping to your shoulder, one hand fisted gently in the back of your shirt like he was anchoring himself the same way he anchored his hand to that rail a minute ago. You felt his body shake.
"I didn't know," he whispered, "how badly I wanted somewhere I didn't have to think."
You rubbed slow circles across his back. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red and cheeks damp.
“You’ve given me the first place, other than my own apartment,” his smile trembled, “that feels like home.”
Your eyes filled immediately, you cupped his face, kissing him gently, tasting salt and coffee and relief.
By the time you had both wiped your faces and laughed a little at yourselves for crying over grab rails, you migrated to the kitchen. The food was lukewarm but neither of you cared.
"So," he said, popping the lid off a container of noodles, "tell me about this YouTube deep-dive.”
"Oh, it was extensive." You hopped up onto the counter, swinging your legs. "I watched probably twelve different videos on stud finders alone. Did you know there's beef in the accessibility-installation community about magnetic versus electronic stud finders?"
He laughed real and warm, the heaviness from a few minutes ago starting to ease off his shoulders. "Is that right?"
"I’m serious. I have opinions now. Strong ones. And I measured everything,” you held up two fingers, very serious. "Twice. How far out from the wall it needed to sit so it'd actually hold weight and not just look nice. I did not want to be the reason you ended up back in the ER. Can you imagine? Patient's girlfriend attempted home renovation, patient acquired new injury via poorly anchored bar.'" You shook your head. "We would never live it down. Absolutely not happening on my watch."
He grinned around a mouthful of noodles, and for a second he just looked at you like he's still catching up to the fact that you exist and did all this, sitting on your counter joking about stud finders.
"There's more, actually," you added, a little more casual than you felt. "I'm not done. I still need to put up shelving in the shower, lower down, where you can actually reach it without stretching weird. So the shampoo and everything's just right there. I don’t want you having to reach up and over the seat for stuff."
He went quiet again, fork slowing.
"You've really thought about all of this."
"I mean, what's the point of half doing it?" You shrugged, picking at the edge of your own container. "If your shampoo's up on some shelf that's designed for someone who's just standing there, that defeats the whole purpose, right? Might as well not bother."
He sets his fork down, reaches over, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek.
“It gave me an excuse to buy a drill. And as it turns out, I'm very handy. It's one of my best qualities."
"It's up there," he agreed, voice softer now. "Right up there."
He leaned in and kissed you softly. The kiss lingers a little longer this time, his hand sliding up into your hair, and when you finally pull back you're both a little breathless.
"I'm covered in drywall dust," you murmur against his mouth. "Very unsexy. There's dust in places dust should not be."
"I hadn't noticed." He definitely noticed. His thumb brushed a smudge of it off your cheekbone anyway, gently.
"I should probably shower.” You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "You know. Since I have a brand new, very sturdy, very Jack-approved shower seat just sitting there. Unused. It seems kind of a waste."
He huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to rest against yours. "You're serious."
"Gotta test the workmanship somehow. Quality control."
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, really look, the way he did when he was deciding whether to let himself want something. Whatever he found in your face settled it. He took you by the hips, helping you off the counter.
"Lead the way," he said. "But if that rail so much as wiggles, I'm writing you up."
"Duly noted."
The bathroom air felt cool against your skin as Jack's fingers worked the buttons of your shirt, sliding the fabric off your shoulders while your hands tugged his shirt up and over his head. His pants followed, then yours, until both of you stood bare. He pulled you close for a slow kiss, his hands tracing over every inch of your body.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbled into your neck as he planted kisses before biting at your ear and sucking the pain away quickly. His hands left you, and your body felt heavy without him there to hold you up anymore. He slipped into the shower quickly, lowering himself onto the new seat. He settled back, looking up at you with a small smile. "Take it off for me," he said, nodding toward his prosthetic. You joined him, halting for a moment before dropping to your knees.
“Are you sure?” You asked, your hands reaching out for him. He ran a hand through your hair, nodding with a content smile on his lips. You slowly eased his leg free and set it aside outside the shower, leaning against the glass door. Jack watched you carefully. You stood and reached for the shower handle, turning the water on, letting the hot spray burst from the showerhead, falling over both of you as steam began to fill the space. His hands found your hips as you stepped closer. "Come here," he murmured. You straddled his lap, Water streamed down your back while his hands stayed at your waist for a moment, steadying you. He reached past you to the ledge, fingers trying to close around the bottle of soap.
"Pass me that," he said, voice low over the rush of water. You gripped onto his shoulder, reaching up and handed it over without hesitation. Jack worked the soap between his palms until thick lather coated them. He started at your collarbones, sliding his soapy hands outward across your shoulders, then down your arms in long, firm strokes. The suds left a slick trail as he moved inward again, palms gliding over your chest. His thumbs dragged slow circles around your nipples, pressing just enough to make them tighten under his touch. He kept going, washing lower, hands smoothing over your ribs and stomach before returning upward to cup your breasts fully. Suds slid between his fingers as he squeezed and rubbed, making sure every inch was covered. You shifted on his lap and he continued, soaping down your sides and along the curve of your waist. His hands dipped lower still, gliding over your hips and the tops of your thighs where they rested against him. The soap rinsed away gradually under the spray, leaving your skin warm and clean. Jack leaned in and kissed you again, slow and deep, his freshly washed hands sliding up your back to pull you closer against his chest. Beneath you, his cock began to swell and harden against your folds. You felt the firm length press upward, growing thicker with each passing second as his hands continued their slow path over your skin. The sensation sent a rush of heat through you, and you felt yourself growing slick between your legs, your pussy starting to coat his shaft with your own wetness. Jack's breathing deepened against your neck as he noticed the shift, his soapy palms still moving over your hips while his cock throbbed harder beneath you. His mouth found yours quickly, lips parting as his tongue slid against yours in a deep, hurried kiss. You kissed him back, hands sliding up his chest while his fingers traced along your spine. You reached beneath you guiding his hard cock to your entrance before sinking down onto him. The thick stretch pulled a moan from your throat. Jack groaned, fingers digging into your ass as you started to ride him, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with the sound of running water.
"Fuck, that's it," he breathed. "Just like that. God, you feel so good."
You moved faster, bouncing on his cock while his hips thrust up to meet you, the seat creaking under the force. His thumb found your clit, rubbing circles as pleasure built between you. "Come on, baby," he urged. "Let me feel that pussy squeeze me.”
Your pace quickened, water cascading over your breasts as you bounced on.
“Jack,” you mumbled, unable to form a thought with the feeling of his inside you.
"That's my girl," he panted. "Fuck yourself on me. I want to feel you come."
You leaned forward, hands on his shoulders as you ground down, circling your hips. Your orgasm hit hard, your walls clenching around his cock as you cried out. Jack held you through it, thrusting up into your spasming cunt until he followed you over the edge, groaning your name as he pumped you full.
“So beautiful,” he pushed your wet hair from your face, still buried deep, his forehead pressing to yours while the shower washed away the evidence of your release. His breathing slowed against your neck, one arm still braced to keep you both steady under the spray.
A week later, and your apartment already looks a little different. A pair of Jacks sneakers by the door, kicked off next to yours instead of carried home in a bag. The shower seat always has a permanent film of steam-fog on it most mornings now, evidence it's actually being used instead of just admired. It was Sunday when he brought it up over coffee, casual, like it's not a big deal even though you both know it kind of was.
"Think we would go to the hardware store today, get something for the rugs, keep the edges down. The runner nearly got me on the way in.” He nudges your foot under the table. You look up from your mug, trying not to make too much of it and failing a little anyway. He says it so easily now, nearly got me, like it's just a fact of the apartment, like he's allowed to notice the hazards out loud instead of quietly working around them and never mentioning it at all. A few months ago he wouldn't have said anything. He'd have just filed it away, adjusted his own path through the room, and let you go on not knowing. Now he's just telling you. Asking, even. Like this is his space to have opinions about. It makes something in your chest go soft and warm, watching him take up room here, literally, happily, without apologizing for it.
"Yeah?" you say. "You want to go to the hardware store with me?"
"I want the rug fixed before it takes me out." He shrugs, easy, but there's the faintest smile tugging at his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing. "And yeah. I like going places with you. Even the hardware store."
"Even the hardware store," you repeat, standing to rinse your mug, hiding your own smile in the process.
"Especially the hardware store." He catches your hand as you pass him, tugging you back down for a quick kiss. "Turns out I've got a lot of opinions about flooring safety. Didn't know that about myself till recently."
You're still smiling about it twenty minutes later, shoes on, his keys jingling in his hand as he locks up behind you both, and the two of you head out into the Sunday morning together, in no rush at all.
The hardware store is nearly empty and Jack's pushing the cart, his arms braced on the handle while you trail behind with your phone out, scrolling through reviews.
"Ok, this one." You hold up a package of thin white mesh squares. "These had good reviews."
"Those'll work for the bedroom rug, maybe." He takes the package, turns it over, unconvinced. "But that runner in your living room's the real problem. Honestly? I think that one just needs to go. Or get rolled up and put somewhere that isn't the main walking path."
You cross your arms, mock-offended. “I’d like to remind you of how expensive that was.”
"So's an ER copay." He grins softly, but doesn't back down. "I'm not saying throw it out. Put it under the coffee table where it's decorative and I don't have to cross it to get to the kitchen."
"Ok, that's reasonable. What about the bedroom?"
"That one's flatter, no curling, so grippers under it should be fine." He hands you the mesh pack back. "Get the thicker gel ones though, not this mesh stuff. Mesh flattens out in like a month and stops doing anything."
"How do you know that?"
"Same way I know everything about flooring hazards. Bitter, extensive personal research." He says it easily, grabbing you and turning you around with a kiss to your cheek. "We need the gel ones. Aisle's back that way." You backtrack with him, falling into step, cart wheel squeaking. He tosses the gel grippers in the cart, then pauses, glancing sideways at you. He laces his fingers through yours as you head toward the checkout, cart rattling along behind you.
"Wait." You tug his hand, slowing him down before you reach the registers. "Can we go look at lamps before we leave? I've been meaning to get something for the corner by the bookshelf."
He raises an eyebrow, amused. "Is this the part where we spend an hour with you trying to decide which lamp to buy?"
“I just want to look."
"Uh-huh." But he's smiling as he lets himself be pulled along, cart trailing behind.
"Five minutes. I'm timing you."
You don't make it out in five minutes. You end up standing in front of a whole wall of lamps, tilting your head at a warm brass one with a linen shade, while Jack leans against the cart and watches you more than the lamps themselves.
"That one," he says finally, nodding at the brass one. "Goes with the wood on your bookshelf."
"You have opinions about lamps too now?"
"Turns out I have opinions about a lot of things when they're in your apartment." He says it easy, like he's only half joking.
Back at your apartment, grocery bags of grippers are dumped on the counter, you both stand in the living room surveying the runner like it's a crime scene.
"Okay," you say, hands on your hips. "Operation Relocate the Rug." You give the rug a final roll and lug it toward the coffee table, a little breathless. Jack shifts the table out of the way for you to place the rug down.
"There," you say, straightening up, hands on your lower back. "Out of the walking path. Vintage rug preserved. Nobody faceplants."
"Big day for rug fanatics.”
"Huge." You flop down onto the couch next to him, surveying the newly rearranged room, the coffee table pulled a few inches to the left now, more room between it and the armchair, a clear path from the front door to the kitchen without a single obstacle in sight.
Jack's looking at it too, quiet, one hand coming to rest on your knee.
"It's a good room," he says finally. You lean your head on his shoulder, and for a minute you both just sit there in the rearranged quiet, grocery bags still waiting on the counter, the whole apartment slowly turning into something built for both of you.
The way you all are making up versions of these actors in your head, concocting conspiracy theories about them and acting like they have a gun to their head is insane. They have talked extensively about how much they love this show and how collaborative the writing process is. I’m now seeing people dissect actors facial expressions in behind the scenes footage to try and desperately convince themselves the actors have the exact same opinions you do about not liking this show. It’s annoying, insane, immature and the fact that you want this show to get canceled because you care “so much” about the actors, who again, talk endlessly about how much they love this show is sad and weird. You do not know these people. Get a life and stop acting like this.
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, Friends-to-Lovers ANGST, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (it's unserious, I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Jealousy, Vomiting, Reader knows ASL,
Main Song: The Knocker by Tiny Habits
Note: Gif in the moodboard by @/wesandresons. Each chapter is one episode of The Pitt, so the chapters are hella long. Thank you!
SEASON ONE:
Summary: It’s your birthday, but The Pitt doesn’t slow down for that. Between subway accidents, drownings, shootings, and the quiet heartbreak of patients who come back again and again, you do your best to keep your hands steady and your head clear. Somewhere in the blur of alarms and blood, you realize you’re holding onto something you shouldn’t—feelings for your quietly grieving chief attending. At The Pitt, you don’t just learn how to save lives.
You learn how hard it is to ignore your own heart.
Chapter 1: Everything's Circling Around Us
Chapter 2: Maybe He Doesn't Care For Sentiment, Or He Doesn't Care For You
Chapter 3: My Persistence Left Me Empty-Handed
Chapter 4: I Should've Learned By Now, You Would Say The Words Out Loud Just To Break Me In Half
Chapter 5: When You Drown Once, It's Scary To Swim Again
Chapter 6: You Turned Me Into Something, And I Allowed You
Chapter 7: Why'd You Have To Leave Me Here Still Hoping?
Chapter 8: I Know It'll Take Time, Some Time To Get Over You
Chapter 9: With The Way You Look At Me, I'm Scared It's Gonna Happen Again
Chapter 10: For Me To Let Go Of What You Meant To Me
Chapter 11: I Wish I Didn’t Feel Like A Burden All The Time
Chapter 12: We Both Got What You Asked For
Chapter 13: The System Works, And We All Stay Terrified
Chapter 14: But You Dream Of Some Epiphany
Chapter 15: I Won’t Ever Mind Crisping Up On Your Backburner
PRE-SEASON TWO:
Chapter 16: I'll Just Wait For The Wind To Sweep Away My Words
SEASON TWO:
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Chapter 17: Felt Good About You Til I Didn’t
Chapter 18: If She's Got A Pulse, She Meets Your Standards Now
Chapter 19: I'm A Little Bit Lost Without You
Chapter 20: It's An Endless Cycle, Turns Me Upside-Down
Chapter 21: Did You Like Her In The Morning?
Chapter 22: I Just Wanted You To Know That This Is Me Trying
Chapter 23: When It Kills Your Heart But You Can't Say No
Chapter 24: 'Cause I'm A Real Tough Kid, I Can Handle My Shit
Chapter 25: Breaking My Back To Carry The Weight of Your Heart
Chapter 26: I Gave You All My Best Me's, My Endless Empathy
Chapter 27: The Whole Facade Seemed To Fall Apart, It's Complicated
Chapter 28: Always An Angel, Never A God
Chapter 29: They See Right Through, Can You See Right Through Me?
Chapter 30: We All Know How It Goes… The More It Hurts, The Less It Shows
Chapter 31: All Love Must Leave, Oh, But Search For It I Will
PRE-SEASON 3:
Chapter 32: Broke Your Heart, I'll Put It Back Together
Chapter 33: For The First Time, What's Past Is Past
Chapter 34: A Face I Swear That I Could Spend My Whole Life Knowing, Here's to Hoping
Chapter 35: TBA
SEASON 3:
TBA
BLURBS/DRABBLES:
Robby is jealous of Park the Shark
Park the Shark reacting to you leaving the Pitt
The Pitt Crew loves you, but Jack just might love you more...
SOMEWHERE IN THE BEGINNING OF THE PAST TEN MONTHS… THIS HAPPENED…
the apartment is quiet except for the steady sound of rain tapping against the windows. it’s one of those rare mornings where everything feels slow enough to breathe, but frank is still dead asleep, stretched across the bed with one arm thrown over your side.
you’ve barely seen him all week. too many nights spent waiting up for the sound of his boots outside the door, too many mornings where his side of the bed had already gone cold before you woke up. now he’s finally here, and somehow he’s sleeping through the whole day.
you brush your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck.
nothing.
“frank,” you mumble, nudging his shoulder. “c’mon.”
all you get is a low, annoyed grunt as he buries his face deeper into the pillow. you smile to yourself. “you’re ignoring me.”
“m’not,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep. “you’re just… talkin’ too much.”
“I missed you.”
he doesn’t answer right away. instead he blindly reaches for you, finds your wrist, and tugs until you lose your balance and land against his chest with a laugh. one heavy arm wraps around your waist immediately, holding you there like you’re not going anywhere.
“frank,” you complain, even though you’re smiling. “I was trying to wake you up.”
“bad idea.”
“it’s noon.”
“don’t care.”
his eyes stay stubbornly shut, brows pinched together in that little frown he somehow wears even while sleeping. you poke his cheek.
“you’re grumpy.”
"shut up.”
the words would sound harsh from anyone else, but they’re followed by the softest kiss pressed against the top of your head without him ever opening his eyes. you melt against him.
after another quiet minute, you whisper, “I really missed you.”
this time he sighs, the kind that seems to leave every ounce of tension behind.
“I know, baby,” he murmurs. “missed you too.”
his hand lazily rubs circles against your back before settling there, warm and steady. within minutes his breathing evens out again, already drifting back to sleep. you stay exactly where you are, tangled up in his arms, deciding the day can wait too. for once, you have him home, and that’s enough.
like I know it's a fictional character in a fictional show and people are entitled to their opinions and it's not that deep and it's just the way of the internet but sometimes the robby hatred is so viscerally fundamentally mean that it's like. idk it makes me so upset. why are we being so mean. why is everyone so mean all the time. and yeah I feel childish for saying that and no I'm not exempt to taking a frustrated tone in posts or being too harsh myself but idk. it just makes me sad.
it's not childish and it's not too deep. michael robinavitch is not real. he's just a character in a multilayered story depicting mental health struggles. but the people who judge/shame that character for those struggles, the ones who make posts blasting him, his behaviour and his symptoms are making posts that real humans who relate to robby will see and read and they know its actually meant for them.
"robby should kill himself. save everyone the hassle of them and us dealing with him."
"everyone has struggles, he's not special. he should shut up and get on with it!"
"i have mental health problems and id never shout at people like that! he's just misogynistic and weaponising it."
different statements, different views, all steeped in negativity and revolving around the same topic - mental health and a sense of entitlement. robby doesn't read those posts but people struggling with burnout, ptsd, suicide ideation, personality changes, they all read them and if you can't find empathy/sympathy/understanding with a fictional character then how do you possibly understand a real life human with complexities and emotions? i've said it before but imo these type of people are incredibly dangerous around the mentally unwell and the anonymity of the internet makes me fearful to be around people with such stigmatised views and a lack of basic humanity.
Thinking about Abbot x Ortho surgeon no bullshit reader I KNOOOOW that man has a competency kink. Seeing you come down from the OR ordering everyone around. Yea that gets him hard. Idk I’m just such a sucker for Baddie Careerwoman x some guy
The Natural Predator
summary: brendon park swam through the pitt with beady eyes and a blood lust. however, after he overstepped his territory, he finds out that there's a bigger fish in the water who's more than willing to put him in his place. and jack abbot loves nothing more than to watch his wife take down her prey.
tags: jack abbot x ortho!wife!reader, no large age gap (41/50), jack has a major competence kink, medical inaccuracies (making up some bullshit), way too much ocean imagery used, ED? we don't know her, jack is getting hard in the trauma room (hashtag praise kink), smut (fingering, dry humping, cumming in pants), 18+ NSFW MDNI
notes: thank you @in-ky for this request! this was yummy yummy to write and I hope it's up to your expectations! taglist is at the bottom, enjoy!
word count: 3.9k
The Pitt acted like the sea.
Busy hours and waning slow periods were the waves. Patients, nurses, and doctors walked as though they were fish, constantly swimming through the hoards of schools and catastrophes, not needing to keep their head above water because that's exactly where they thrived. They found purpose in bobbing and floating and flicking their tails to get from one room to another. It had its obstacles, seaweed hoards of poles and monitors and gurneys, but when night came, the Pitt settled into lapping motions instead of crashing roars.
However, the calmer waters meant it was primed for the bigger fish to swim cleanly, jaws chomping at whoever dared to get in their current.
Known to all, the Pitt had a few big fish to worry about. Victoria knew to steer clear of her mother, Dr. Shamsi, and her biting words. When Garcia got called down, Dennis turned heel and hid in triage (safety in numbers). Even Robby, the very top of the pecking order in the emergency department, vanished when he caught the hint of Gloria coming down the elevator.
Yet, like all oceans, some fish weren't lucky enough to swim away fast enough. In all instances, everyone never wanted to get caught by the PTMC's very own great white: Brendon Park.
"Look alive, Santos, we got an incoming," Jack stated as he passed the sleepy-looking R2, fresh from pulling the first half of her second night rotation.
Trinity blinked wearily before pushing up from the table. She'd been seated during a lull in waves that seemed to always happen between the hours of 1 and 3 am. Jack had warned that things got weird after the sun went down, but most she'd seen was a puking toddler and a man who came in complaining of sleep issues.
"What do we have?" she asked after finding a place next to the older attending. "And please tell me it's interesting, cause so far I haven't seen the weirdest or wildest cases come through. I'd hate to see that your little pep talk is full of errors."
Jack barked out a laugh. "Trust me; it only gets weirder from here."
"Don't jinx us, please," Ellis joined in, stopping on Jack's unoccupied side.
"Those don't exist!" Shen called out as he rounded a corner before disappearing back into a room.
Trinity's jaw popped as she yawned. "I need something fast paced or I'm going to fall asleep standing up."
"We can always have you organize the third storage room. I don't think it's been redone since I started here," Jack mentioned.
"So, like, way back in the medieval era?"
Parker raised her eyebrows and smirked at the brunette. "Ooo-hoo-hoo, Abbot you set yourself up for that one."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Try the third dynasty. Pretty sure I saw a rat go in there once and it never left."
"I'll take standing up, thank you."
"Incoming trauma goes straight into room 1," Lena announced.
The sliding doors to the ambulance bay brought a gust of cool wind before offering a patient and two paramedics to the small group of doctors. On the gurney laid a man in his thirties whose face had gone ashen, eyes not even visible.
"We got a thirty-two-year old male. Partial traumatic amputation, left lower extremity at the mid femur. Clean cut considering he was run over by roadside milling equipment approximately twenty-two minutes ago. Significant blood loss on scene," one of the paramedics said once they got within ear range. "Detached extremity is here. Packaged separately and wrapped in saline gauze, double bagged, transported on ice but not in direct contact."
Trinity noted the bag that sat near the patient's remaining foot. It reminded her of one of those goldfish bags you got for winning a fair game.
Jack stepped forward and grabbed the side of the gurney, helping roll the man straight into Trauma Room 1. Behind him, he heard the normal sounds of gloves snapping on before both Trinity and Parker joined him.
"On my count," he ordered. "One, two, three—" He grunted under the weight of the man as they slid him over onto the bed.
"The tourniquet was applied high and tight to the left thigh around 7 minutes after the accent. One CAT failed, second CAT secured on the way over. Hemorrhage controlled after the second application," the second paramedic stated while he began to wheel the gurney away.
Jack looked over the man. "What's his pressure?"
"Last manual was eighty-four over fifty. Heart rate one-forty-eight. Respiratory thirty-two. Sp-Oxygen ninety-four percent on fifteen liters non-rebreather. GCS fourteen. Lost consciousness on the way over."
"Fluids?"
"Minimal crystalloids. Two-fifty LR. We started whole blood—one unit in progress. One gram TXA given over ten minutes."
Jack smiled and nodded. "Excellent."
Trinity leaned over the man with her stethoscope already off and bell pressing into his chest. "Airway's intact. Breath sounds equal bilaterally."
"Femoral pulse right side weak," Parker called out, two fingers pressed into the man's right upper thigh before moving up to his wrist. "Radial's thready."
"Pressure's seventy-eight over forty-six," Mateo called out near the head of the bed.
"He's hemorrhagic until proven otherwise," Jack breathed, hands moving to gently pull back what was left of the man's pant legs. "Let's cut the tourniquet down enough for me to visualize."
"Dr. Abbot, you think they'd just cauterize the leg back in your day?" Trinity bit with a smirk.
"Nah," he argued, "they'd just wrap it and pray infection didn't set in before harvest."
Parker snipped slowly at the tourniquet, and blood instantly welled through the mess of flesh and bone.
"Back up and tighten it," Jack said, halting Parker from going any further. "That's arterial, and can someone page ortho? This looks like it'd be right up their alley."
"Please tell me Park's not on shift tonight," Trinity muttered, already walking over to the red phone mounted on the wall.
"Well, if you hear the Jaws theme song when they put you on hold, you'll know."
While Trinity talked with upstairs, Jack and Parker did their best to pack the stump as much as possible, combat gauze soaking up red as fast as they put it on.
It couldn't have been more than five minutes later when the hiss of the trauma room's doors filled the air, the automatic sensor holding long enough for whoever to slip through. Jack's heart beat wildly as he held the gauze, trying not to think about his own experience of being on the receiving end of the painful pressure.
"What do you have for me, Abbot?"
If the room could have groaned, it would have caused ripples by the sheer sound, because, of course, Brendon Park just had to be the one to swim through. Trinity glanced up at him, eyes tracking the way he immediately hovered over their work like a shark coasting around its prey.
"Partial traumatic amputation to his left leg. Whatever machine he got under cut clean through his femur. Leg was bagged on site, and blood flow is slightly waning under the gauze and consistent pressure."
Park didn't seem all that impressed, and his eye brow raised when he spotted the fair-fish bag full of amputated leg sitting on a tray to the side. He narrow eyed the way Jack's hands almost wrapped completely around the stump, gloves speckled with blood that managed to seep through.
"You're going to damage the vessels if you hold on that hard," he muttered. "Thought you attendings knew better."
Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes. "The pressure is what's keeping this man from bleeding out. But by all means, I can lighten up if you want to play Legos and 'click the leg back in place' on a dead body."
"You're the ones who paged me," he bit, teeth chomping around the word. "Unfortunately we can't all be surgeons, or maybe this ER would know how to perfectly pack a partial traumatic amputation."
"Now, now, let's play nice, Park," a new voice joined over the hiss of the trauma doors. "Without the ER, we wouldn't be standing here now would we?"
Now, Jack's heart beat wildly for a different reason. In a small glance, his eyes settled on the familiar figure of the Pitt's stand-in night shift Orthopedic Surgeon when Walsh had the shift off.
"Oh, boy," Parker whispered beside him. She nudged Trinity slightly, body twisting so she could be near the R2's ear. "You asked for wild, and, well, it's about to get wild."
Trinity barely processed her words as she fixated on the woman who just walked in. She couldn't note how put together she looked with her hair tucked neatly, gray roots peaking through a very expensive looking hair dye. Her white coat was crisp, and Trinity could only guess that it had been tailored with the way it hugged perfectly at her shoulders and waist. If she let herself, Trinity would be drooling, yet, the glimmer of a pair of rings that could probably pay off her entire student debt held her back from sputtering out some illy planned pick-up line.
"Nice of you to join us," Park gritted out, clearly not happy with the new addition. "But I had this handled.
You hummed lowly while you looked over the leg yourself and the hands around it. "Sure you did if by having it handled you meant berating Dr. Abbot and his more than capable team."
"His pressure is way off, and if he keeps it up, the leg isn't going to be able to attach back perfectl—"
"Aht, aht, aht," you tutted like talking to a child. "You're done talking, because obviously you can't tell the right amount of pressure from the wrong."
You stepped closer to the bed and leaned over the railing, never hovering but making sure your presence was noted.
"If you'd taken a breath and took the chance to actually look at the patient instead of wondering if he could be another gold start to your chart," you stated calmly, "you'd find that Dr. Abbot is currently keeping the femoral artery at around—" You leaned in closer to see just how tightly Jack's fingers held the gauze in place. "—250 to 300 mmHgs of the standard pressure needed."
Jack had to keep himself from blushing under your praise and keep concentrating on, just as you said, the needed standard pressure. He guessed that Park would back off, however, the bigger man wasn't one to ever give up the last word.
"No offense—"
"None taken," you slyly interrupted.
Park huffed, visibly irritated the more he stood there. "But clearly, they should have paged me the moment this man was wheeled in instead of trying to play hero and cut off the bleeding." He crossed his arms and puffed his chest. "They're not surgeons; they're—"
You held up a hand. "I'll stop you right there, Brendon. Yes, they might not have the specialty experience we both have, but they are more than equipped and competent to handle a partial traumatic amputation." Your lip crinkled in a small sneer. "Dr. Abbot is also more knowledgeable about this type of injury than the both of us, or do I have to remind you that he's lived through something like this."
Elation bloomed in the pit of your stomach as you watched Park swallow thickly, but you were far from done.
"And, as someone who volunteers as a S.W.A.T medic after spending countless hours down here, Dr. Abbot has undergone thousands of hours of medical, tactical, and physical training. His muscles are earned through hard work, unlike the ones you like to boast on your Instagram after doing a few sit ups and curls to increase the blood flow of your arms that are more for aesthetics than actual strength."
Jack was hard.
He was so incredibly hard, cock already pushing against the front of his scrub pants. He just prayed that Parker and Trinity would continue looking at you with stars in their eyes and not down at his . . . predicament.
Without moving, you held out your hand, palm up towards the ceiling. "Can someone hand me the case tablet? I'm taking over this, and I will personally be scrubbing in myself."
Park blanched at that, body finally squirming under your unwavering eyes. "You can't—"
"I can't . . . what, exactly? Take over a case while I am currently your superior as the chief orthopedic attending on call?" you shot back while your fingers curled around the tablet Mateo handed over. "Because that's exactly what I'm doing." You glanced down at the screen before looking back up into Park's dark, blue eyes. “You're more than welcome to observe, Dr. Park, but please, never insult me or any of PTMC's doctors ever again, or I will make sure that you're stuck wrapping soft tissue sprains for months."
You turned around with a smile on your face, demeanor completely the opposite of what you'd just shown. "Thank you three for making sure this man didn't bleed out on the spot. We'll prep an operating theater and get him transferred up shortly. Best of luck for the rest of the night."
Your steps were light as you walked away, however you couldn't help but let out an Hoo-Ahh! over your shoulder.
Jack watched in deep satisfaction that Park didn't even attempt to say anything else, choosing to walk away while he still held the ability to operate in the future. The mechanical doors hissed and closed off the room from the rest of the Pitt.
Only the monitors kept beeping continually, filling the otherwise silent room. Jack tilted his head down and closed his eyes while he took a deep breath.
After a moment, Trinity was the first to speak. "Who the fuck was that? I think my world's been rocked."
Jack looked back up, hazel eyes trained in the direction that you disappeared off into. He swallowed the pooling saliva down in one gulp before answering. "My wife."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The surgical cap tied tightly around your forehead itched, hair underneath poking and being pulled an at odd angle as a result of your haste to put it on. Park had overstepped, and you needed to show him that he wasn't the biggest fish in the Pitt's ocean, because that title belonged to you.
Jack would probably laugh at it all later due to your enjoyment of underwater documentaries and fascination with orcas, especially with how they hunted and preyed upon sharks. You'd seen the way he had tried to not look at you for very long down in the trauma room. The thought of him being embarrassed quickly passed through your mind before you shook your head.
He was never one to be ashamed of being your husband, often boasting at the fact that he put a ring on your finger before anyone else could. He loved you fierce and hard but also soft and sweet, so him looking away had to be because he was focused on making sure the man didn't bleed out before you could get his leg put back together with ease.
The hall to the surgical room was empty as you stripped from your gown and gloves and pushed them down into the nearest hazard bin. Your footsteps echoed while you walked toward the elevator, wanting to go back down and at least give Parker and Dr. Santos the good news. However, the moment you passed by one of the empty recovery rooms, a hand reached out, grabbed hold of your arm and tugged you in.
"What the fuck!" you shouted, voice coming out in a screech.
To your right, the door shut, and the motion-sensor lights flickered on, revealing the person who had yanked you. You sighed in relief.
"Hi," Jack whispered, pinning you to the wall, chest pressed against yours.
"Jack, what the hell are you doing up here?" you hissed. "I always come down to give you the update."
He said nothing and tucked his face into your neck. His lips lightly grazed your pulse point before his tongue peeked out and ran hotly along your jaw. Your hands instantly flew up and sunk deep into his greying curls.
"Jack?" you questioned again. "Wha-what are you doing?"
"Just loving on my wife," he muttered, teeth now gently nipping at your skin. "Can't a husband do that?"
You barked out a laugh that quickly turned into a moan as he sucked harshly. "I mean, he can. But normally he doesn't until after we get home."
Jack's neediness sent questions washing through your body as he slotted his thick thigh between your legs. Another moan punched out at the feeling, your scrub material bunching in delicious pressure against your heat.
"Jack," you breathily sighed. "Baby, we have work; we can wait and pick this up later."
"Can't," he bit, lips and teeth still attacking whatever inch of your neck he could reach. "Can't wait. Been hard since you left."
"Since I left?" you echoed, mind spinning until it clicked. "Wait, Jack—"
He hummed in an answer.
"Don't tell me you got hard because I told off Park in the ER."
Jack stilled against you and sighed heavily. "Is it really surprising that I'm turned on because my incredibly hot wife knocked asshole Park the Shark down a couple of pegs while simultaneously singing my praises?"
He pulled back enough that your eyes met his, the hazel hues already swimming with heat. Internally, you battled the pros and cons of having letting Jack continue, but obviously the pros definitely outweighed the cons, and he noticed the moment all fight drained out of you.
"Fine," you gave in, "but you need to hurry before either you or I get paged, and you're left with blue balls for another four hours."
"Hurry is my middle name," he quipped, facing going back in to mauling your neck.
You rolled your eyes. "No it's Waynefucking jeez.," the comeback dying into a moan half-way up your throat.
Jack's right hand rested against the length of your throat while his left danced along the waistline of your pants, fingers teasingly dipping below and toying with the hem of your underwear. He drew another gasp from your lips when he pushed his thigh up higher, the muscle nesting against your core. Taking your open mouth to his advantage, his hot, slick tongue dipped deep between your teeth and licked around. His chest rumbled in a moan at the taste of you.
While he kept your mouth distracted, his hand went further down your underwear, knuckles brushing against your navel until his fingertips found exactly what they were looking for. He couldn't help but groan at the feeling of your wet, sticky arousal already pooling between your folds.
"You're already so fucking wet. How long have you been like this, sweetheart?" he panted after pulling back. "Did you like putting big ole Park in his place while your husband watched? Cause I enjoyed every minute of it."
To show his enjoyment, Jack thrusted up against your stomach, his hardness evident through his own pants. Your eyes widened at the size of his bulge, cunt clenching with the thought of him putting it right into you. You whimpered loudly into the air, head tilted back to rest against the wall.
His pointer finger circled around your throbbing clit in soft, minuscule motions and drew pleasured breaths from your lungs. When you started rocking back and forth, he reached a bit lower before sinking two fingers into your sopping, fluttering hole. The thick and sudden intrusion had you whining.
"Jack! Ooh-ohh-oooohhh," you sputtered as the tips of both fingers found your sweet spot with experience swiftness. Stars dotted your vision, and your stomach and thighs tightened. "Feels good shiittt."
"Yeah?" Jack asked as his hips continued thrusting up into your center, the band in his gut drawing tighter. He could practically feel the clenching of your cunt around his throbbing length when you tightened around his fingers. "You close, sweetheart?"
You nodded. "C-close. So, so, so, so close; you're gonna make me cum."
Your words had Jack whimpering against your neck, eyes pinching closed to not blow his load prematurely. He needed to make you cum before even thinking of letting go himself.
He withdrew his hand in order to push your scrubs and underwear down, giving him more room to thrust his fingers upward while thumbing at your clit. Without the extra layer, your slick arousal dripped down his hand and spotted his dark scrubs.
"There we goooo," he drew out, words raspy between his gasps. "Soaking my hand and my pants, sweetheart."
You were getting close, and your hips canted harder to meet his fingers. Your inner thighs clenched around his hand, and a high-pitched whine squeezed between your teeth.
"I'm gonna cum!" you keened. "Gonna-gonna-shitfuckfuckfuckfuck! Jack!"
Your stomach flipped as your walls clamped down tightly around Jack's fingers. To draw out your high, he continued to circle your bundle of nerves and shallowly push in his fingers. He, however, didn't stop grinding against you, and while you were focused on feeling every hot dip of pleasure from climax, Jack grunted twice before his hips stilled and his cum spilled from his leaking tip into his boxers, soaking though to stain his scrubs.
You sighed dreamily and held Jack's wrist to stop his motions, your core becoming too sensitive for him to continue. Your chest heaved against Jack's, and he leaned back into languidly kiss at your mouth.
"Never," you managed to get out between kisses. "Never thought my husband would have a competency kink. Learn something new every day."
"Like I said: it was hot," he said.
You smirked when he finally met his eyes. "Hot enough to make you cum in your pants, I guess. What are your doctors going to think when you go back down in different color scrubs than you had on before?"
Jack laughed loudly. "I think Trinity will be too distracted because you are definitely her type, and it won't be the worst thing Ellis has ever seen."
Heat flooded your cheeks at the remembering of the one time Parker caught you and Jack actually fucking in an on call room. She teased the two of you for months after you promised to help her out with getting a shot at a surgical fellowship.
Once your pants were back in place, you smooshed close back into Jack's chest, cheek squished against his pec while his hands rubbed up and down your back in slow motions. Aftercare in a recovery room could never be the same as snuggles in bed, but Jack would be damned if he let you go without a little post-coital hugging and kissing.
You had just gotten his lips back on yours when the pager at his side buzzed to life. He pulled back with a groan.
"Duty calls."
"Duty always has the worst timing," you grumbled. "See you in four hours and then round two at home?"
Jack smirked and tapped the side of your ass. "Maybe I'll make sure Park comes back down so you can yell at him again."
You snorted, hand coming up to slap at your nose. "Your foreplay preferences are so weird. Maybe I should yell at you. I think you'd like that, Dr. Abbot."
With that, you slipped out the door and back into the empty hallway, leaving Jack in yet another blushy mess and length twitching at the thought of you talking down at him like you did for Park.
we’re talking about a man who would rather suffocate than pull his mouth from your cunt before you came. nose red from how hard he pressed it into your clit, chin dripping from a combination of your wetness and his drool.
a man who humps the bed while he’s going to town, turned on by the fact that you’re turned on, just happy to be of service and drowning in your cunt.
a man who would grow stubble if it meant you would get pleasure from it. he prefers being clean shaven but after you mention that you crave a little more friction, he’s ditching the razor for a couple days so he can rub his face right in your cunt, skin turning flushed. your pleasure is the only thing he really cares about.
a man who will drop to his knees in the shower, hiking one leg over his shoulder while he fucking EATS. it’s a terrible angle and you’re a little worried he’s waterboarding himself down there with the combination of your juices and the water from the shower, but he makes sure you come.
Request - Love everything of yours I read! After seeing reader interact with her mother in one of your recent fics was thinking about one where she is a bit anxious to introduce Robby to her family, she's conscious of the age gap and the workaholic tendencies ect only for them to absolutely love him...and is she a little bit jealous of how easy he charms them all?
making me work to not have a story in the hospital, i see lol 🫶
The snow had started just outside Pittsburgh, soft flakes dusting the windshield in lazy spirals that the wipers pushed away every few seconds. It wasn’t enough to make the roads dangerous, but it was enough to turn the rolling hills north of the city into a watercolor of white fields and dark tree lines. The radio hummed quietly with an old classic rock station neither of you had bothered changing. Between the music and the rhythmic swish of the wipers, the truck was comfortably quiet. Well…comfortably quiet for one of you.
“You know,” you said, breaking the silence for what felt like the fifteenth time in the last twenty minutes, “my grandma asks incredibly invasive questions.”
Robby kept one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested loosely over the center console, fingers brushing your thigh without really thinking about it. His eyes stayed on the road, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
“So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I think I do.”
You sighed dramatically and leaned your head against the cold window. “She asked my cousin’s boyfriend how much money he made before she’d even offered him coffee.”
“Hm.”
“‘Hm?’ That’s your response?”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“I’ve been an attending physician for twenty years.”
“I know.”
“I’ve testified in court.”
“I know.”
“I’ve told parents their kid wasn’t going to survive.”
Your stomach twisted.
“I can survive one seventy-eight-year-old woman.”
You groaned loud enough that he actually chuckled.
“What?”
“Nice laugh.” Robby was smug.
“I didn’t laugh.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I exhaled.”
“You smiled.”
“I don’t smile.” You turned toward him with narrowed eyes.
“You smile.”
“I tolerate things.”
“You tolerate me?” He glanced over just long enough to meet your eyes before looking back at the road.
“I tolerate you considerably more than everyone else.” You laughed despite yourself.
“That’s…probably the closest thing to a compliment you’ve ever given me.”
“It’s top five.”
“You have a ranking?”
“I absolutely have a ranking.”
“Oh my God.”
The truck fell quiet again, though this silence didn’t last nearly as long.
“What if they think you’re too old?”
This time he looked over immediately.
“…What?”
You immediately regretted saying it aloud.
“I’m just saying—”
“Stop.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I do.”
He sighed, rubbing one hand over the stubble on his jaw while stopped briefly at a red light in a tiny town you’d already forgotten the name of.
“Kid.”
“I’m thirty-six.”
“I know.”
“You’re forty-nine.”
“I continue to know.”
“That’s thirteen years.”
“I can still do math.”
“I just…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t know.”
He watched you for a second before the light turned green again. The truck rolled forward.
“You’ve been doing this for an hour.”
“Doing what?”
“Working yourself into a panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You reorganized my glove compartment.”
“I was helping.”
“You folded the registration.”
“It looked messy.”
“You apologized to the cashier at the gas station because she said the coffee machine was broken.”
“I felt bad.”
“You’ve asked if your hair looks okay three times. And now you’re worried your grandmother is going to reject me because I had the audacity to be born in the seventies.”
You folded your arms across your chest.
“When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous.”
“You don’t know my family.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I know you.”
You looked over. His attention remained on the road.
“And I know you’ve been carrying this around for weeks.”
You swallowed.
“I just…” You picked nervously at the sleeve of your sweater. “My dad never got to meet…anyone.”
His expression shifted immediately. The teasing disappeared. He reached over, finding your hand without taking his eyes off the road. His fingers threaded between yours instinctively.
“I know.”
“I keep thinking about him.” Your voice had gone quieter now. “He would’ve loved giving every guy I dated a hard time.”
“You’ve told me.”
“He would’ve grilled you.”
“I would’ve survived.”
“He would’ve asked you what your intentions were.”
“I would’ve told him.”
“And what would’ve you said?”
He didn’t answer right away. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thoughtful. Finally, he spoke.
“That I make your coffee every morning because you’re incapable of remembering breakfast.” You smiled faintly at him. “That you fall asleep on my couch every time we try to watch a movie after shift.”
Another smile.
“That you steal my shirts.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They’re mine.”
“They become mine.”
“I don't know if that's how clothes work.”
He squeezed your hand once before continuing.
“I would’ve told him…” His voice became almost impossibly gentle. “…that I take care of you.”
Your eyes stung. Not because the words were grand. Because they weren’t. He hadn’t said he’d protect you from the world. He hadn’t promised forever. He hadn’t made some sweeping declaration. He’d simply stated a fact. He took care of you. You looked out the window before he could see your eyes watering.
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
“I wish he could’ve met you.”
“So do I.”
That answer caught you off guard. You turned back toward him.
“You do?”
He nodded once.
“I would’ve liked to thank him.”
“For what?”
He looked genuinely confused by the question.
“For you.”
The words settled heavily inside the truck. You stared at him. He didn’t seem to realize what he’d just said. Or maybe he did. With Robby, it was always impossible to tell.
“You make it sound like I was a gift.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Weren’t you?”
Your breath caught. He immediately looked annoyed with himself, almost like the sentence had escaped before he’d approved it.
“You know what I mean.”
“I…don’t actually.”
He sighed, giving the steering wheel a tiny shake.
“I mean…” He searched for the words. “…you’re a good person.”
Your smile grew.
“You help women give birth to babies.”
“I do.”
“You make impossible decisions every day.”
“I also yell at residents.”
“They deserve it.”
“They usually do.”
“You call your mom every Sunday.”
“I try.”
“You still send your grandparents birthday cards.”
“They’re eighty-six and ninety-one, Robby.”
“So?”
“So everyone sends birthday cards.”
“No.” He shook his head. “They don’t.”
You blinked.
“They don’t?”
He glanced over again. Your chest tightened. There he was. That man. The one almost nobody got to see because he buried himself beneath exhaustion, sarcasm, and impossible workdays. You reached over and rested your hand against the side of his neck. His shoulders visibly relaxed beneath the touch.
“You know…” you said quietly.
“What?”
“I think they’re going to love you.”
He snorted.
“I’m not worried about them.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
“You should be at least a little worried.”
“I’m not.”
“Why?”
He smiled, a real one this time, tired and warm and just for you.
“Because if they’re anything like you…” His thumb rubbed across the back of your hand. “…I’m already looking forward to meeting them.”
Before you could answer, the GPS chimed softly.
“In two miles, turn left.”
Your stomach immediately flipped. You recognized the road. Home. You took one slow breath before looking out at the familiar church steeple in the distance, your childhood grocery store, and the snow-covered streets you’d ridden your bike down a lifetime ago. Beside you, Robby gave your hand one reassuring squeeze.
“You ready?”
You looked at the house just coming into view at the end of the street, every light glowing warmly against the winter afternoon.
“…Ask me again in ten minutes.”
A quiet chuckle filled the cab.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s about what I expected.”
******
The moment Robby turned into your mother’s driveway, you knew two things. First, someone had absolutely ignored your repeated instructions to stay inside until we knock. Second, you were about to lose complete control of the situation. The front door flew open before the truck had even rolled to a stop.
“Oh, for the love of—”
You watched your mother hurry down the porch steps, your Aunt Maggie only a few feet behind her, bundled in a bright red winter coat that could probably be seen from space. Behind them came your grandparents at a far more sensible pace, your grandfather insisting he didn’t need anyone’s arm despite the icy walkway, while your grandmother ignored him and linked hers through his anyway.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, the front door opened again. Two teenage boys burst out of the house like missiles.
“She’s here!”
“I called shotgun to hug her first!”
“No you didn’t!”
“I literally did!”
“You literally didn’t!”
The cousins. Wonderful.
“Oh my God…” you muttered, covering your face with one hand. “I told them not to do this.”
Beside you, Robby shut off the engine.
“I thought you said they were excited.”
“This is excited.”
He looked through the windshield as your family continued making their way toward the truck.
“…Looks more like an invasion.”
You laughed despite your nerves.
“It gets worse.”
“It does?”
“My grandma kisses everybody.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“My aunt asks inappropriate questions.”
“I’ve met those women at the hospital before.”
“My cousins have no filter.”
“I supervise residents.”
“My mother cries.”
He finally looked over at you.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“I might.”
He smiled softly.
“I’ll tackle you.”
“You absolutely will not.”
“I’ve still got decent knees.”
“Barely.”
“Barely is still enough.”
Before you could answer, there was a knock on your window. Your cousin Tyler had his face practically pressed against the glass.
“Hey!”
You sighed.
“Here we go.”
You opened the truck door and barely had time to stand before Tyler collided with you in a hug.
“There she is!”
“Oof—Tyler!”
“You never come home!”
“I literally came home for Thanksgiving.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why?”
“You worked half of it.”
“…Fair.”
A second later, his younger brother, Ben, wrapped both arms around you too, nearly knocking all three of you sideways.
“We missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“You look tired.”
You pointed toward Robby without missing a beat.
“I learned from him.”
“I heard that.”
You looked over your shoulder to find Robby climbing out of the driver’s seat, tugging his wool coat closed against the cold. He looked exactly like himself. Dark jeans. Heavy boots. A charcoal sweater beneath his coat. Messy dark hair from the drive. His beard a little longer for the winter.
No attempt whatsoever to impress anyone. Which somehow made him more handsome. He shut the truck door and looked around as six pairs of eyes immediately landed on him.
There it was. The moment. Your stomach lurched.
“Mom…” you began. “This is—”
“Oh, honey.”
Your mother walked right past you. You blinked.
“…Mom?”
She stopped in front of Robby with the warmest smile you’d ever seen.
“You must be Robby.”
He nodded once.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Oh, absolutely not.” She immediately reached forward and hugged him. “None of that.”
You stared. Robby froze for approximately three seconds before awkwardly returning the hug with the hesitant uncertainty of a man who probably hadn’t been hugged by someone else’s mother in decades.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“You too.”
“You drove all the way up here today?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pointed a finger at him.
“I said no ‘ma’am.’ Makes me feel ancient.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“…Sorry.”
“Much better.”
Your aunt Maggie stepped forward next.
“So you’re the emergency room doctor.”
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed immediately.
“Oh, I like him.”
“Aunt Maggie.”
“What?”
“You’ve known him for eleven seconds.”
“Twelve now.”
She stuck her hand out.
“Maggie.”
He shook it.
“Robby.”
“So…do you really see people with things stuck where they shouldn’t be?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. Robby looked at your aunt for a long second. Then, completely deadpan, “More often than I’d like.”
“What was the weirdest?”
“Maggie!”
“What?”
“No.”
Robby’s expression never changed.
“A bowling trophy.”
There was a beat of silence.
“…Seriously?” Maggie asked.
“No.”
She burst into laughter so loud your grandfather shook his head.
“I walked right into that.”
“Yep.”
You looked at Robby.
“You lied to my aunt.”
“I protected your innocence.”
“My innocence?”
“You seemed invested.”
“I absolutely was.”
Your grandmother finally reached the two of you. She was small now, age having stolen several inches from the woman you remembered towering over everyone as a child, but she still possessed the same sharp blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing. She looked at Robby for several long moments. Long enough that your heart started pounding. Then she reached up and patted his cheek.
“My.”
Robby blinked.
“…Hello.”
“Well.” She smiled. “He’s handsome.”
“Oh my God.”
“Shush.” She eyed you.
“What?”
“I have eyes.”
You wanted the icy driveway to open beneath your feet. Your grandmother ignored you entirely. She looked back at Robby.
“You’ve got kind eyes.”
His ears turned pink.
“…Thank you.”
“And you look tired.”
You snorted. Grandma pointed triumphantly.
“See? I was right.”
“You are,” you admitted. “He always looks tired.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“I know.”
Your grandfather finally extended his hand.
“Frank.”
“Robby.”
They shook firmly.
“My granddaughter says you’re in emergency medicine.”
“I am.”
“She’s an OBGYN.”
“I know.”
Grandpa nodded once.
“Means you both have terrible schedules.”
Robby let out a quiet breath that almost sounded relieved.
“We do.”
“You actually understand each other then.”
“Most days.”
Grandpa smiled.
“Good.”
That was it. No interrogation. No skepticism. Just…good. The conversation was interrupted by Tyler stepping directly in front of Robby.
“So.”
Robby looked down.
“So.”
“How tall are you?”
You closed your eyes.
“Tyler…”
“What? It’s a valid question.”
Robby answered anyway.
“Six-three.”
“I knew it!”
Ben looked impressed.
“You play football?”
“No.”
“Basketball?”
“In the park as a kid.”
“What’d you do?”
“I studied.”
Both boys looked horrified.
“Voluntarily?”
A smile tugged at Robby’s mouth.
“…Eventually.”
You couldn’t help laughing.
“So you’re basically a giant nerd.”
“I’ve never been called that before.”
“I can think of worse.”
Ben squinted suspiciously.
“You seem…less scary than she said.”
Your head whipped around.
“I never said he was scary!”
Tyler looked confused.
“You said he was grumpy.”
“I said he could be grumpy.”
“You also said he growls.”
“He does growl.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“When?”
“When people interrupt your coffee.”
“Reasonable.”
“When residents ask stupid questions.”
“Also reasonable.”
“When someone steals your favorite pen.”
He looked genuinely offended.
“That happened once.”
“It happened yesterday.”
“They knew it was my pen.”
Your entire family laughed. Not because he was trying to be funny. Because he wasn’t. He was simply…Robby. Standing there in your mother’s snowy driveway, looking mildly inconvenienced by the cold and completely unaware that he’d already charmed nearly every member of your family without trying.
You caught your mother watching the two of you from a few feet away. She smiled knowingly when your eyes met. Then she clapped her hands together.
“All right, enough freezing. Lunch is getting cold.”
Your grandmother immediately slipped her arm through Robby’s.
“Come inside, dear.”
He looked down at the elderly woman attached to him, then over at you with an expression that clearly said, Am I allowed to move? You bit back a grin.
“You’re family now.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Already?”
Grandma answered for you.
“If she brought you here…” She squeezed his arm gently. “…you’ve already passed the hard part.”
You watched the words land. Just for a moment. His tired eyes found yours across the snowy yard. And without saying a word, he gave you the smallest smile.
It was barely there. But it was enough to make your anxious heart settle, if only for a little while.
******
Lunch had somehow turned into three hours. You weren’t entirely sure how. One minute everyone had been squeezing around your mother’s dining room table, passing bowls of mashed potatoes and homemade rolls while your grandmother insisted everyone take seconds before they’d even finished firsts.
The next, dishes had been cleared away, coffee had appeared as if by magic, dessert had been cut, and nobody seemed interested in leaving the table. Least of all your family. And, much to your surprise…Least of all Robby. He looked comfortable.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him like that outside the apartment. No pager clipped to his waistband. No trauma bay waiting downstairs. No resident hovering nearby. No administration emails. Just…Robby.
Relaxed. Well, as relaxed as a forty-nine-year-old emergency physician who’d worked three twelve-hour shifts this week was capable of being.
“So,” Grandpa Frank said, setting down his coffee mug. “My granddaughter tells me you fish.”
You looked up.
“I told you that?”
“You mention things.”
“I don’t remember mentioning fishing.”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“…You remember conversations from three months ago?”
“I remember everything.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Show-off.”
Grandpa grinned.
“What do you fish for?”
“Mostly trout.”
“You fly fish?”
“When I have time.”
Grandpa nodded approvingly.
“Haven’t done that in years.”
“I’ve got two rods in the garage,” Robby replied. “One doesn’t get used much.”
“You don’t have anybody to go with?”
Robby shrugged.
“Schedules.”
“You two never go?”
He looked over at you.
“She hates getting up before sunrise.”
“I do not hate it.”
“You complain.”
“I complain because it’s four in the morning.”
“It’s five.”
“It feels like four.”
He smirked into his coffee. Your grandfather chuckled.
“She’s been like that since she was twelve.”
“I have always valued sleep.”
“No,” your mom called from the kitchen. “You’ve always valued complaining about sleep.”
You pointed toward the kitchen.
“Betrayal.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I don’t know if I will.”
Robby leaned closer just enough for only you to hear.
“You’ve survived residency.”
“Barely.”
“You’ll make it.”
The quiet confidence in his voice made your lips twitch despite yourself. Then Grandma looked up from her pie.
“So.”
Oh no.
“So?”
She pointed her fork toward Robby.
“She says you’re chief.”
You immediately corrected her.
“Chief attending.”
“That’s what I said.”
“It isn’t.”
“It’s close enough.”
Robby took another sip of coffee.
“It’s fine.”
Grandma ignored both of you.
“Do you like being in charge?”
He actually thought about it.
“I like teaching.”
“Really?”
“The administrative part can disappear tomorrow.”
Your aunt laughed.
“See? That’s exactly what she says.”
He looked over.
“You complain about administration too?”
You stared.
“…You think OB is immune to hospital politics?”
“Fair.”
“I spend half my life in meetings.”
“I thought you just delivered babies.”
You gasped dramatically.
“You did not just reduce my entire specialty to that.”
“I absolutely did.”
“I perform surgeries.”
“I know.”
“I manage high-risk pregnancies.”
“I know.”
“I save lives.”
“I know.”
“You ass.”
He smiled into his coffee.
“I like when you get worked up.”
“I know you do.”
Grandma watched the exchange with unmistakable amusement. Then she leaned toward your mother.
“Look.”
“I know.”
“They bicker.”
“I know.”
“They’re adorable.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Mom.”
Your mother wasn’t even pretending not to smile anymore.
“They’re not wrong.”
“Aunt Maggie…”
“They’re not wrong either.”
You looked at Robby for help. The traitor had the audacity to look entertained.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I might be.”
“I need you on my side.”
“I am.”
“Doesn’t feel like you are.”
“You’ll recover.”
“You are literally laughing at me.”
“I exhaled.”
“You smiled.”
“I tolerated.”
You pointed accusingly.
“See? He does that!”
Your cousins were nearly doubled over.
“I like him,” Tyler announced.
“I gathered.”
“No,” he continued. “Like…he gets your sarcasm.”
Ben nodded.
“Nobody usually gets your sarcasm.”
“I am sitting right here.”
“We know.”
“You guys are awful.”
“We learned from you.”
Before you could defend yourself, Grandpa stood.
“I’m going to check on that old snowblower.”
“I’ll give you a hand.”
Every head turned toward Robby.
“You don’t have to do that,” Grandpa said.
“I know.”
“You just got here.”
“I’ve been sitting for three hours.”
“So?”
“I’ll feel guilty.”
Grandpa laughed.
“I understand that.”
The two men disappeared toward the mudroom. Your grandmother watched them leave before quietly saying, “I like that.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“He didn’t ask because he wanted to impress anybody. He asked because he saw something that needed doing.”
Your mother nodded.
“Your father was like that.”
The room became quiet for a moment. Not painfully. Respectfully. Your chest tightened. Then Aunt Maggie ruined it.
“So.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I do.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She grinned wickedly.
“When are you two getting married?”
“Maggie!”
“What?”
“We’re not—” you huffed. “We’re just—”
You stopped. Because…what were you? You and Robby had never put labels on anything beyond the obvious. You were together. Exclusively. Most nights were spent at his apartment. You knew where he kept the extra coffee. He knew exactly how you liked your tea.
You’d met Frank Langdon. Dana adored you. Mel teased both of you mercilessly. You slept curled against his chest more often than you slept in your own bed. But neither of you had ever…said it. Not out loud.
“We’re happy,” you answered finally.
Your mother smiled softly.
“That’s enough.”
Thankfully. Very thankfully. The back door opened before anyone could continue. Grandpa walked back in, stomping snow from his boots. Robby followed with a light dusting of snow across the shoulders of his coat.
“Snowblower still runs,” Grandpa announced.
“Barely,” Robby replied.
“It’s older than both of us.”
“Combined.”
Grandpa barked out a laugh.
“I told him the carburetor sticks.”
“It does.”
“He fixed it.”
You blinked.
“…You fixed it?”
Robby shrugged while pulling off his gloves.
“It wasn’t much.”
“You’ve known him for…” Tyler looked at his watch dramatically. “…four hours.”
“Little over.”
“And you fixed Grandpa’s snowblower?”
“It was sticking.”
“So you fixed it?”
“…Yeah.”
Grandma looked entirely too pleased.
“I told you.”
“Told us what?” you asked.
She looked at your mother.
“He’s a keeper.”
Heat rushed into your face.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“Grandma.”
She looked genuinely confused.
“I didn’t say marry him.”
“Yet,” Aunt Maggie muttered.
“Maggie.”
“I’m just saying.”
Your mother laughed into her coffee.
“You all are impossible.”
“No,” Tyler said.
He looked between you and Robby.
“We’re just confused.”
“About what?”
“You’ve been dating for almost a year.”
“Tyler.”
“What?”
“How have you not figured out you’re in love yet?”
Silence. Complete. Utter. Silence. Your eyes grew wide. Your mother looked horrified.
“Tyler.”
“What?”
“You cannot ask people that.”
“It was just a question.”
Ben nodded.
“It kinda was.”
Your face burned so hot you thought you might spontaneously combust. You looked at Robby. He was already looking at you. Not embarrassed. Not panicked. Watching you. Calmly. Like he was waiting to see if you were okay. Your grandmother broke the silence first.
“Leave them alone.”
“I was just asking.”
“They’ll figure it out.”
Grandpa took another sip of coffee.
“They already have.”
Nobody said anything else. Conversation slowly drifted back to football, weather, and whether the roads would freeze overnight. But you barely heard any of it. Because from across the living room, while everyone else was distracted, you caught Robby looking at you again.
He gave you the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. One that said Breathe. One that somehow made the room feel quieter despite all the laughter around you. And then, a few minutes later, you wandered into the kitchen to refill your coffee. When you came back, you stopped in the doorway.
Robby was sitting on the living room floor. On the floor. Your six-foot-three, perpetually exhausted, bad-kneed emergency physician. Cross-legged on your mother’s rug. Tyler and Ben had talked him into helping them assemble a model airplane they’d gotten for Christmas and never finished.
Grandpa was offering completely unsolicited advice. Grandma was knitting in her recliner while sneaking glances over the top of her glasses. Your mother stood in the kitchen doorway, drying a dish she hadn’t touched in nearly five minutes because she was too busy watching.
And Robby…was laughing. Not the dry little huff you usually coaxed out of him. Not the sarcastic chuckle he gave Frank. A real laugh. Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkled. Shoulders relaxed.
It hit you so suddenly it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. He looked…like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there. And instead of bringing relief, something unexpected twisted painfully in your chest. Because everyone loved him. Effortlessly.
They’d folded him into your family in a single afternoon. You should have been thrilled. Instead, a tiny, irrational voice whispered in the back of your mind.
They’re all looking at him now.
They’re all laughing with him.
They don’t need you to keep the conversation going anymore.
You hated yourself for thinking it. You hated how childish it sounded. But the feeling lingered all the same. Robby glanced up from the airplane as though he’d sensed your eyes on him. The moment he saw you standing quietly in the doorway, his smile softened.
“You okay?”
The room continued buzzing around him. But he was only looking at you. And somehow that made the ache in your chest hurt even more.
******
You lasted another fifteen minutes. That, you decided later, was actually pretty impressive. You smiled through another story about your residency years. You laughed when Tyler and Ben insisted Robby settle the great debate over whether cereal counted as soup. You even survived your grandmother asking him if he’d always had “those little gray hairs at his temples,” to which he’d replied, completely straight-faced, “No. Your granddaughter gave me those.”
The room had erupted into laughter. You had laughed too. But somewhere underneath it all, your chest still felt…tight. Not because anyone had done anything wrong. Because they hadn’t. Everything had gone exactly the way you’d hoped. Better, actually. So why did it suddenly feel like you couldn’t breathe?
“I’ll be right back,” you murmured, setting your coffee mug on the kitchen counter.
Your mother barely looked up.
“Okay, sweetheart.”
You slipped your boots back on in the mudroom and quietly stepped out the back door. The cold hit you immediately. Pennsylvania winter didn’t ease you into anything. It grabbed your lungs, stole your breath, and painted your cheeks pink within seconds.
Snow covered the backyard in a thick blanket, untouched except for a few rabbit tracks cutting across toward the old maple tree. The porch creaked beneath your boots as you walked to the railing. The air was so still that you could hear the faint crunch of cars driving somewhere on the main road a mile away.
You inhaled deeply. Then again. Your eyes burned.
“Oh, honey.”
You smiled weakly before you even turned around.
“I knew you’d follow me eventually.”
Your mother stepped outside carrying two knit blankets over one arm.
“You’ve been disappearing outside since you were twelve.”
She wrapped one around your shoulders before settling beside you against the porch railing. Neither of you spoke for a minute. You watched your breath disappear into the gray afternoon. Finally she asked quietly,
“So…”
You sighed.
“So.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
She gave you the exact look every mother somehow perfected before their children were even born.
“The nice thing about raising you by myself?”
You groaned softly.
“Mom…”
“I know every version of your ‘nothing.’”
You stared out across the snowy yard.
“I’m just…” Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“I…” You laughed once, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “I sound ridiculous.”
“I’ll decide that.”
You looked down at your boots.
“I thought…” You rubbed your gloved thumb across the porch railing. “I thought I’d spend today worried you’d all hate him.”
She blinked.
“Hate him?”
“I know.”
“Honey.”
“I know.”
She waited.
“And instead…” You swallowed. “You all love him.”
Your mother smiled.
“We do.”
“I know.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not.”
“But…”
Your eyes filled despite yourself.
“I feel…” You searched for the right word. “…scared of if this doesn’t work.”
The confession hung in the cold air between you. Your mother didn’t laugh. Didn’t tell you it was silly. She simply looked at you with all the gentleness in the world.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I know how awful that sounds.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“It sounds like someone who’s realizing just how important another person has become.”
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.
“I walked into the living room…” Your voice cracked. “…and everybody was laughing with him.”
“I saw.”
“And he looked…” You smiled through the tears. “…happy.”
“He did.”
“I’ve never seen him like that.”
“I haven’t either.”
“You’ve known him for six hours.”
“I know.”
“But…” Your shoulders slumped. “He fit.”
The words came out barely above a whisper.
“He fits here.”
Your mother reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, just like she’d done when you were six years old.
“You know what I noticed?”
“What?”
“He watches you.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“He watches you.” She smiled softly. “You walk into a room…and within ten seconds he’s looking to see where you are.”
You blinked.
“When your grandmother hugged him, the first person he looked at was you.”
You hadn’t noticed.
“When your cousins started dragging him into the living room…he looked at you. When your grandfather asked him to help with the snowblower…he looked at you. When everyone laughed after Tyler’s question…he looked at you.”
Your mother chuckled quietly.
“I finally stopped watching him.”
“You did?”
“I started watching what he was watching.”
Your heart began beating a little faster.
“And?”
The statements nearly undid you. She leaned against the railing.
“You know what else I noticed?”
You shook your head.
“He never once let you carry your own plate into the kitchen.”
You frowned.
“…He didn’t?”
“No.”
“He opened every door for you.”
“I didn’t even notice.”
“Exactly.”
“He filled your coffee before you realized it was empty.”
You thought back. He had.
“I watched him reach over and straighten the collar of your sweater while everyone was talking.”
Your eyes widened.
“He did?”
“He didn’t even think about it.”
Your mother’s smile grew impossibly warm.
“It was instinct.”
A fresh tear rolled down your cheek.
“I don’t think he realizes he does those things.”
“I don’t think he does either.”
Silence settled again. Then your mother spoke so quietly you almost missed it.
“Your father would’ve loved him.”
Your breath caught. Not because she’d said it. Because she’d said it with complete certainty.
“He would’ve?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She laughed softly. “Your dad would’ve pretended to interrogate him for an hour.”
You smiled through your tears.
“He would’ve.”
“And then…” She looked toward the warm glow spilling from the kitchen windows. “…he would’ve pulled me aside and said, ‘That one’s in deep.’”
Your lips trembled.
“What do you mean?”
“He would’ve seen exactly what I see.”
“And what’s that?”
Your mother turned fully toward you. Her voice was gentle.
“That man loves you.”
Your eyes closed. You hadn’t even said the words. Neither of you had. You shook your head.
“We’ve never—”
“I know.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can.”
“Mom…”
“I’ve been married.” She smiled sadly. “I’ve been in love.”
She reached for your hand.
“And I’ve watched your father look at me exactly the way Robby looks at you.”
Your composure shattered. The tears came all at once. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent. Relentless. Your mother wrapped both arms around you without saying another word. You buried your face against her shoulder like you hadn’t done since medical school, when you’d called after your first patient died.
“I miss Dad.”
“I know.”
“I wish…” You couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“I know.”
“I just wanted…” Another shaky breath. “…one day. One day where Dad got to meet the man I…”
You stopped yourself. Your mother gently rubbed your back.
“The man you what?”
A soft creak interrupted the moment. The back door opened. Both of you turned. Robby stepped onto the porch, pausing the instant he saw you crying.
He didn’t rush over. He didn’t ask questions. He simply looked from your mother…to you. Your mother smiled knowingly.
“I think that’s my cue.”
She squeezed your hand once. Then, as she walked past him, she lightly touched his arm.
“Be good to my girl.”
Robby’s expression softened.
“I always am.”
“I know.”
She disappeared back inside, quietly closing the door behind her. For a moment, neither of you moved. Snow drifted lazily between you. Finally, Robby walked across the porch. He stopped beside you without saying a word. He looked out over the yard, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.
“You came out without yours,” he observed after a moment.
“I know.”
“It’s twenty-three degrees.”
“I know.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“So am I.”
A tiny smile tugged at your lips. He slipped out of his coat without another word. Before you could protest, he draped it over your shoulders. It was still warm from him. It smelled like cedar, clean laundry…and that unmistakable scent that was simply Robby.
“You’ll freeze.”
“I run warmer than you.”
“You always say that.”
“I’m always right.”
You wrapped the coat tighter around yourself.
“You usually are.”
Silence settled again. He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just stood beside you. Shoulder brushing yours.
“You ready to tell me what’s going on, kid?”
You stared out at the snow.
“I thought…” You laughed weakly. “…I thought today would prove we didn’t work.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“The age difference.”
He sighed quietly.
“Your job.”
Another sigh.
“My family.”
“I’ve met them.”
“I kept waiting for someone to look at us and think…” You swallowed. “…what is a forty-nine-year-old man doing with my daughter?”
Robby was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked over at you.
“I wasn’t interviewing.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I didn’t come here to convince anybody.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I came because you asked me to.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than any grand speech ever could.
“I know.”
“No.” His voice was calm. “I came because you wanted me here.”
Another beat.
“And because they’re your family.” His eyes softened. “That makes them important to me.”
His eyes held yours. Long enough that the sounds from inside the house faded away.
“When it comes to you…” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “…I’ve always been honest.”
Your heart stumbled. Neither of you said another word. Neither of you needed to. For the first time all day the anxiety finally began to melt away with the falling snow.
******
The drive back to Pittsburgh was quiet. Not because anything was wrong. Quite the opposite. There was a comfortable fullness to the silence, like the day had finally settled into both of you. The roads were darker now, the snow reflecting the headlights in soft waves as Robby guided the truck back toward the city. His right hand rested on the steering wheel while his left remained loosely intertwined with yours across the center console.
Neither of you seemed eager to let go. Every now and then he’d rub his thumb over the back of your hand absentmindedly. Every time he did, your heart squeezed.
“You’ve been smiling at the dashboard for twenty miles.”
You looked over.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
You smiled.
“I think your reputation is ruined.”
“My reputation?”
“My family thinks you’re adorable.”
He made a face.
“I’ve spent two decades cultivating a healthy amount of fear.”
“I know.”
“And your grandmother undid it in one afternoon.”
“She did.”
“Called me handsome.”
“She wasn’t wrong.”
His ears pinked just enough for you to notice.
“You enjoying this?”
“Immensely.”
“I knew sleeping with you was a mistake.”
You laughed, resting your head against the window.
“It really wasn’t.”
He glanced over for only a second.
“No. It wasn’t.”
The warmth in his voice lingered long after the conversation faded again.
******
It was almost ten-thirty by the time the elevator doors opened onto his floor. The apartment greeted you the same way it always did. Quiet. Warm. The faint scent of cedar from the bookshelf in the living room mixed with coffee that had long since gone cold in the pot he’d forgotten to empty before leaving that morning.
Home.
Without saying much, the two of you slipped into the easy rhythm you’d built over the last year. He locked the door while you kicked off your boots. You wandered into the bedroom and disappeared into the bathroom to wash your face. When you came back a few minutes later, your hair was damp around your temples, and you were wearing one of his faded PTMC T-shirts that reached the middle of your thighs.
You’d stolen it months ago. Neither of you pretended it was temporary anymore. Robby had already changed into an old pair of gray sleep pants and a black T-shirt. He looked impossibly tired. The kind of tired that settled into his bones.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
He looked up from turning off the bedside lamp.
“Hm?”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I wanted to go.”
“I know.”
“And I’d do it again tomorrow.”
Your chest warmed.
“You don’t have to keep proving yourself.”
He frowned.
“I wasn’t.”
“You weren’t?”
“No.” He crossed the room until he was standing in front of you. “I wasn’t there to prove anything.”
His hand found your waist naturally.
“I was there because you wanted me there.”
You looked up at him.
“I know.”
“I wanted to meet the people who made you…” His lips twitched. “…you.”
You smiled.
“They liked you.”
“I noticed.”
“They really liked you.”
“They’re easy people to like.”
You laughed quietly.
“I spent weeks worrying.”
“I know.”
“For nothing.”
He brushed a thumb along your cheek.
“I wish you’d told me.”
“I didn’t want to sound ridiculous.”
“You wouldn’t have.”
“I got scared.”
That made him blink.
“…scared?”
You nodded once.
“Watching everyone gather around you…” You laughed softly at yourself. “…it was stupid.”
“I bet it wasn’t.”
“I felt…” You searched for the words. “…like I’d finally brought two parts of my life together.”
His expression softened.
“And?”
“And then I realized…” Your eyes drifted down to where your fingers had begun absentmindedly playing with the hem of his shirt. “…how much I’d lose if you ever weren’t there.”
The room became impossibly still. Robby didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached up and gently tipped your chin until you were looking at him again.
“You know what I spent today thinking about?”
You shook your head.
“I kept looking at your family…” A faint smile appeared. “…and wondering if this is what holidays are supposed to feel like.”
Your heart caught.
“You’ve never really had that.”
“No.”
“They argued.”
“They absolutely argued.”
“They laughed over each other.”
“They did.”
“Nobody cared who was talking.”
You smiled.
“They never have.”
His voice became quieter.
“I liked watching you become somebody’s granddaughter again.”
Your eyes immediately stung. You smiled through the tears threatening again. He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“They were taking care of you.”
You stepped closer until there wasn’t any space left between you. He wrapped both arms around you without hesitation. The hug was slow. Unhurried. The kind that came after a long day, when neither person needed anything except to know the other was there.
You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Steady. Comforting. Real.
“I missed that,” you whispered.
“What?”
“Feeling like somebody’s kid.”
His chin rested lightly against the top of your head.
“I know.”
You stood there for another minute before he finally murmured, “C’mon.”
“You falling asleep standing up?”
“…Maybe.”
You laughed.
“Thought so.”
The bedroom was dark except for the amber glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. You slid beneath the comforter first. A moment later, the mattress dipped as Robby climbed in beside you. Almost instinctively, you rolled toward him. He opened one arm before you even reached him. Like he’d been expecting you to.
You tucked yourself against his chest, your cheek resting just below his collarbone. The oversized shirt you’d stolen bunched slightly beneath the blankets as his hand slipped beneath the soft cotton to rest against the small of your back. His palm was warm. His touch familiar. Slowly, lazily, he began tracing absent circles against your skin. Not with any destination in mind. Just because he knew it relaxed you.
Outside, snow tapped gently against the bedroom window. Inside, there was only the quiet rhythm of your breathing beginning to match his.
“You smell good,” you mumbled.
A sleepy chuckle vibrated beneath your cheek.
“I smell like soap.”
“And you.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It is.”
His fingers continued their slow path across your back. You closed your eyes. For a while, neither of you spoke. There wasn’t a need. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It felt…full.
Like something had quietly shifted over the course of the day. You thought about your mother. About your grandmother slipping her arm through his. About your cousins laughing with him on the living room floor. About your father’s absence. About the place Robby had somehow occupied without trying to replace anyone.
You realized something. You weren’t imagining a future anymore. You were living the beginning of one. Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
“Robby?”
“Hm?”
His voice was already heavy with sleep. You lifted your head just enough to look at him. In the dim light, you could barely make out his face. The lines of exhaustion. The silver beginning to thread through his dark hair. The man who carried so much for everyone else. The man who had quietly, steadily become your safest place. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.
“…I love you.”
For one terrifying heartbeat…Nothing. His hand stopped moving against your back. You felt your stomach drop. Then he exhaled slowly. Not in surprise. Almost in relief.
He opened his eyes and looked at you with a softness you’d never seen before. His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. Then the bridge of your nose. Then one quiet, lingering kiss against your lips that said more than either of you ever could. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I was wondering,” he whispered with the smallest smile, “which one of us was going to be brave enough to say it first.”
A tear escaped before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb.
“I love you, too.”
There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. No dramatic declaration. Just complete, unwavering certainty.
“I think…” he murmured, “…I’ve loved you for a while.”
You laughed softly through your tears.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know.”
He sighed with mock defeat.
“…The morning you fell asleep on my couch after that twenty-nine shift.”
You smiled.
“That long?”
“You stole my blanket.”
“I was cold.”
“You drooled on my pillow.”
“I did not.”
“The stain is still there.”
You laughed, hiding your face against his neck.
“I can’t believe that’s the moment.”
“It wasn’t because of the blanket.”
“No?”
“It was because…” He paused, searching for words the way he always did when something mattered. “…I looked at you, and for the first time in a very long time…”
His arms tightened around you.
“…home looked like a person.”
Your breath caught. You didn’t answer. You simply kissed him once more, slow and tender, before settling back against his chest. His hand returned beneath your shirt, gently rubbing soothing circles along your back as the apartment fell quiet again.
Outside, snow continued to blanket the city. Inside, wrapped safely in each other’s arms, the line between the person you were dating and the person you were building a life with disappeared so naturally that neither of you noticed the exact moment it happened. Only that, somehow, when morning came…it would feel like it had always been this way.
summary: andrew does pushups with you under him, until you want more.
warning: 18+, dryhumping, coming in pants
a/n: wrote the smut in this tipsy while being bored of the word cup game pls bare with any typos. i need this man to do pushups over me
Laying under Andrew as he does pushups, his strong, thick biceps on either side of your head. Feeling the sturdy weight of him press gently into you whenever he comes down, and pressing your stomach. His face, etched with concentration as his eyes bore into yours every time he does a pushup.
You’re content to just lay there under him, admire his face and his chest and his arms on either side of you, warmth pooling in your stomach. It hasn’t been long, only about ten minutes or so, but small rivulets of sweat are forming along his curls, at the nape of his neck.
Eventually, you decide you need him to suffer a little, need to make him stop and take you right here, instead of doing his stupid push-ups, which were sexy, yes, but you were growing needy watching him, slick pooling in your underwear.
The little furrow in his brow smoothes out when you give him a little peck on his lips as he leans down. Just a soft press of your lips against his.
He pants.
“You’re distracting me.”
You giggle.
“That was my intention.”
Then you put your arms on his chest, on those pecs and slowly rub circles with your thumbs, feeling the warmth and slightly sweaty skin.
He stills above you, arms locked on either side. A bead of sweat trails down the side of his head, down his neck.
“You’re so sweaty, honey,” you begin, trailing your hands up and up the planes of his chest, until they meet at the back of his neck. You pull him down slightly, and he lets you, surprisingly, curious for your next move.
You smirk before you lean up slightly, neck tilting up. Then you take your tongue out, and trail it up the side his throat, tasting the slight musk and tanginess.
His jaw clenches, lips pressing together.
Andrew wraps one beefy arm around your waist, the other holding him up. Then he turns you over with an ease that leaves you stunned.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, now on top of him. You reach out and place your hands on either side of his head, your knees on the ground, straddling him to keep your balance.
“Holy fucking shit. I cannot believe you just flipped us over like that.”
Andrew just stares at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as he fights back a smile.
“S’nothing,” he mumbles.
“No it’s not nothing,” you say as you run a hand through his curls. “You’re my strong boy.”
He blushes then, cheeks warming as he leans in again.
“Yeah? M’ good?
You nod, brushing your nose against his.
Then he presses your lips together, hard. You kiss, your tongue in his mouth, fighting for dominance.
Feeling his cock underneath you, hardening under his boxer shorts, your clit rubbing against him, hard, as you grind your hops against his, once.
“Fuck,” he grits out, grabbing your waist with both hands.
“Please Andrew, let me make you feel good.”
He nods, whimpering into your mouth.
“Keep goin’, pretty girl.”
And you do, rocking your hips back and forth, the friction of your clothes between you creating the perfect friction on your clit.
“Andrew, fuck! You feel- feel so good baby,”
He groans in reply, moaning into your mouth as he moves you back and forth, holding your waist.
You move faster, gripping the sides of his neck, mouth hovers above his.
“Andrew, fuck- m’gonna come,” you whine into his mouth.
He nods against you, egging you on. Not a man of many words, he just grips your waist tighter in his palms, rocking you against him faster.
“Just like that baby, m’gonna come too,” he groans.
As his tip slides against your clit under your shorts, pressing against you on the perfect way, the wave of pleasure breaks and you come - hard. Back arching, hips grinding, moaning his name.
Andrew just stares, all sweaty and lost in your body moving against him as you work through your peak.
“Fuck- fuck can feel you pulsing baby,” Andrew groans out lowly.
His hips jerk up once, then twice, jerkily, before he spills in his boxers, moaning against your mouth.
You both pant against each other, feeling your release in your underwear.
“Did so- so good for me, honey,” you praise against his lips, kissing him softly.
He only moans in reply, hips still slightly grinding up into you.
“Thank you,” he whimpers.
Yeah. There’s nowhere you’d rather be.
god bless the Thot in my notes app and the TikTok edit of Andrew including him doing pushups
ppl are so annoying “you can’t paint ur bedroom pink you’re an adult” i did not spend my entire life waiting to grow up and control my life to paint my bedroom beige
when I first bought my house, I announced my decision to paint my bedroom purple. I had wanted a purple bedroom for thirty damn years, you fucking bet I was gonna have one now. My friends decided, for some reason, that I meant what one of them referred to as “14 year old girl purple” (through what’s wrong with the colors a 14 year old girl chooses, I don’t know, even if they’re not what I want as an adult). They didn’t believe me until they saw the color on the actual wall, even thought they helped me pick out paints. My mother, meanwhile, decided to get worried that if I painted my bedroom a “dark purple”, it would be “depressing”. As if, with an entire house to live in, I would spend all my time in the bedroom, which I wanted to be dark because I would be sleeping in there. In the damn dark.
I had like one, maybe two friends who were all like FUCK YEAH YOU PAINT IT WHATEVER COLOR YOU WANT, PURPLE BEDROOMS ARE AWESOME.
But when they actualy saw the finished bedroom, every single one of them was like, “Oh yeah, that’s really pretty.” (Well, the ones who supported me from the beginning were more like WOOHOO.)
And the moral of the story is: Fuck ‘em, please yourself. Either they’ll come around, or you can safely ignore every question of taste they opine about for the rest of time.
This applies to other adulting activities, too. When I was a kid, I decided that I wanted to have a wedding cake made of doughnuts. When I got older, I figured that I would be “mature” about it and get a traditional cake, which the older adults approved of. Now that I’m 25 and facing the possibility of actual marriage in the near future, I’m just like “marriage is a social construct but it comes with tax & insurance benefits, so just give me that goddamn doughnut cake.” If they don’t like it then they don’t have to come to my wedding.
I’m thirty and my first big furniture purchase was a custom coffin shaped coffee table that opens up and is lined with purple crushed velvet. I would have loved it at 13 and I love it now. Growing up doesn’t mean you have to abandon what makes you happy.
I have told this story before, and I will tell it again, because I am An Old now and repeating stories forever is our prerogative:
When I bought my house, the kitchen was multiple shades of dingy white. It was dismal, but it was now mine! So went to the hardware store for paint (well, several trips, painted swatches on panel, etc — I’m very picky. But this was the final, ‘real’ trip). It was a busy day in the paint section. There were at least five people behind me in line.
Now, remember, latex paint is slightly lighter and brighter when wet than it is when dry. And I’d decided to paint my kitchen candy-apple red. The hardware store employee took my gallon off the Paint Jiggler and cracked it open to put a dab on the top, revealing the most incredibly deep pink, and behind me I hear the entire line of people say,
“Oh my god.”
…in perfect chorus.
I did not realize up until that moment that shocking a crowd of strangers with my paint color choices was a life goal, but at that moment I felt an absolutely overwhelming sense of achievement.
When I first moved into my place, I painted the spare room, that eventually became my office, lime green, the kind of lime green that glows down the corridor when I open the door - The colour was only available as an “accent colour” in the section of paints intended for children’s playrooms, and in the shop I got a lot of “Oh your son will love this!” And from people I knew I got a lot of “Oh well, you’re 21 now, you’re basically a teenager, this is a terrible idea, you’ll hate it and need to pull out all the furniture to repaint it.” And I have to report that I am now in my forties and my office still looks like this, and it makes me smile every time I see it.
not decorating trends; those have always existed. but the idea that color and decoration is inherently childish
this is the dining room at the Eustis Estate in Milton, Massachusetts, from 1878 (where I used to work, briefly). the walls are TEXTURED MICA SHIMMER on a green background. Adult Space For Adults!
A jewelry shop in Paris c. 1901. kids can’t buy jewelry!
who can forget the classic 1950s colorful bathroom? I’m not a huge fan, but still! adult space! bright colors; decorative designs!
meanwhile “you’re immature if you like Art Nouveau” is a hot take I’ve really, seriously seen on this webbed site (only once, thank the gods). I don’t know who started this, but I’m going to kill them
I think a lot of it stems from the ubiquitous Waterhouse prints that were sold on college campuses for 20 years. like why would I get a free pass if it were Monet instead Western culture is stupid. The entire point of being an adult is breakfast for dinner and cake for breakfast and dying with the most toys.
The examples of decorated homes above are both either modern or upper class, which makes it easy to dismiss because “sure the rich people have beautiful homes” and “sure, modern middle-class people have lots of color in their homes.”
So here’s two examples of traditional Norwegian farmhouse interiors. You know. The kinds of places peasants live in.
This type of painting is called “rosemaling” and today you usually find it on, like, carved wooden bowls and such that are only used for decoration. But back two centuries ago, it was very common to find the interiors of homes covered in it, in projects that were painted little by little over the decades. Because it’s beautiful to look at, paint is the cheapest way of decorating your house, and what else are you going to do on the long winter nights when it’s too dark and cold to work outdoors?
But mostly, they did it because it made them happy, and it was beautiful.
The Kim Karsashian Cult of Beige is a stain on civilization and I cannot believe I have to fucking live through it swear to gos WE’RE APES OUR ENCLOSURES NEED ENRICHMENT FFS
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