Dizzybee03

40 year old wife and momma- new to the writing world and just trying to figure out what I wanna be when I grow up

[dizzybee03]

Masterlist

Beau "Cyclone" Simpson and OC Ryan Series:

A Not So Desperate Housewife

Full Moons and Friday Nights Beau Simpson x Original Character Story It doesn’t take long for any cop to figure out that full moons and Fr

Swinging on a Saturday night

Beau “Cyclone” Simpson x OC Ryan Reagan story It was hard to believe that a little over a week ago Beau and Ryan had been meeting for a dri

Something Sinful Happening on Sunday

A Beau “Cyclone” Simpson x OC (Ryan Reagan) story. #3 in the series Warnings: slight smut (dry humping) 6 weeks, 42 days, 1008 hours, th

Making Love on a Monday

Beau Simpson x OC Ryan Reagan story Warnings- Smut Otis Redding sang softly through the speaker and the soft glow of string lights lit the

[saltwat3rpearl]

The One That Got Away (2/?) - Warm Beers and River Water

Pairing: (young) Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x f!reader

Summary: You and Robby spend a day off getting to know each other better.

CW: Alcohol, injury description, Robby being a flirt, riding a motorcycle after drinking, fluff

AN: Huge apology to anybody who was waiting for another chapter of this series. My laptop broke a couple of months ago and I've only just splurged on a new one. Chapters may come a little slower due to work, but I have this series pretty much planned out. Enjoy!

PART ONE |

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The sun returned with a vengeance the next morning, scorching the earth like it was trying to upstage the previous night’s rainfall. You squinted as you emerged from your hut, shielding your eyes as you looked over at the long line already forming outside the vaccination tent. Robby and Claire were already set up, jabbing needles into arms at unprecedented rates. You made your way over just as Robby was handing a little girl a lollipop. He let out a low whistle at the sight of your tangled hair and the dark circles under your eyes. 

“That moonshine did a number on you, huh?” 

You smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, didn’t realise I overslept.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Robby said, prepping another needle. “Told Dan you could probably use a few extra hours this morning.” 

Your eyes drifted down to where his sleeves were rolled. There was a small tattoo on his left bicep - ‘Memento Mori’ in bold script. Remember that you must die. The barely there smirk on his lips was evidence enough that he’d caught you looking. Before you could come up with some excuse - ‘there was a mosquito on your arm, I swear!’ - a cry for help echoed throughout the camp. 

A small crowd had already formed when you and Robby reached the camp entrance. A boy no older than eight was laid out on a stretcher made of cloth and branches, his arm bent at a sickening angle. His mother clutched his uninjured hand, eyes wide with fear as she pleaded with you in Lingala.

“Fell from a tree,” Robby translated tersely as he palpated the boy’s wrist. The child whimpered in pain but didn’t pull away, just stared up at Robby as his stretcher was carried into the trauma room. 

You snapped into action without thinking: splint materials gathered, gauze unwrapped, and morphine drawn with a steady confidence that belied the queasy twist of your stomach - half hangover, half adrenaline. 

Robby nodded approvingly as you stabilised the limb. “Good hands,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, before reassuring the mother with his limited vocabulary. 

By noon, the boy was in recovery with his arm set cleanly. By evening, you’d treated another handful of minor traumas - a wild dog bite, a scalp laceration after a fall, two heatstroke cases, and a freak fishing line accident. When you passed the boy’s cot during the night crew’s handover, he grinned toothily and mimed climbing another tree despite his sling. 

Robby leaned against the clinic wall when you both left, nodding back towards the patient beds. “Still wanna bolt for the airport?” 

You knocked your shoulder against his, trying to conceal your smile. “Shut up.” 

“Good,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Because I already told Dan that you’re the best trauma doc we’ve had in months. Except me, of course.”

“Of course.”

Robby huffed out a laugh. “And if you had bailed? Would’ve had to chase you down myself.”

His tone was light, but something in the way he didn’t quite meet your eyes made it feel heavier than a joke. He wanted you to stay. An unfamiliar warmth settled in your chest at the thought. No, that was ridiculous, you’d only known each other for twenty-four hours. 

You hid your smile by looking away, pretending to twist a loose nail that was sticking out of the doorframe. “You wouldn’t catch me. I’m fast.”

Robby stubbed out the cigarette, his breath tickling your ear as he leaned in to whisper. “I don’t doubt it.” 

The damp mud squelched beneath his boots as he walked away, leaving you hot in a way you couldn’t blame on the African sun. 

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You walked into camp with a spring in your step the next morning. The sun was tucked away behind a cloud, making the heat a little more bearable, and giving the world room to breathe. Breakfast was a bowl of lumpy porridge, prepared by Claire, and a blackened banana which you shared with a hungry stray dog. There was no sign of Robby in the mess tent or the clinic. Dan seemed to notice you wandering around like a lost lamb, his eyes flitting between you and the crossword puzzle he was trying to finish.

“If you’re looking for Robinavitch he’s taking his death trap motorcycle on a joy ride.” 

You turned around, trying your best to appear casual. “I wasn’t looking for him. I was just … wondering where all the patients are.” 

Dan smiled to himself as he filled out thirteen across. “Mmhmm. Lot of people around here respect the Sabbath, so we’re closed to everything besides major traumas. Gives us a break and a chance to re-stock.” He squinted down at his paper. “You wouldn’t happen to know what a nine letter word for ‘rogue’ is, would you?” 

Before you could answer, the distinct sound of an engine rumbling approached, followed by a plume of dust. Robby stopped his bike outside the clinic, just shy of you and Dan, and flashed you a wide smile. 

“I miss anything?” he asked, lowering the kickstand with his boot. 

Dan barely looked up. “All quiet on the Western front. Your friend here was looking for you though.” 

“I wasn’t looking for you specifically.” You said quickly, feeling your cheeks heat up.

Robby brushed past you to grab his water canteen, the stupid grin still on his face. “Ouch. I thought we had something special.” He leaned over Dan’s shoulder. “Three down. Scounderel.” 

Dan cursed under his breath as he filled in the boxes. “Go on. Get outta here and give me some peace."

You watched as Robby mock-saluted and backed away, the tread of his boots heavy against the ground as he headed towards the mess hall. He stretched his arms overhead as he walked, the hem of his shirt riding up enough to show the trail of hair leading from his belly button down to his …

“You’re not here to shadow me y’know,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his as you fell into step with him. 

You nudged him back, barely able to conceal your smile. “I know. I just didn’t really know what else to do today.” 

Robby looked down at you, considering, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Have you ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle?” 

“Do I look like I’ve ridden on the back of a motorcycle?”

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?” 

A bird cawed from a tree canopy above you. You huffed, determined not to let Robby - the stupid, charming, scoundrel - fluster you. It was stupid, you’d left America behind to escape from all the bad decisions that had been haunting you for years. And yet, standing before you was a terrible decision. A terrible decision with beautiful eyes and a smile that could get you to do anything. 

That’s how you ended up on the back of the bike.

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The engine roared beneath you like a wild beast, the seat vibrating more with every reckless mile put between you and the camp. Robby’s laugh cut through the blood rushing in your ears. He seemed to relish the way your grip around his waist tightened every time he accelerated harder.

“Still alive back there?”

You kept your eyes fastened shut, not daring to look at the trees whizzing past dangerously close to your head. “No! I died five miles ago!” 

That laugh again. Rich and throaty. Robby slowed the bike down as he turned into a river clearing, the water reflecting the afternoon sunlight. You clung tightly to him even after he killed the ignition, feeling him turn around.

“You can open your eyes now,” he said, with a smile that you heard rather than saw.

You did, blinking hard as the sun’s rays flooded your vision. There wasn’t much in the clearing, just a few damp boulders by the running water and lots of mud. Robby jumped off the bike, taking your hand to help you down. 

“Ta da,” he beamed, spreading his arms wide. “What do you think?” 

“There’s nothing here,” 

Robby scoffed, digging into the canvas bag on the back of his bike. “Ugh, you’re a hard to impress date.” 

Date. The word sent a rush of heat right through you. “Didn’t realise we were on a date.” 

“We’re not,” he said quickly. “I’m just saying, if I did ever take you out on a date then I’d probably have to sell a kidney to afford it.” 

You raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a couple of beers. It was cheap swill, the kind that tasted like cardboard and got you drunk fast. The glass bottle was warm from being stuffed in his bag all afternoon when he passed one to you, the serrated edge of the cap scratching your fingers when you tried to unscrew it.

“Give it here.” 

Robby took the beer from you, uncapping it on his belt buckle. The bottle hissed like a rattlesnake, a sea of foam rising to the top. You hummed contently after the first sip, rolling your eyes when you caught Robby smiling at you from behind his own beer. 

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” 

The silence between you was thick. A heavy blanket that weighed on you the way humidity did. Robby watched a stork wade through the water in search of fish. You watched him. Your eyes traced over the faded scar on his cheek, the gold chain that dipped beneath his shirt, the bead of sweat trickling down his arm, the way his fingers gripped the neck of the beer bottle. 

“You know,” you said, eager to break the silence, “we don’t know that much about each other.” 

Robby’s eyes drifted from the bird to you as he took another swig from his beer. “Ask me anything, I’m an open book.” He stretched his legs out, his boots knocking against yours. “Favourite food, first kiss, childhood traumas … well, maybe not that last one yet.” 

You nudged his foot, letting the touch linger. “Okay, I’ll go easy on you. Why’d you really come here?” 

He exhaled through his nose, the lowering sun giving him a golden glow. “Thought I’d hate it. Wanted to prove I could see something through without bailing like…” A pause. A sip of beer that acted like a colon at the end of his unfinished thought. “Turns out I kinda like it. It’s just hot as hell and full of people who annoy me.” His shoulder bumped yours. “Mostly you.” 

“Gee, thanks,” you laughed. “Okay, your turn. Ask me anything.”

Robby studied you for a moment, almost like he was trying to come up with a diagnosis. The teasing glint in his eyes faded into something more thoughtful. “The night that made you pack your bags … what was it?” 

The question felt like a splash of cold water, intimate in a way that made it hard to hold his gaze. Across the water, the stork swallowed a fish in one gulp before flying away again. You could’ve lied, brushed it off with a joke about insurance paperwork or burnout cliches. But in Robby’s company, the truth spilled out easier than expected.

“A kid,” you admitted, voice quiet. “Collateral damage from a drive-by shooting, got nicked in the spleen. Medicaid was pending for three weeks while infection set in.” The memory of small hands gripping yours flashed sharp behind your eyelid before you blinked it away. “He died in the ICU, and the parents were given a huge medical bill as a souvenir for losing their only child. I just … I couldn’t do triage by wallet again.” 

Robby didn’t say anything for a while, he just slid his hand closer to yours, your pinkies grazing on the warm ground. “So … favourite movie?”

You let out a surprised laugh, the lump in your throat easing slightly. “Nice deflection.” 

“Never seen that one.” 

“Shut up.” 

He grinned around the bottle, drinking the last of his beer in a few gulps. “Ugh, I hate warm beer.” 

“Well, you should have rode here faster.” You said, mimicking his teasing smirk. 

Robby took your beer too, ignoring the indignant noise you made as he finished it off, before offering you a hand up. “C’mon, super doc.” 

You took it, feeling every callus on his hand as he hauled you to your feet. The bike rumbled to life beneath you again as you settled back into the saddle behind him, wind catching your hair when he gunned it. By the time you skidded back to the clinic, shared laughter echoing over the engine, the moon had already claimed the sky. Robby cut the engine, reaching back to steady you with firm hands around your waist as your wobbly legs hit the ground. 

“Don’t ever say I don’t show a girl a good time.”

You couldn’t argue with that one. 

tag list: @thesandbeneathmytoes

[dizzybee03]

Oh my gosh young Robby before he’s become super jaded is my jam! Loving this 💙

[docrobinavitch]

THE BUG COLLECTOR-- PART ONE

THE PITT X THE BEAR CROSSOVER

dr robby x f!reader read on ao3 | the bug collector masterlist content: 18+ mdni, reader is mikey berzatto's widow, discussions of suicide, suicidal ideation, death and grief, domestic violence (verbal, emotional, physical), discussions of pregnancy/fertility/conception, substance use disorder, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, smoking, mental illness, minor age gap? i would say reader is in her early forties, robby's in his fifties, dysfunctional family, reader is orphaned, berzattos something like found family, reader's nickname given by berzattos is bug, brief mention of unspecified child abuse, likely medical inaccuracies, broken heart syndrome, swearing words: 13.5k synopsis: wracked with guilt and shame that could rival that of a devout catholic's after your husband ends his life, you decide to follow in his footsteps by abandoning the life you've built together. packing up your things, you flee to pittsburgh, leaving behind both chicago and the only family you'd ever known. but grief cannot be outrun, robby knows that better than anyone. one day, maybe you'll stop running long enough for him to show you. a/n: well. i said i would do it, didn't i??? anyway this one is super niche who knows when i will finish it if ever this is mostly just the set up ahhhhh idk why i'm so nervous about this when i know no one is going to read it lmao. i'm having fun with it though and i really love writing the bear characters! mind the tags pleaseeeee and take care of yourselves. if you like this one please let me know or i fear it will be abandoned <3 syd

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud, for grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. To me and to the state of my great grief, let kings assemble; for my grief's so great that no supporter but the huge firm earth can hold it up. [Throws herself on the ground.] Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

-The Life and Death of King John, William Shakespeare

The morning of the day the world ended, you were thinking about leaving Mikey again, for probably the hundredth time. You'd pulled out your suitcase from under the bed, unzipped it, sat on the floor, and stared at it for over an hour.

Mikey had been sweet the last few days, but that wasn't uncommon. He could usually sense when you were thinking about leaving, when you got tired of begging him to come home. When you didn't engage in the fights he stoked. When you stopped going through his things so you could flush the drugs down the toilet.

The last few days, as he normally did when he sniffed out your thoughts, he was kind to you. Did the things he always had in the beginning stages of your relationship, like make you coffee, kiss you goodbye, made sure he was in the bed with you at night when it was time to go to sleep. He hadn't been sober for much of it, but there was almost nothing on this earth that could make him want to be sober for more than an hour in that last year.

And so, much like every other time you had planned to leave Mikey, you sat staring at an open suitcase wondering if you were making the right decision.

But then the phone rang and you tore your gaze away from the suitcase to see Natalie calling. Part of you was tempted to ignore it. The Berzattos had taken you in like you were practically their own long before you and Mikey had even thought about dating. Leaving Mikey wouldn't just be leaving Mikey, it'd be leaving the only family you'd ever known. Natalie, the only sister you'd ever had.

Wracked with guilt, you stared at her contact photo long enough that it almost went to voicemail.

"Hey, Nat, what's—"

You remembered thinking as Natalie screamed almost unintelligibly into the phone that it was a joke. A prank. You were already thinking about the long speech you'd give Mikey, Richie, and Fak, surely the perpetrators of it.

"Natalie, slow down." You stood up, still calm and in denial, although just one finger on your free hand trembled as you walked toward the safe where Mikey kept his gun. Your gun, you knew, was exactly where you'd left it. In its own safe tucked away in your nightstand. You had just checked for it this morning, because sometimes Mikey took it without asking and if you were leaving you wanted to take it with you.

But that morning, you walked with purpose toward's Mikey's "office," if one could call it that. It was a single folding table and more papers and boxes than you could understand. Scattered throughout it were the occasional photo in frame, like your wedding photo.

Your eye caught sight of it as you walked over to his safe on the lone bookshelf. There was a crack down the middle of the glass of the frame. Mikey had thrown it a few weeks ago. Not at you, you'd maintain, just towards you. You'd been meaning to get around to replacing it.

As Natalie sobbed frantically in your ear, you unlocked the safe and—

No gun. Just a single, folded piece of paper that read: BUG in messy scrawl you'd know anywhere.

Distantly, you knew Natalie was calling your name, but you put the phone down with a shaking hand and then reached for the paper.

You unfolded it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and there were just three sentences written out.

I'm sorry. Carmy will take care of everything. I love you.

And then the world ended.

***

When the world ended, you ran. Mikey seemed to have had everything figured out before he blew his brains out on the State Street Bridge and so there was no use for you. He left you with nothing. Except the house, which you had put up for sale within weeks.

"Bug, hold on—hold on—I don't know why he left me everything," Carmy was saying frantically as you were packing your things into your pickup, "He was fucked up, he wasn't thinking straight, obviously, or he would've left the restaurant to his fucking wife."

"Carmy," You sighed, "It's fine. I never wanted the Beef anyway."

"Okay, but, I could use your help. Where the fuck are you going anyway? Does Richie know you're leaving? Natalie?" At the look on your face he leaned his back against your truck and dug around for his cigarettes, "Fuck," he muttered, "You're gonna make me tell them, aren't you?"

You hadn't seen Carmy for a couple of years by the time Mikey ended it, but he looked worn out since the last time you saw him. He'd lost some weight and the bags under his eyes were heavy. It had been cruel for Mikey to strap him with a fucking floundering sandwich shop when Carmy had been working at one of the best restaurants in the world. He idolized Mikey. You knew immediately he'd never get rid of it like Natalie asked him to.

And so the cycle would continue. The Beef would curse Carmy next—No, that was terrible to even think, to put out into the universe. Carmy was different. He'd be fine.

"You don't need me, Carm," You said quietly, accepting a cigarette from him, "You have Richie."

He scoffed, "Richie's a fuckin' idiot, he doesn't know how to do shit."

"Richie knows more about that place than I do. Fuck, he probably knew Mikey better than I did at the end."

You felt Carmy's eyes on you, but didn't turn to meet them.

"That's not true." He said finally, "You knew him better than anyone."

You hummed, "He was planning this for weeks and weeks and I had no idea. Not a fuckin' clue," Finally you turned to him, "So what does that say about me, Carm? About our relationship?"

You weren't sure what it was you wanted from Carmy. Reassurance that he didn't blame you? For someone to say out loud that it wasn't your fault? That even though you'd been revolving around Mikey like he was the Sun for practically your entire life, how could you have been expected to notice when his light dimmed?

Carmy didn't say any of that and he wouldn't because you both knew it was bullshit. If it was anyone's job to notice that Mikey was well and truly slipping, it was yours.

And maybe you had been so busy thinking about yourself that you hadn't noticed. Or maybe you hadn't wanted to notice. The implication was the same and if they wouldn't condemn you for it, then you'd do it yourself.

"If you won't call Sugar, you should at least call Richie." He said quietly, "He's been a fuckin' bastard lately and he hates me right now so please don't make me be the one to tell him that his only other friend has left town without a trace."

You couldn't talk to Richie. You hadn't been able to look him in the eye since the day it happened. If anyone would be able to see right through you to the truth of it, to see your failures, it'd be Richie.

"Why's he mad at you?"

Carmy shrugged, "Think he's just pissed Mikey left it to me. Doesn't matter how many times I've tried to tell him I never fuckin' wanted it. Not without Mikey."

Ah, yeah, that sounded like Richie. You hadn't wanted the Beef either, but you understood the resentment anyway. The truth that came with it, that Mikey had never really seen the two of you as family.

"He'll get over it," You said swallowing, "You're family."

Carmy didn't say anything to that, "Could you at least tell me where you're going?"

The youngest Berzatto, you'd always had a softness for Carmy. It was you who'd intervened on his behalf whenever Mikey and Richie were being too hard on him. When he left for Paris and then Copenhagen and finally New York, Mikey was proud of him, of course, but you identified the resentment. That Carmy had been able to get out. The same bitterness that had simmered below the surface and led you to drop out of NYU and come back to Mikey.

That seemed like lifetimes ago, now.

Sighing, you dug around in the cab of your truck until you found a pen and a notepad. Quickly, you scribbled down the address of the apartment you'd be renting and then handed it to Carmy.

He squinted at it and then up at you, "Pittsburgh? What the hell is in Pittsburgh?"

Nothing. Nothing and no one who knew you. A one bedroom that didn't have any traces of Mikey in it. Not a single soul who knew who the Berzattos were or what a Chicago Beef was. Well, maybe they'd know what a Chicago Beef was.

You dropped your cigarette and crushed it beneath your boot before walking back around the truck to the driver's side.

"You should sell the Beef," You said, climbing into the truck.

"Are you ever gonna come back?" Carmy asked, leaning into your window as you started the truck.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat and turned to him, "I feel him. Constantly," You said softly, "Like a fucking weight on my chest. I just need to be somewhere where his ghost isn't suffocating me."

He nodded and pushed off the side of your car, "Well, we'll miss you here. Don't know how we're gonna do it without you."

You felt the muscles of your face soften. Carmy could be both so much like Mikey and nothing at all like him, "Carm, you're gonna do so amazing," You nodded reassuringly and lowered your head to force eye contact with him, "Mikey knew it. I knew it. Everyone in this city knows it."

"If he knew it why didn't he ever bring me home to run it with him, huh?" There was the heat back in his voice, the classic rage only a Berzatto could carry, pulling behind him like a boulder on a rope, so used to its presence he sometimes forgot it was there. Until now. Until forced to examine all the ways in which we'd let him down. "Instead he left me with a—a fuckin' failing restaurant with no money and—and the only living person who was fuckin' keeping it afloat's leaving too."

"Carmy—"

"No, just—just fuck off then, alright?"

Your eyes burned. You didn't want to leave things like this, but you knew he'd be upset. You had planned to leave without telling anyone to avoid all of this mess, like a coward, but Carmy had shown up out of the blue, planning to ask for your help. Instead, he'd been confronted with you packing your life away. Running. Leaving him the same way he felt like Mikey had. Didn't you know what that felt like? So easily you'd perpetrate the same violence against him if it meant escaping its echoes yourself.

"I'm sorry." You said weakly, not knowing what else to do or say. You were sorry. But you weren't sure you'd survive another second under the suffocating weight of the grief.

Carmy wasn't looking at you now. Hands on his hips as he stared off into the sunset. A police siren wailed in the distance.

"Don't expect me to keep it from the family." He said finally, "When they ask, I won't lie for you."

There had been a time when Carmy would have lied for you as easily as the river flows down the bank. It was amazing the things Mikey could continue to take from you, even from the grave.

You swallowed and nodded, "I understand."

He stood there stoically as you started the truck. Your eyes filled as you looked at the house you and Mikey had shared for twenty years in the rearview mirror. The rose bushes you'd tended to by the stoop. The stubborn crack in the foundation that Mikey attempted to fill himself every few years. The beers you'd shared and cigarrettes you'd smoked with Richie and, later, Tiffany in the backyard. You couldn't imagine that anywhere else would ever feel as close to home as those four walls and the laughter and screaming and crying that settled in the foundation like mold. It would have collapsed one day anyhow, even if Mikey hadn't been the one to issue the final blow.

"Carm," You called over the roar of the engine. You saw the moment he hesitated, when he stubbornly wanted to deny you the desire to look into his eyes, but he looked up. "I'm sorry he left such a mess, but you don't have to be the one to clean up after him. If you don't want to."

He nodded, seeming to consider it, then, "You know that's not true," He said, squinting against the light of the setting sun, "I begged him to let me work at The Beef for years so he gave it to me," He grinned sardonically, "Fuckin' bastard."

You did know it wasn't true. Carmy would clean up any mess if Mikey was the one to make it. But you had to say it anyway.

"Take care of yourself, Carm," You shifted the car into drive, "I love you, bear."

When he looked back at you, the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. Eventually he nodded, "Love you too, bug."

With that, you pulled off the curb for the last time and watched the Chicago skyline fade in the rearview mirror.

***

As long as you could remember, you always wanted to be married. It wasn't as if you'd diaried about the wedding you'd throw, the type of dress you wanted. You didn't create long lists of baby names to one day share with your future spouse. You didn't imagine the life you'd share or the house you'd one day live in.

To you, it was the one sure way to ensure you belonged to someone. That you mattered to someone. The fantasy of being loved and wanted and adored and taken care of by someone. You had always hated being alone. As you were passed from foster home to foster home, some of them the source of recurring nightmares over the years, the best ones where you were treated with cold indifference, it was this fantasy that kept you going.

It was Uncle Jimmy who had introduced you to the Berzattos. You were living at one of the very bad foster homes at the time, suffering through the fourth grade, your marks were tanking and you barely spoke to anyone at all. You had taken to not going home after school, instead, wandering the streets of Chicago until the sun rose again in the morning. Sometimes people took pity on you, assumed you were homeless and bought you a meal. You spent a lot of time in the library during this period. But even libraries closed at night.

And so you'd walk and walk and walk. Up the river, down the river, along the pier, through the park. On one night, you were particularly tired. You hadn't been back at the house in about three days. You were hungry and your feet hurt and you were starting to smell from the lack of a shower. The streets were usually quiet at night and this night you made the mistake of walking out across the road without checking for cars.

You remembered the squeal of the brakes and the smell of burnt rubber against asphalt—And then the yelling.

A heavyset man climbed out of his car, red in the face and started bellowing at you about looking both ways before crossing and didn't your parents teach you how to cross the street safely?

The lack of sleep had you irritable and on top of that, you were frustrated that he hadn't hit you. You hadn't intended to be hit, but your immediate thoughts were that if you had been hit, you could have at least gone to the hospital and been doted on. You'd have a safe place to sleep and something to eat. But the hood of his car had barely grazed you.

"You think if I had parents I'd be walking around in the middle of the night, dick wad?" You'd shouted back.

The man quieted and took a closer look at you. Then, he looked around at the empty streets, checked his watch to see what time it was, then sighed heavily as he looked back at you. His eyes traveled from your dirty sneakers, up to your face, streaked with dirt and hair that hadn't been combed or washed in many days. His nose wrinkled in distaste, but you weren't embarrassed. You would happily take being hungry and dirty and smelly over being in that house.

"Get in the car," He said finally with a jerk of his head.

Finally, you had the good sense to revert from rabid dog back to scared child, "Wh—What?"

"Get in the car," He said slowly, "I'm not gonna hurt ya, kid. Are ya hungry?"

At the mere mention of food, your mouth watered. You nodded.

He nodded, "Thought so. Come on, get in. I know a place."

Reluctantly, you climbed in the car. Looking back on it, you thought you'd been smarter than getting in a car with any stranger. But you hadn't slept in days and the ache in your chest that longed to be taken care of by an adult, any adult, twinged at the man's offer.

You were quiet as he drove through Chicago to River North and didn't take offense when he rolled down the windows, assumedly to air out your smell.

You remembered vaguely that he took the car ride to lecture you about how it was unsafe for a girl your age to wander the streets at night like that. But you only sat quietly, the exhaustion fully setting into your bones now that you'd sat down.

He parked along the curb across from a home that had a single light cutting through the dark of the night and unceremoniously got out of the car, gesturing for you to follow. It took a lot of effort for you to pull yourself from the safety of the car, but you managed, trailing after the man like a sick puppy.

You had only known him less than thirty minutes, but you clung to his pant leg as he spoke to the adults who answered the door—another man who had the same mannerisms as the man who almost hit you, whose name was apparently Jimmy, and a very heavily pregnant woman behind him who watched you with a gentle expression on her face. More gentle than you could recall anyone looking at you before. Uncomfortable, you averted your gaze.

Jimmy turned back to you and crouched in front of you, "You see the nice lady behind me?"

You looked over your shoulder to the woman again, who was still looking at you with a soft smile on her face. You nodded.

"She's gonna let you shower and get you some food, okay?"

"What're you gonna do?" You asked immediately, afraid he was already intent on abandoning you.

"I'm gonna have a beer with my friend over here—" He nodded towards the other man, "—and make sure you're looked after."

You swallowed, "You'll still be here when I get out?"

He nodded, "Promise."

You had been lied to by many adults in your life and so your instinct was to distrust him. You couldn't explain why as you looked over the planes of his face, the bags under his eyes, the ginormous glasses that framed them, and the wrinkles beside them, you trusted him. You allowed the woman—Donna—to coax you down the hall.

As she led you to the bathroom, you remembered at the end of the hall, a cracked door and two eyes illuminated by the hallway lights, watching you. Donna, following your gaze, had sighed and said, "Mikey, back to bed. Now." And then the door had closed. That was the first time you laid eyes on Mikey Berzatto.

Later, freshly showered and stomach full of baked ziti, Donna led you back to Jimmy, who smiled at your wet hair and clean clothes (later, you'd learn the clean clothes were Mikey's).

"Feeling better, kiddo?" Jimmy asked.

Yawning, you nodded. You were feeling better, though you were on the verge of falling asleep. Jimmy took you home that night, telling you stories about the Berzattos as he drove. At first when you got back in the car, he'd intended to take you back to The House, but after you refused to give him the address to the point of tears, he'd sighed and began to drive to what you presumed to be his own house. You realized as he drove that you were in the same neighborhood as The House, but you didn't mention it to him, afraid he'd insist on taking you back.

That night, he let you sleep on his couch and at your insistence, he slept in the recliner across the room.

A lot could be said about Donna Berzatto and Uncle Jimmy, the people they became, the people they hurt, but you would always have a soft spot for them for this day, if nothing else. You felt, and you'd tell them for many years after, that they saved your life that night.

You understood the issues Mikey, Sugar, and Carmy had with their mother. You'd witnessed first hand her near violent mood swings and the unforgivable way she'd spoken to them. You'd joke with the siblings for many years after that the only reason she'd been so sweet to you that night was because she'd been pregnant with Sugar. But despite it all, nobody could say that Donna didn't love her children. She hadn't been able to love them the way they needed, and at least in the case of Mikey, you hypothesized it led to his demise, but she had loved them nonetheless. And this was more love than you had witnessed at any time up until that point.

So it was no surprise then that you dug your grubby fingers so deeply into Unc and subsequently, the Berzattos.

And since it had been what you'd wanted so fiercely for as long as you could remember, the decision to drop out of Tisch at NYU, giving up your free ride to come back home to Mikey when he proposed your sophomore year had been an easy one for you to make. Even when Jimmy gave you hell for it.

"I know that I gave you shit for fuckin' going to school for performing arts," He filled the phrase with disdain, "But it's still an education. For free. And you're just gonna throw it away for that fuckin' idiot kid—"

"Will you give me away?" You asked, interrupting his spiel. You had always intended to ask him, but it was easiest to ask now, when you could distract him from all the ways in which you were a disappointment. You weren't his kid, but he had always treated you like it. Before you'd accepted the free ride to NYU, he'd offered to pay your full tuition to any university you wanted.

"Fuck," He'd sighed and ran his hands over his face, displacing his glasses, "You're fuckin' killin' me here, kid."

You grinned, sensing a retreat, "So that's a yes?"

"I just don't understand why it has to be right now. Are you pregnant?"

You rolled your eyes, "I already told you, no. I can pee on a stick for you if you want."

He waved you off, "Then there's no reason this can't wait until graduation, huh?"

You sighed, you didn't want to explain to him the childlike fear that if you didn't marry Mikey right now, he'd lose interest by the time you came home. This felt like the one chance to get everything you wanted. Namely, the Berzattos, legally by contract. And Mikey. The only boy you'd ever loved. You could always go back to school or go to school in Chicago. You might not get another chance with Mikey.

"Jimmy, please."

He stared at you for a few moments and you felt it when he gave up. His shoulders drooped and the muscles in his face relaxed and he slowly shook his head, "Alright, kiddo. Fine. But I'll only walk you down the aisle if you promise me one thing. You listening?" You smiled and eagerly nodded, already thinking you'd won, "You don't let Mikey handle the money."

You frowned, "I don't understand."

"I mean, you can let him handle the money, or what he thinks is the money. But I need you to promise me that you'll keep your own money that he won't have access to."

"Unc, what the fuck are you talking about?"

He looked down at his hands, clasped in front of him on the table, "You know I love Mikey. I love the Berzattos, his father was always a good friend of mine… But the fact of the matter is that they've never been good at business. And now that The Beef is Mikey's and you intend to marry him, that means it'll be yours, too."

You frowned, "Yeah, okay. I know that."

He nodded slowly, "And you understand that if something goes wrong, any money issues will also fall on you. Any debt. This could ruin you—"

"Everyone loves The Beef—"

"The best restaurant will not survive a mismanagement of money, sweetheart. I know you understand that."

You set your jaw stubbornly and sat back against your chair, "So, what, you want me to bet on my future husband's failure and create a secret escape fund?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I want you to do."

You rolled your eyes, but he grabbed your hands across the table, "Listen to me. I know you're smart. You're smarter than him and at his worst I think he'll come to resent that—"

You didn't want to hear this, "Jimmy—" You tried to pull your hands away, but he squeezed tightly.

"At his best, Mikey is a good man. He'll make a good husband. But when things get hard—and they will get hard—I just need to know that you are capable of taking care of yourself. Promise me."

It was scaring you, this talk. You knew what he was really saying underneath it all. You'd had many conversations about the Berzattos with Jimmy over the years. He was like a father to you and so you'd always kept whatever he'd told you under lock and key. Even from Mikey.

He did love Mikey. He loved Donna, loved Mikey's father, loved Nat and Carmy. But he had also seen the family at their worst. And you knew he worried that you'd truly become a Berzatto, and everything that came with it. The mental illness, the substance abuse, the disappearances, the often violent endings. The circular curse of being a Berzatto in this town.

You swallowed, "I promise," you said quietly, "Am I just gonna be another Berzatto to you now, Unc? Just a lovable pain in the ass?"

He chuckled, but shook his head, "No, sweetheart. You've always been a Kalinowski to me anyhow. You'll die a Kalinowski."

You thought about this conversation twenty years later in your new Pittsburgh apartment, sitting in the open window with a lit cigarette in your mouth and an open Peroni beside you. The apartment was empty, just hardwood floors and a mattress on the floor. Your valuables scattered across the floor and in boxes. Your gun in its safe by the head of your mattress.

Everything else you'd gotten rid of. Mikey's presence too consuming. You'd barely been able to convince yourself to take your clothes, able to look at every piece and identify a memory with Mikey, both good and bad.

That was the dress you wore to your twentieth anniversary dinner. There's the shirt he nearly ripped apart in his rush to get it off you and fuck you against the wall when he got too drunk three years ago after a night out with Richie. These are the jeans with the tear at the knees from when he shoved you down the porch steps after you talked back to him in front of the family—

Your phone was ringing again. You'd made a game out of trying to guess if it'd be Natalie, Jimmy, or Carmy. The fact that Richie hadn't tried to call you told you enough about where he stood. You knew he blamed you for Mikey, could see it all over his face at the funeral. That was fine, you thought it was your fault too.

You had a running theory that following Jimmy's advice, squirreling away cash every month into a secret bank account, had cursed your marriage and Mikey. Right now you felt that it was Jimmy calling. He tried calling you more often than Carmy, but less than Natalie. Natalie's voicemails were always the hardest to listen to.

You watched the phone screen as it rang and rang, then signaled that voicemail was picking up. New Voicemail - Uncle Jimmy.

Immediately, you picked up the phone to listen to his message. You didn't like to admit it, but you still liked to hear the sound of his voice, you found it soothing.

"Hey, kid, it's me." He sighed into the receiver, "Carmy says you've gone to Pittsburgh. I don't know what the fuck is in Pittsburgh, but I'd appreciate it if you'd pick up the fucking phone so I know you're alive. Or at least… Look, I—I know how hard it must be for you right now with Mikey—Well, I guess I don't know. Not really. But you could at least let me try...To understand." He paused for a few moments and then sighed, "If you could just text me proof of life, I won't bother you. I get it, you don't wanna talk, message received. I just… Wanna make sure you're okay. Alright?" There was another pause, a longer one this time, just the sound of his breathing, "I love you, kiddo," He said finally, "Call me back."

You put the phone down for a few minutes and looked out at the sunset. The apartment you'd rented was fine, but you'd rented it for the view alone. You could see one of the big bridges that crossed the Allegheny. Being close to the river reminded you of home. Sighing, you picked up the phone again and took a picture of the view, tangerine sky warm and inviting as it stretched across the bridge.

Opening your text thread with Jimmy you attached the photo and typed simply Alive. Then hit send. Jimmy liked the message—something you had taught him how to do. You watched the speech bubble pop up and disappear repeatedly. Then, nothing.

You would call Jimmy again eventually, just not today.

Today, you watched the sun set over Pittsburgh and then fell asleep on your bare mattress in the middle of the room, ambulance sirens lulling you to sleep like an old friend.

Later in the night, you'd wake and reach for Mikey's warmth only to grasp at the empty mattress. Blinking your eyes open, you'd remember where you were and that he was dead. Staring at the ceiling, your lower lip wobbling, you'd commence your new nightly routine of sobbing and wailing into your pillow. Both cursing Mikey and murmuring that you loved him until your body collapsed with the fatigue of grief.

***

It took months to get the book truck up and running. First, you had to find the perfect truck within your budget. Then, you got busy gutting it and building shelves into the walls. You were very slow and very bad at this and got easily frustrated whenever you remembered Mikey could've had this done twice as fast as you.

You ended many of the days in the beginning crying with splinters in your hands and itching to call Richie. He wasn't as handy as Mikey, but he was close. And he'd probably know how to make you laugh while he helped you anchor the shelves to the walls.

But you couldn't call Richie. You were hours away and he didn't wanna hear from you. You felt more alone than you'd felt since you were a child and Jimmy coaxed you into his car.

It was nearly February again, nearing the anniversary of the day the world ended when it was ready. You'd gotten enough inventory, you spent nearly all your savings getting it up and running while you worked in the meantime as a barista at a local coffee shop.

But once it was ready, when you'd outfitted it with a mini fridge and a Breville so you could also sell coffee, once you'd gotten all the correct licenses, you drove out and picked a nice spot near the river to set up shop for the day.

No customers the first day, but that was expected you supposed. It was cold, a brisk breeze coming in off the river, bare trees bending to its will.

But then there were no customers for weeks. People would stop and look, like you were a zoo exhibit. You sold the occasional coffee, but your inventory remained stagnant.

And then as winter was beginning to thaw into spring, a tall, bearded man approached your table. At first you didn't notice him, Shakespeare's King John in your hand, spine bent in half as you murmured one of Constance's monologues to yourself. A local theater would be putting it on later in the summer and at your therapist's urging you were auditioning later that week.

You hadn't been on a stage in something like twenty years, but your therapist reminded you it was just for fun. And a way to excise your grief.

"King John?" She asked when you told her about the audition.

You nodded, "You know it?" It was about the only Shakespeare you didn't know.

"Yes," She said and then stared past your shoulder at nothing, "Yes, let me know what you think of Constance."

When you got to her monologue where, lost in her grief she swears she's not mad, though she wished she was for that would be better than the hell her grief had wrought, you were sold. You would not and could not play anyone else.

So you were lost in her monologue, muttering under your breath when the tall, bearded man approached. For a moment when you noticed him you thought you had done such a fantastic job of getting lost in the bottomless well of your own grief, you'd conjured Mikey.

And so, you must have uttered his name because now the tall, bearded Not Mikey was frowning at you, "Sorry… Have we met?"

You blinked, "Oh, no, sorry I—I thought you were someone else. How can I help you?"

He peered behind you at your van—truck—whatever you wanted to call it, then back at you, "I haven't seen you here before."

You sighed and sat back in your chair, "Look, I can show you the licenses if you want, I'm allowed to park here—"

"Oh—No—" He laughed nervously, "Not what I meant, just—I'm pretty familiar with most of the vendors around here. I was just wondering if you're new to the area?"

You opened and closed your mouth for a moment, eyes trailing to where he had a badge clipped to his hoodie. An emergency medicine doctor at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Michael Robinavitch. Michael. Mikey. A shiver ran down your spine and you crossed them in front of you. It was an incredibly common name, you reminded yourself.

Looking back up at him, you rescanned the lines of his face, found softness in his creases and warmth in his eyes. A bone deep exhaustion that you recognized in the way he held himself, as if he were right now leaning against the boulder he'd been pushing up the hill.

Growing up with the Berzattos and Jimmy had always given you a healthy skepticism of authority, which included doctors, but something about him, the way he carried himself, made you feel like you could trust him.

Or maybe it was just the visceral reminder of Mikey.

You swallowed, "Sort of, yeah. I moved here almost a year ago."

He nodded, "From whereabouts?"

"Chicago."

He raised his eyebrows, "Well, Pittsburgh must seem pretty quaint comparatively. How long were you there?"

The strangest things could trigger the grief. For example, the way the sun was shining in this stranger's face with Mikey's namesake, for just a moment his broad chest was Mikey's. His beard the same one you'd run your fingers through. His lips the same ones that you'd kissed for decades. It felt like a punch to the gut and you physically recoiled.

Politely, he acted like he hadn't noticed, waited patiently for a response to a question you could barely remember him asking.

"Um," You said slowly and pulled your eyes away from him, "My whole life."

"Why'd you leave?"

You pulled your gaze back to him and noted all the ways he was different from Mikey. Different nose, shorter hair, more freckles, slightly taller. Cataloguing them put you more at ease. Your shoulders relaxed and you sat back in your chair, "Trying to outrun a ghost." You said honestly.

You expected him to laugh or mock, but he did neither, only nodded and offered you a soft smile, as if he understood. Clearing his throat he asked, "Do you have coffee?"

You nodded, "Just an espresso machine. I can make you an Americano, a latte, or just a shot."

He requested an Americano and you were back with it in just a couple of minutes. He handed you some crumpled bills and then began to back away from your table, "I hope you're done running."

And then he was gone. You frowned after him, unsure what to make of his cryptic message, but after a moment simply shook your head.

You forgot about him for a while, the stranger with Mikey's name, but it wouldn't be long before your paths intersected again.

***

Natalie had been calling you repeatedly for hours. You weren't sure why you were still avoiding her, still avoiding all the Berzattos and Richie and Jimmy. It just felt like once so much time had passed since you last spoke the scarier it became to break it.

I'm calling for your own good, She texted when you continually denied her calls, In a couple of hours you're gonna wish you'd picked up the phone.

You frowned at the message. What could she possibly mean by that? But you had left your phone in another room and so were seeing the text hours later. As you thought about dialing her or texting back, there was a knock at your door.

"What the fuck?" You muttered quietly to yourself as you got closer to the door and heard the familiar sound of arguing outside your door.

Looking through the peep hole, you saw Carmy and Richie, between them, a Black woman you didn't recognize. She had a baby face, clearly younger than Carmy even, her braids tucked away beneath a silken scarf tied at the nape of her neck. Small hoops dangled from both her ears and she appeared to be trying to mediate an argument between the two men.

For a moment, you considered slowly backing away from the door and pretending you weren't home. Carmy being here was a mild inconvenience. You didn't know who the other woman was, but she seemed to be some sort of new addition to the fucked up Berzatto circus, unaware that any attempt at mediation between Carmy and Richie would just lead to her becoming collateral.

It was Richie you most dreaded seeing. Richie who you couldn't quite bear to look in the eyes.

But as you backed away, there was more aggressive knocking on the door and Richie's voice raised over the cacophony, "Bug, open the fucking door, I know you're in there I can smell those fucking hippie-dippie flower sticks burning."

You glanced back at your table where your incense stick was indeed burning, the scent of citrus and florals drifting through the apartment.

"Shit," You murmured, and then Richie was banging again.

"Bug, I swear to God—"

"I'm coming, shut the fuck up!" You shouted and then blew out a long breath between your lips before walking back over to the door and opening it.

All three people on the other side quieted immediately upon seeing you. Carmy and Richie stared open mouthed at you as you stared between the two of them, none of you knowing what to say before the woman between them thrust her hand towards you.

"Hi, I'm Sydney. I'm Carmy's business partner. It's nice to meet you, finally."

You took her hand, warm and soft in your own, noticed the way Richie rolled his eyes behind her back. Carmy watched her with a sort of quiet reverence, like he was afraid she was too good to be true. You wondered if he was aware of the way he looked at her.

She had a sweet smile, had an eagerness to her that you instantly found endearing, "Hi, Sydney," You swallowed, "Wanna tell me what these doofuses are doing at my apartment?"

She opened her mouth as if to explain, but then the two men immediately started talking over one another, words climbing in volume until they were again shouting over each other.

You rubbed a hand over your eyes, "My God, shut the fuck up!"

Just then, a loud banging could be heard from the wall next to your apartment. You sighed. It was a noise you'd become intimately familiar with over the last few months whenever your elderly neighbor, Mrs. McGraw, was displeased with you. She'd take her cane and bang the rubber bottom of it against the wall three times. Sometimes more, depending on how egregious your offense was.

"Sorry Mrs. McGraw!" You called and then turned your attention back to Richie, Carmy, and Sydney, "If you can manage to keep your voices at an indoor level you're welcome to come inside. Otherwise, you can get in the car and drive back to Chicago."

Carmy and Richie stared blankly at you and Sydney's eyes darted nervously between them before she smiled at you and leaned forward conspiratorially, "Please don't make me get back in the car with them." She whispered.

The corner of your mouth twitched, but before you could say anything else, Richie shoved Carmy lightly, "Well, you heard her, Bobby Flay, get in there."

Carmy turned around to face Richie, "Cousin, I swear to God, you put your hands on me one more fuckin' time—"

"What're you gonna do, huh? Run and tattle to Natalie again?"

Sydney sighed next to you, "I miss Natalie."

Your stomach twisted painfully as you thought of her texts this morning. In a couple of hours you're gonna wish you'd picked up the phone.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, "Me too."

Once everyone was inside the apartment, you closed the door and then turned to face them, leaning your back against the door, "Well? What're you doing here?"

Carmy and Sydney stared at you quietly, but Richie couldn't seem to look at you. It was expected, but it still made you feel sick. It had been Richie who had nicknamed you Bug, all those years ago. You'd resented it then, but hearing him say it again had warmth spreading through your chest.

"Um," Carmy looked off at Richie and then back at you, "How… are you?"

You scoffed, "You came all the way down here to ask me how I am?"

"You don't answer your phone," Richie said quietly, looking down at his feet as he ran a hand over the back of his head.

You rolled your eyes, "And how would you know that? You've never called me."

He shrugged, "Why bother when I know you won't pick up?"

You clenched your jaw, "This is not all on me."

"Really?" He laughed, still barely able to meet your eyes, but when he did his gaze seemed to burn holes in you, hot and accusatory, "Only one of us packed up her shit and crossed state lines, ran like a fuckin' coward, abandoned the only family she ever knew when they needed her most—"

"You didn't fucking need me!" You shouted indignantly, "You couldn't even fucking look at me—"

"Both of you, shut the fuck up!" Carmy interrupted. Sydney stood wide eyed behind him, arms crossed over her chest. She may be Carmy's business partner, but it was clear she hadn't yet adjusted to the Berzattos, "This is not what we came here for," He said firmly, turning his attention to Richie, "Right, cousin?"

Richie shook his head and rolled his eyes, turning away from you. And it hurt. You didn't think you could feel much of anything after Mikey. It had felt like free falling when you found out, the pain constant and never ending. Every morning you woke up, you still forgot for those few precious moments of delirium. So truly, Richie's obvious disdain should have felt like a tap on the shoulder in comparison. But it stung.

Richie had been your first friend. He would deny this, but it was him who convinced Mikey to let you hang out with the two of them when it was clear you weren't going anywhere. He would say you hadn't given him much choice, but you knew it was something else, something deeper. The Berzattos, for all their issues, at the bottom of it all there was always love. It was the reason kids like you and Richie, who had never known any kind of affection, latched on to them.

And you knew he recognized it in you—the desperation, the longing—the same way you saw it in him.

So now the pain ballooned in your chest knowing he didn't feel that same sense of comradery anymore.

"Why are you here, then?" You asked sharply, "I told you I'm not coming back to Chicago."

After a moment of silence passed, Carmy cleared his throat, "Cousin, do you wanna tell her? Since it was your idea?"

Richie sniffed, nose scrunching up his face, "Nah," He said, and walked towards the door, "I'm going out for a smoke."

He left you, Carmy, and Sydney standing alone in your apartment. You felt you must have been visibly struggling to conceal the effect Richie's rejection had on you, but neither of them acknowledged it.

You cleared your throat, "Carm, could you please just tell me why you're here?"

He sighed and ran a hand through his curls, "We're redoing The Beef, we closed for renovations except for a sandwich window. It's gonna be a real restaurant."

You softened immediately. This was what Mikey had always wanted. To make a real restaurant with Carmy by his side. It was a shame he'd never get to see it, "Carmy, that's amazing."

He nodded, "It's gonna be called The Bear."

Your chin wobbled, but you stiffened your jaw and nodded, "Mikey would've loved that." You said softly.

Carmy looked away from you and cleared his throat, "Anyway, Uncle J, Syd, and I have been talking about franchising the sandwich part of the operation. And since you have a ton of experience running The Beef, Richie suggested the guinea pig should be opened here. In Pittsburgh. With you essentially running it yourself."

At first, you thought maybe you'd heard him wrong. But he stared at you expectantly. Your brow furrowed and you scoffed, "No."

Carmy opened and closed his mouth, "I don't understand, I thought—I thought you were upset Mikey hadn't left you anything and—And I wanted to make that up to you—"

"That's not your responsibility and I told you I never wanted The Beef. Mikey knew that."

You felt the panic beginning to flood your chest. If Carmy had talked about it with Jimmy already that meant they'd probably already put money into it, money you knew Carmy didn't have because Mikey had driven the place into the ground towards the end. A common fight you'd had in the last few months was you asking why there was so much money missing when you sat down to reconcile the books.

He shook his head, "Bug, we did all this for you. We already picked a location—"

"Well you should've fucking ran it by me first!" You shouted, your chest tightening painfully in response. Subconsciously, you brought a fist up to your sternum and rubbed firmly, "Who the fuck buys a sandwich shop without first talking to the person you want to run it?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise!" Carmy shouted back, "And you haven't exactly been easy to get in touch with!"

Suddenly, you felt the walls closing in on you. You had given up everything to make sure you wouldn't be stuck at The Beef. The place you felt had killed Mikey, your best friend, the love of your life. The Beef had stolen a lot from you, from Mikey. It had destroyed your marriage, it had taken away your education. The stress of it and the importance Mikey and the Berzattos attributed to it had led you to turn to alcohol and drugs on more than one occasion. You could not and would not go into business with the Berzattos again. You loved them, but you knew it would kill you. You'd sooner disappear a second time, this time across the country. Maybe fake your own death, change your name.

These thoughts raced through your brain and the edges of your vision were beginning to go fuzzy. This was when you realized both that you were struggling to breathe and that Carmy and Sydney were both in your face, concern in their expressions.

You were on the floor—How did you get on the floor? Weren't you standing just a second before?

Then it was Richie in your face, Richie's hands on your cheeks and then helping you back to standing. You thought he might be shouting, at you or Carmy, you weren't sure, but in your disoriented state, you happily leaned into him when he wrapped your arm over the back of his neck, holding your weight with the side of his body.

"Thanks… Richie…" You mumbled, but were too preoccupied by the the intense pain in your chest and the feeling that you were slipping far away from yourself.

You thought as you slipped away again, you heard his voice, "Come on, stay here, Bug. I need you."

But the harder you fought the darkness, the stronger it became until inky black shadows consumed you.

***

Robby had always been as careful as possible not to cross any lines with patients. Everybody could repeat the ethics of it, knew it was a big No-No. But nobody had warned him how difficult it would be as a thinking, feeling, human being not to think or feel too much about another human being on the worst day of their life.

In your case, when Robby met you, it wasn't the worst day of your life. Not exactly. The way you'd describe it to him later was that the worst day of your life had stretched and expanded over months like warm taffy and when you met him it was like it was finally tapering off. Like coming down from a bad trip. But that came with its own set of issues. The reality of it had begun to truly set in for you.

Nobody had warned him that, in practice, keeping a professional boundary would prove near impossible when he came face to face with you. With someone who had faced what to many others would seem insurmountable tragedy, but to you what seemed like the inevitable conclusion of your marriage to which you shrugged your shoulders and tossed up the middle finger. Packed up your things and began running from the grief.

What you hadn't expected was that your life would follow you here, to Pittsburgh, no matter how you tried to shake it.

And what he hadn't expected was seeing that mess play out in front of him and deciding he wanted more of it.

That day when Richie wheeled you into his emergency room, his eyes widened upon seeing you, "Oh," He said, "It's you."

You had managed a smirk that turned into a wince, "Nice… to see you again… Dr. Robinavitch."

The man behind you eyed him suspiciously, "You two know each other?"

Before he could answer, you had chimed in, "Yes, Richie, I'm not a recluse. I am capable of making friends."

Your tone was so aggressive, he didn't have the heart to correct you or explain to this man that you had only ever met on one other occasion.

"I know you can make friends, you just suck ass at keeping them."

You were insisting you were fine and that you wanted to leave even as he watched McKay set the EKG up on you. Even when she listened to your heart and noted the irregular rhythm.

Your troponin levels were slightly elevated, but not at the level they'd typically see after a heart attack, even though all your symptoms seemed to point in that direction. And when they did the coronary angiogram, there was no evidence of any blockage.

"What're you thinking?" Robby asked McKay quietly and she frowned.

She shook her head, "No idea. I was hoping you would know. Everything points to heart attack, but her arteries all look clear."

The truth was, Robby had a hunch, but wasn't quiet sure yet.

"Can you walk me through what happened again if you don't mind?" He asked you, lowering himself to the stool at your bedside.

You seemed irritated, but indulged him nonetheless.

"Well, I was trying to enjoy a peaceful Sunday morning before these bozos—Not you, Sydney—Interrupted and tried to dump a sandwich shop franchise on me—"

Richie scoffed, "You can't act like this came as a surprise when you and Mikey had been talking about it for ages—"

"Yes!" You wrang your hands as Robby watched your heart rate climb, "When we were desperate for money! And then he went and killed himself instead!"

"Well believe it or not him offing himself has done fuckin' squat to improve our financial situation so we're back at franchising—"

"And that's fine! But I don't want any part of it!"

"Woah woah woah—" Robby put up his hands to quiet the room, "I'm sorry… Who's Mikey?"

Richie frowned and turned to you, "Thought you said you were friends?"

You glared at him stubbornly, "Believe it or not, Richie, telling everyone I meet that my husband blew his brains out isn't exactly a great icebreaker."

Robby sat, stunned for a moment as you and Richie stared each other down. The other man, with brown curls and startlingly blue eyes, watched them with the annoyance and boredom of a younger sibling, leaned over his knees. The woman who had come in with them sat anxiously next to him, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Doctor," The younger man started after the silence fell, "Could you just tell us if she's gonna be okay before they kill each other?"

Robby clasped his hands together and turned his attention back to you, "Was today the first time you've noticed any symptoms like what you experienced today?"

You opened and closed your mouth, then looked around in thought, "I've never… lost consciousness like the way I did today. But… the chest pain and shortness of breath… Started happening when my husband died."

Robby rubbed at his beard and looked at you, "You are showing signs of heart damage, but not a heart attack. You don't have any blocked arteries which, along with the obvious signs of heart damage, we'd need to diagnose a heart attack. Now, as I've said there's damage that appears to be isolated to your left ventricle. McKay, when do we usually see damage isolated to the left ventricle?"

There was a lengthy pause behind him and then, slowly, "Takotsubo… cardiomyopathy?"

Robby nodded, "Exactly, or you might know it as broken heart syndrome."

Everyone in the room stared at him blankly, "Well, what the fuck does that mean?" You asked finally.

"McKay?"

"It means you're gonna be fine," McKay said, flashing you a reassuring smile as she walked over to the computer to chart, "Onset of broken heart syndrome symptoms typically appear immediately following an extremely emotionally or physically stressful event. Left untreated, it can continue to cause damage if the stress isn't mitigated properly. We'll order you some medications to improve your circulation and reduce inflammation and we'll monitor you for a few hours while we wait for a room to open up upstairs. You'll need to be admitted for monitoring for two to three days so we can make sure we got the diagnosis correct and that you're improving. Robby?"

Robby nodded, "That all sounds good. Your symptoms should improve pretty immediately once the medications start working. We'll also have you come back in a few weeks to make sure the damage is healing properly."

"Sorry," Richie said and then scoffed, "Are you saying she literally has a fuckin' broken heart? I coulda fuckin' told you that."

Robby smiled, "No, it's just the name due to the cause."

"Why don't you guys go back home?" You said softly and then forced a smile, "Sounds like you have a lot of work to do."

Carmen ran a hand over his face, "No, we'll stay until you're okay to leave."

You sighed, "Carmy—"

"Look, you can up and move yourself to another state, but you fuckin' piss me off with the—The implication that you're no longer a Berzatto because Mikey's dead. You were a Berzatto long before you ever married Mikey and you'll continue to be until we're all dead. You understand?"

Despite his harsh tone, you softened at what he'd said and slowly nodded, "Ok, Carm."

Robby cleared his throat for a moment, "Um, I can show you guys to the cafeteria if you'll be staying—"

Richie snorted, "Yeah, thanks, but no thanks, Doc. We'll figure something else out. None of us will be eating hospital food."

You smirked, "Sorry, Richie, I don't think we have any Michelin star restaurants in the neighborhood."

"No," Richie said and went to stand behind Carmy, clapping him over the shoulder, "You have something better. Your own personal Michelin star chef."

"Cousin," Carmy shrugged out from under Richie, "What did I say about not fuckin' touching me?"

"You know, we really are behind on menu…" The woman next to Carmen, Sydney, said softly.

"Yes, Chef," Carmy said tiredly with a sigh, "Heard."

"Here," You said, fishing in your bag for your keys, "You can at least use my kitchen."

"I told you, we're staying."

You nodded, "I know. I'm only a block away, the hospital will call if anything happens," You turned to Robby, "Right?"

He nodded, "Absolutely."

"See?" You looked back at Carmy, "Go on, I'll be fine."

Carmy stared at you for a few more moments before giving in, taking the keys from you and kissing the top of your head as he did. Sydney followed him out of the room, waving awkwardly as she left, leaving you and Richie and Robby.

Robby busied himself with finishing the charting McKay had left after putting in her orders, glasses perched on his nose, he pretended not to be eavesdropping.

"I'm gonna pack up your shit in your truck for you," Richie was saying, "And then we can drive you home when you're ready."

You laughed harshly, "The fuck you will. I'm not going home. This is my home now."

"Your home is with your family. When will you get that through your thick fuckin' skull—"

"Can you look me in the eyes and tell me you don't blame me for Mikey?" Richie went quiet. Robby felt like it was time for him to exit the room, but he found himself glued in place. The two didn't seem to notice him.

"I blame myself." Richie said finally.

You scoffed, "I was planning to leave. When I found out I was packing a suitcase." You swallowed, "Richie, I was so busy thinking about how I was going to leave I didn't even notice. I didn't hear him take his gun. I don't even remember where he told me he was going. I've—I've wracked my brain over and over trying to remember what we did that morning, before he left, and I can't—"

"Okay—" Robby interjected as the alarms started going off to indicate your rising heart rate, "I'm really sorry, but I have to advise that you avoid, for a while at least, conversations that you think may upset you."

Richie cleared his throat, "That's alright, doc, I need to step out to make a call anyway."

"Richie—" You called, but he was already gone, leaving just Robby alone with you.

"He hates me," You said, sounding dejected.

Robby opened and closed his mouth, "He's grieving, I imagine. Same as you." He paused for a moment, then, "I'm sorry for your loss."

You took in a slow deep breath before meeting his eyes, "Thank you. And I'm sorry."

He frowned, "For what?"

"For bringing my trainwreck of a family into your ER."

He smiled, "Believe me, I've seen much worse. Besides, you did warn me that you were running from ghosts. It seems I met a few of them today."

You stared off into the distance for a few moments, "I love them, I just… Can't stand to look at them when I know—" You stopped yourself and looked down at your hands.

Robby didn't know you well enough to talk you down from this. To say it wasn't your fault and have you believe it. So he didn't try. Instead, he again sat at the stool next to your bed.

"If you're up for it, I'd love to hear about him. Your husband."

You smiled at him with watery eyes and sniffled, "We were high school sweethearts. He was my first crush, my first boyfriend, my first everything. My second friend, after Richie. He was my best friend." You swallowed, "He was so funny, he was the sun in every room he walked into. Everyone revolved around him, his light. He would've done anything for me, for the people he loved.

"When I was in college in New York, I once called him up sobbing telling him I didn't have enough money for food and I was ashamed to ask anyone for money. He hung up the phone, cooked a fridge's worth of food for me for hours and then immediately got in the car and drove to me."

"Sounds like he really loved you," Robby said softly.

You nodded, "Yeah, I think so. Most of the time. But I think I failed at loving him. At the end."

Robby slowly shook his head, "I doubt he'd agree with you."

You smiled kindly, but he could tell you didn't quite believe him. Clearing your throat, you reached for your phone on the table next to you, "Sorry, but do you mind if I make a call?"

He shook his head and stood, "Not at all. I'll be back to check on you soon."

***

Alone, you took a deep breath and dialed Natalie's number, anxious and biting at your cheek.

"Well, it's about fucking time," She huffed as soon as the receiver clicked over.

"Hi Nat." You said softly, closing your eyes at the sound of her voice.

"I wanna be pissed at you, but Carmy said you're in the hospital."

The corners of your mouth twitched upward, "I'm okay, permission to be pissed granted."

She was quiet for so long on the other end of the line, you thought maybe she'd hang up on you, but when her voice came through on the other end again it the devastation in her tone broke your heart, "How could you just leave like that? I needed you. I thought we were sisters."

Your eyes burned and you sniffled, "We are, Sugar."

"I expected it from Carm, you know? The isolation, the refusal to pick up his phone. But not you. And then I have to find out secondhand you left the state?"

"I know," You nervously toyed with the rough hospital blanket, "I'm sorry."

Her breathing wavered, "Are you ever coming home?"

You pressed your lips together and looked outside the door to your room. Watched Robby pass, his eyes meeting yours briefly through the glass as he continued walking. Something about him soothed you. You thought maybe it was his unflappable demeanor, something he had to have working in this place you imagined.

"Bug?" You were pulled back by Natalie's voice.

"I don't know." You said finally and took in a shaky breath, "I miss you." You said honestly. She said nothing for a while and you worried you'd really upset her again, "Nat?"

"I'm pregnant." She blurted out.

You sat stunned, mouth open for a few moments, "Natalie, that's… Congratulations." You said, trying to stifle the ache in your chest. You could be happy for her, you told yourself. You didn't have to make it about you and Mikey. But still, you were glad she couldn't see your face as you felt something crack in your chest.

"I want you to be her godmother."

You fought tears as you stared up at the ceiling, "I would be honored," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

You talked for a few more minutes, promising that you'd make it home at some point, if only to visit, and hung up the phone.

It took only moments for you to dissolve into deep, hyperventilating sobs as the memories of desperately trying to conceive flooded your memories. How besides Mikey, the only thing you'd wanted most in this world was to be a mother. The way towards the end, when it was clear you'd never successfully carry a child to term, you could feel the resentment from Mikey. Another string between you frayed and snapped. Yet another way you'd let him down.

You felt the familiar constricting in your chest as your breathing began to become irregular and labored. Then the alarms were going off and before you knew it Robby was above you again, face flooded with concern. His voice came in and out as he tried to talk to you and then to the doctors and nurses around you until your vision grayed out again.

When you woke next, Richie was pacing in front of your bed.

"Stop that," You said, voice scratchy, "Making me dizzy."

He stopped his pacing and turned his attention to you, "Would you stop fuckin' passing out?"

You smiled, "Sorry."

"Doctor said you took a phone call and then you went down again."

It came back to you slowly, but this time, when the wave of grief hit you, you breathed through it, "I called Natalie. She told me she's pregnant."

Richie had been a good friend to both you and Mikey when you were going through the challenges and heartbreak of infertility. But when you'd found out Tiff was pregnant, it'd been hard to be around them. And you knew it was hard for them, too, not being able to celebrate with their friends. You wished you'd been better.

But Richie's face softened, "M'sorry, Bug. I know how badly you wanted that."

You shrugged helplessly, trying to be dismissive, but dissolving into a weepy mess anyhow.

Being in that hospital for two days surrounded constantly by Richie, Carmy, and Syd—who you easily grew to adore as well—you cried more than you had since you moved. And the more they resigned to the fact that you weren't coming home with them nor would you be running a sandwich shop up here, the easier the interactions became.

The hospital staff grew to like Syd and Carm specifically because they began bringing extra meals for your favorite doctors and nurses. They'd even gone back downstairs to the ER to give Robby a couple meals.

Which was how Robby ended up back in your room upstairs during your last night here.

"Hey," He said, knocking his knuckles against your doorframe, "Can I come in?"

"Of course," You said, trying to stifle the immediate feeling of safety that flooded you at the sight of him.

"I, um, was hoping to see Carmen and Sydney to thank them for the food." He said as he grabbed the stool and pulled up to your bedside.

It shocked you, the way disappointment rushed in with the realization he wasn't here for you, "Oh," You said, hoping you hadn't visibly deflated, "They just left, they'll probably be back in a bit."

"Also wanted to check in on you." He said, smiling, "Have they convinced you to go back to Chicago?"

You shook your head, "No… No, I like it here."

He exhaled, "Well that's a relief, where else am I gonna get my Americano on a walk by the river?"

You grinned, "One day, maybe I'll even convince you to buy a book."

He smiled and nodded, "I'd like that." Then he stood, took a step away from your bedside, "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Thank you for your help."

"'Course," He said, and began backing out of the room, "I'll see you around."

See you around. It sounded like a promise, one you hoped he intended to keep.

***

The next time you saw Dr. Robby was for your follow up appointment. You were seeing your cardiologist, but Robby poked his head in when you'd been there only ten minutes.

"Hey," He said, whole face lighting up at the sight of you, "Heard you were here, wanted to see how you're doing."

Your cardiologist looked vaguely annoyed as he stood up from his stool, "She's fine, Robby," Then he looked back at you, "No more smoking, please," He said earnestly, "Or drinking."

You winced, "Yeah, sorry."

As your doctor left, Robby walked towards you, an amused smile on his face, "You experienced something resembling a heart attack not two weeks ago and you've been smoking and drinking?"

You drew the curtain closed, Robby just on the outside so you could change, "I've been smoking and drinking most of my life, started when I was eleven. I quit for a while, when we were trying to have kids." You swallowed past the lump in your throat, "But I figured I deserved to take it back up again when Mikey killed himself."

You pulled the curtain back and sighed, "Sorry, I need to figure out a… gentler way to say that."

He shook his head, "You don't have to censor yourself for me."

Huh. That was… pleasantly surprising. You tilted your head slightly, "There's a look people usually give me. When they find out about Mikey. I can never tell if it's because they think I'm damaged or they assume that it was my fault. But you've never looked at me like that."

He scratched the back of his head and turned his head away from you, "I had someone close to me… end their own life. I suppose I… understand the feeling that comes with it better than most."

You were gathering your things, but stopped to look back at him, "I'm sorry for your loss, then."

He shrugged, "It was a long… long time ago." He cleared his throat, "Anyway, I actually wanted to see how your house is… If you're prepared for the storm we're getting in a few days."

You noted the quick subject change, but snorted, "You afraid of a little rain, Robby?"

He huffed, "It's not 'a little rain'. They think the rivers are gonna overflow. They're projecting a lot of flooding and damaging winds. Do you live alone?"

You narrowed your eyes and gave him a teasing grin, "I'm not sure you're supposed to ask a widowed woman that."

He flushed a deep crimson and you almost felt badly for teasing him, "If you're comfortable, I could take a look around. Maybe board up your windows. Friday night?"

You opened and closed your mouth, felt yourself panicking. Was this a date? It'd been a year since Mikey and Lord knew your relationship had long been over before then. Even if the love had never quite left. Even though it still lingered in every breath, in every crack and crevice and beat of your heart.

And then you remembered—

"I—Sorry, I can't Friday. I have rehearsal. I'm—I'm in a play down at PICT."

He raised his eyebrows, "Oh! What show?"

"Uh, King John. Shakespeare."

He nodded, "I'm familiar. Who are you playing?"

"Constance."

He almost smiled, then nodded, "Yeah, I can see that. How about Saturday?"

"Sorry?"

"Saturday? To stop by your place? Help you prep for the storm?"

"Oh—" You had already forgotten, "Sorry, um, yeah—Sure, okay."

He pulled his phone out and handed it to you and you put your number in, hesitating each time, hearing Mikey in your ear as you did.

Look at you, Bug, he taunted, like I was never even here.

The guilt stirred your stomach the whole way home, his ghost on your shoulder all night, never letting you sleep, "He's just being nice," You whispered, but it sounded like you were begging the silence.

"He's being neighborly," You pleaded with the darkness.

There was no reply.

When you grew impatient, tossing and turning on your mattress, you crawled out onto the fire escape and lit a cigarette.

***

There was a moment, nearly a year before Mikey died, where your fights changed.

For most of your lives, there had been a familiar cadence to them. You accused him of something, he'd deny it, try and laugh it off. The more you'd insist, tone raising in pitch, he'd get mean. He'd jab his knife repeatedly between your ribs and you'd foolishly grip the hilt and pull it out over and over, never noticing that it allowed him to twist the knife repeatedly.

But in those last few months, something changed. You couldn't put your finger on it exactly, what changed in you, why you started allowing the knife to stay where he thrust it the first time, stemming the blood flow. Never giving him the chance to stick his fingers in the open wound. You used to be all bark, no bite, but lately you had begun to snarl when he got too close.

Maybe it was that by that point you'd packed up your things on three separate occasions, even stayed elsewhere a night or two. Not that Mikey noticed, too high to note your absence.

The week before, the week that had you sitting on the floor of your bedroom again the day they found his body, had come close to finding you both in repeated cycles.

He came in late that morning having been out drinking and taking God knows what drugs and you were at the sink washing dishes. He sidled up behind you, slipped his arms effortlessly around your waist and kissed the back of your neck. He reeked and you tried not to flinch away from him.

"Let's go to bed baby—Aren't you ovulating?"

You lightly pushed his arms away, "I'm not doing anything with you until you take a shower."

"Looook," He whined, pulling his phone out of his pocket to show you, "I track your cycle, I know it's time—"

"It's not, actually," You said, probably a little harshly, and walked away from him.

After a moment, he followed you, "What d'you mean?"

You could feel it already, even though you hadn't yet told him what you knew would send him off the deep end, you could feel the air around you crackle and pop as he walked behind you.

"I'm not ovulating anymore." You said slowly, still refusing to look at him, "I'm on birth control, I asked my doctor to put an IUD in a few weeks ago."

The silence felt dangerous. You did your best not to seem afraid, but truth be told, you were. There was no telling what Mikey would do these days. How he would react when he didn't get his way.

When he laughed, you flinched, then chastised yourself for it internally.

"Very funny, Bug."

"What's funny?"

"It's a funny fuckin' joke. That you would do somethin' like that without talkin' to me first."

You clenched your jaw, "I don't need your permission to regulate my own body."

When you finally turned to him, his own jaw clenched, mirroring your own.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, deadly calm, in a way that unsettled you, "We've been tryin' for a baby for… for months… for years."

You nodded, "And lately I find myself grateful to not be carrying the child of a deadbeat addict."

You regretted it immediately, didn't recognize the words as they left your mouth, their only purpose to wound and maim. You weren't sure you recognized yourself anymore.

But before you could even open your mouth to tell him this, to apologize—white hot pain stung, biting into your cheek. It took you a few seconds to realize that Mikey had slapped you. The skin of your cheek burned hot as you clutched it beneath your palm.

When you looked up at him, your vision blurred with tears, he looked just as stunned as you, "B—Bear?" You whispered, voice hoarse and confused.

"Baby, I—" Mikey looked down at his hands as if they'd betrayed him, "I'm so sorry, I don't know—" He shook his head helplessly, falling to his knees in front of you, "I didn't mean it, Bug. Please, I didn't mean it."

He sobbed, hugging your legs like a child. What am I doing? You wondered, not for the first time, What are we doing to each other?

Still, you felt an aching tenderness for him. You could still remember the Mikey who could make you laugh when you were crying, who carefully removed bugs from your first apartment instead of killing them. Mikey, who'd vowed to love you in sickness and in health with tears in his eyes in a cheap banquet hall when the two of you were still twenty one and dumb. Mikey who made love to you in the bed of his truck, in a field miles and miles out from town, and then pointed out the constellations to you later as you laid on his bare chest. Mikey who had always made you feel like the most important person in the room.

Mikey had always been a bit rough around the edges. He'd never been the same after his father left, but he'd still been Mikey. Up until a beer a night turned into a six pack turned into a few bumps of cocaine on the side.

But in this shell of a man who crumpled at your feet, you could still see the boy you fell in love with. Still, even though you were beginning to understand there was something that had broken beyond repair between you, you couldn't help the urge to mend.

You sank to the ground beside him, running fingers through his hair and pulling him to you. Whispered that it was alright, that you knew he didn't mean it. Calmed him enough to get him into the shower and into bed where he slept for the whole day.

It was the first time he laid a hand on you, but it wouldn't be the last. Up until the end, you still tried to convince yourself it could be salvaged.

Mikey was always remorseful, but he could never seem to accept that he needed help. And on the rare days he could admit that something was really wrong, you couldn't convince him that he was capable of change.

In the end, it became obvious to you that he didn't love you enough to get help. Not only was he intent on self destructing, he seemed to want to take you down with him.

You loved Mikey. You would always love Mikey. He was the love of your life, your soulmate, your best friend, your husband. Nothing would ever change that.

But you couldn't deny that along with the seemingly unending devastation, his death brought you a morsel of relief. And you weren't sure you could ever forgive yourself for that.

[dizzybee03]

I’ve never watched the Bear so I wasn’t sure if I’d feel lost reading this but holy cow was it good!! Can’t wait for the next part

[drhobby]

Ok, so as per the conversation we had, my request is that after "the test," the reader realizes that Robby agreed to get a vasectomy for her, even though at this point they are not together. She realizes that he must be serious about getting her back/being with her permanently, cuz you don't get a vasectomy for just anyone. Perhaps this leads to a discussion about his intentions and she's like "i didn't know you were serious? you were dating other people? you signed the papers???" And him reassuring her that nope he's in it to win it (her).

hiii! thank you so much for your request <3 I hope you like it! wc: 900 warnings: feelings don't forget to check the masterlist for more toxic content <3

When Robby asked to take the kids for the weekend, you assumed he’d be in the middle of a bachelor’s strike, or perhaps just overwhelmed. You’d spent the week organizing a matinee for Saturday and calling in favors from your parents to handle Sunday’s bicycle riding trip to the park.

So, when you were paged to the ED on Monday morning, the last thing you expected to see at his workstation was a celebratory display: colorful balloons bobbing near the monitor and a hand-lettered sign you scoffed at. Your brows knitted together in confusion.

“Hey, honey,” Robby called out from behind you.

You spun on your heel, your thumb jerking toward the sign. “‘No more Robbies’?” you asked, your voice dropping into a skeptical hum.

He leaned against the counter, looking far too pleased with himself. “It’s the nurses’ way of congratulating me on the vasectomy.”

Your breath hitched, eyes widening. “Oh? You’re actually doing it?”

His brows creased, the playfulness vanishing for a second. “I did it.”

“You did?”

“Friday.”

“Oh,” you managed, feeling suddenly off-balance.

“That’s why I couldn’t be around the kids this weekend,” he explained, his gaze dropping briefly to his own hips. “I needed to keep an ice pack in the… area.”

You winced, a sympathetic grimace pulling at your lips. “Ouch.”

“Don’t,” he warned, a hint of his old, teasing spark returning. 

“You actually did it,” you repeated, feeling entirely dumbfounded.

He tilted his head, searching your expression with genuine concern. “Are you having a stroke?”

“I’m just—I… I’m surprised,” you stammered, straightening your shoulders, trying to save some face.

“Why?” He straightened up, his tone hardening. “You asked me to do it, I said I would, so I did.”

“But, like… that means something.”

His chin dipped, his lips pressing into a thin, tight line. He looked at you like you were the densest person in the room. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“You don’t want any more kids?” you whispered, the question felt too charged for a regular morning in the ED.

His mouth opened to retort, but he stopped. “You said that—”

“I know I don’t,” you quickly cut in, holding both palms up in a gesture of peace, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He blinked, visibly taken aback. “Wait. You're asking me if I want kids with someone else?”

“Not with someone specific,” you admitted, looking down at your shoes. “But yeah. Maybe someone you could meet in the future.”

“There’s not much of a future left for me,” he said, his voice flat.

“Don’t say that,” you snapped.

Robby let out a sharp, cynical scoff, but the old back-and-forth—the banter that had been the foundation of your love years ago—setteled in the air, somehow both new yet familiar.

“If you don’t want any more kids, then I am not having any more kids,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. Certainty. “We clear?”

A sudden warmth flushed through your chest, making you feel vulnerable and exposed. You had the overwhelming urge to close the distance, to wrap your arms around him and hide your dorky smile beneath his neck. Instead, you kept your hands at your sides and whined an unguarded, “Misha.”

He leaned in, ducking his head to match your height. “What?” he murmured, his eyes searching yours for the truth you were too terrified to voice. “You’re the mother of my children. No one else. I’m actually a little offended that you didn't know that by now.”

You shrugged, your shoulders lifting in an attempt to hide your awkwardness. And failed. “Well, we—we’re divorced. It’s only normal to assume you’d want to start over.”

“I only signed those papers because you asked me to,” he said quietly.

“Don’t,” you waved a hand, trying to cut him off, but he caught your wrist.

“You know my mantra,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity.

You did. He always claimed he only followed your commands, a twisted form of devotion that used to flatter you before it had turned into a weapon of his own insecurity. He moved to continue his routine, but you instinctively reached out, your fingers clutching the fabric of his hoodie. He stopped dead, looking down at the contact.

“Wait,” you breathed.

Robby stood rooted to the spot, his eyes patient and waiting.

“Why did you sign?” you asked, knowing it was a stupid, pointless question. You’d asked for the divorce in the heat of a crisis, desperate to keep your children safe from his spiraling, aggressive depression.

“Because you asked me to,” he breathed, his voice raw. He didn't look away, even in the middle of the crowded ED. “And because I had already failed you too much.” He shifted, his gaze darkening. “Why did you sign?”

You swallowed hard. “Because I wanted you to wake up.” You paused, the air feeling thin. “But you didn’t.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You had kept that truth like an oath for two years: you’d expected the divorce to be his wake-up call, and instead, he had accepted it as a way out.

His fingers wrapped firmly around your arms the second you tried to pull away. You watched the realization ripple across his face—the shift from hurt to hopelessness, then to a flare of anger, and finally, a devastating, quiet love.

“You never…” he mumbled, his grasp tightening on your biceps as if he were trying to keep you from vanishing.

“It worked,” you whispered, shrugging off the pain. “A little late. But it worked.”

You stood on your tiptoes, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek before pulling away to find your patient, taking a deep breath in hopes to scare the tears away.

tag list (tysm!!): @wonwoosthetic @thesandbeneathmytoes @missmillivanilli @honeytii @naked-hyacinth @barnes70stark @ficcyyfics @cafekitchen

[dizzybee03]

Wow this one hurt my heart for them…..they need couples therapy so bad

[drhobby]

the new intern

dr robby x exwife!reader /// the one where you get a new intern and she's specially interested in robby, unaware of your past wc: 1.2 warnings: ageism / the word "daddy" is used for robby make sure to check the masterlist for more toxic content <3

“Stacey, you’re with me,” you called out, heading toward the elevators.

Your new resident followed close behind. She had started only a few days ago, already making a name for herself as sharp and ambitious, with a full year of Ob-Gyn at Presby under her belt. She was a good doctor, undeniably smart, and—as you’d noticed—strikingly beautiful. You’d also witnessed the peculiar phenomenon of the Ortho-Gods suddenly finding reasons to do paperwork on the OB floor whenever she was on shift, a fact she seemed blissfully unaware of.

Once the elevator doors slid shut, you briefed her on the code you’d been called for. “It seems straightforward, but I want you to get a feel for the pitt.”

Stacey’s face lit up, her cheeks flushing pink. “I have to say something first.”

You braced yourself. You knew the drill: Yes, he’s my ex-husband. Yes, we have two kids. Yes, I still love him. But Stacey took the conversation in a direction you hadn't anticipated.

“I am like so excited for this. When I told my attending at Presby I was coming to PTMC, she said, ‘Lucky you, getting to learn emergency medicine from Daddy Robinavitch himself.’ And then, on my first day, I came downstairs and saw him, and... oh my god, he really is a daddy.” She spoke with a sudden, infectious confidence, looking at you with wide, excited eyes, treating you like a best friend sharing hot gossip.

But you weren’t her best friend. So you stared at her, your eyes widening. “Excuse me?”

Stacey froze, her face draining of color. “Oh my god. I don’t know why I said that. That was so unprofessional—I’m sorry, I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours—I—”

You scoffed, raising a palm to cut off her rambling as the elevator chimed. 

You stepped out into the chaotic hum of the central hub and led her straight to Trauma One. Inside, Robby and Langdon were already mid-discussion. Mel stepped back, allowing you to take the lead after a brief introduction to the patient.

“Can I take the lead?” Stacey asked, her eyes wide with eagerness.

You nodded with a small smile. She jumped into action, moving closer to the gurney to suggest courses of action and assessments (because those were definitely not orders).

“New kid on the block, huh?” Robby asked, his gaze shifting from the patient to you.

“Doctor Stacey Fox, meet the pitt. Pitt, meet Doctor Stacey Fox,” you introduced, unable to resist a little jab. “And this is Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief of Emergency Medicine. If you plan on sticking with emergency Ob-Gyn, he’ll be just as much your attending as I am.”

“Mom and Dad,” Langdon teased.

You ignored him, turning your focus back to the monitor. “Signs of pre-eclampsia?”

“No,” your student said, waving a hand. “But she’s forty-two. It’s a risky birth.”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because she’s… old?”

You stared at her.

“...er?” she tried, grinning weakly.

Beside you, Robby let out a sharp, amused huff.

“Because she could have gestational diabetes, pre-eclampsia, or placental complications,” you recited, your voice tight. “Any of those present?”

“None,” Dr. King added.

“Doctor Fox?” you prodded.

“No,” she said, her eyes darting nervously around the room.

Robby leaned in, his voice a low vibration against your ear. “Why don’t you take a break? I’ve got this.”

The glare you shot him could have scorched steel.

“There are other things I’d offer for your stress, but right now, a break’s my best,” he pushed, a teasing, lopsided smirk playing on his lips.

“Fine,” you snapped, taking a step back. “But I’m taking ER Ken.” You gestured with a single finger, and he quickly peeled away the extra layer of latex and scrubs on his way out.

Once you were safely out of the trauma room, Langdon leaned in. “Is Dad coming home soon, Mom?”

You reached the hub, frantically searching for a lollipop in the supply drawers. “Shut up!”

Langdon stepped into your path. “What’s up?”

“Did you know Presby calls him ‘Daddy Robinavitch’?” You gestured toward the room with your thumb once you’d finally unwrapped a lollipop and shoved it into your mouth.

Langdon cackled. “WHAT?”

Your skin crawled as you explained the elevator incident, and to your utter misfortune, he only laughed harder.

“Stop it!” You slapped his arm, though your heart wasn’t in it. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, you know exactly what to do,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes.

“Get back in there and smoooooch your husband.”

“Not funny,” you groaned.

“I’m dead serious!”

“So am I,” you muttered. “Daddy Robinavitch. I made him a daddy.”

Langdon’s expression softened, his gaze shifting to something behind you. “If it makes you feel any better, he only has eyes for you.”

You turned around and caught Robby watching you. His expression wasn't arrogant or teasing; it was raw, soulful, and heavy with a plea you knew too well. Your annoyance dissolved into a tender, involuntary smile.

You saw him turn back to the patient, supervising the procedure. Arms folded on his chest, shoulders squared. You noticed the difference when he looked at you and when he looked at the patient. He went from being your husband; a warm, soft, loving man. To the chief of Emergency Medicine.

When you returned, the room was filled with the thin, piercing wail of a newborn. A healthy baby boy was crying his lungs out, and Robby was carefully handing him to the mother.

“Great job, everyone,” you said, your voice warm.

Stacey beamed at you, her eyes sparkling.

“You taught me well,” Robby said, his voice quiet, his hand finding the small of your back.

Stacey’s eyes darted between you both, and as if on cue, her mouth opened to speak.

“We’re taking these two upstairs,” you said, overriding her before she could say another word. You instructed the nursing staff on the room number and follow-up care.

Robby signaled for you to wait a moment and your head turned to his side, granting you minimal privacy under the gawking eyes of the entire pitt.

“What got you so worked up?” he whispered into your ear.

You looked up at him, your gaze daring and sharp. “I’ll tell you later.”

One of his brows arched. A challenge.

You walked back toward the elevators with your student, the silence between you thick with tension.

“That was a great job,” you complimented her, softening your tone. “But you need to work on your bedside manner.”

“I know. That was awful. I’ve already apologized to the patient.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry to you, too.” Her entire face was red, “The whole… the ‘daddy’ thing. It won’t happen again.”

The elevator dinged, announcing your floor. You looked at her and smiled, the lingering heat from your interaction with Robby still buzzing beneath your skin.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said lightly. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard it.”

“Really?”

The elevator doors opened.

“No,” you said, a flash of confidence firing through you. “My kids call him Daddy, too.”

tag list (tysm!!): @wonwoosthetic @thesandbeneathmytoes @missmillivanilli @honeytii @naked-hyacinth @barnes70stark @ficcyyfics @cafekitchen

[dizzybee03]

I absolutely loved this

[drhobby]

the date

exhusband!robbyxf!reader / the date discussed in big ideas wc: 1.4 k warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST - inspired in "less" by olivia rodrigo make sure to check out the masterlist for more toxic content

The doorbell rang at 7:50, and Jack was already eager on the other side. You opened the door while still fumbling with your earrings, your feet bare.

The kids erupted in shrieks, swarming him before tackling each other in a wrestling match on the sofa. You took the opportunity to retreat upstairs to finish getting ready. Moments later, a fresh round of excited screaming echoed through the house; you guessed their father had finally arrived.

When you came back downstairs, the four of them were cackling. Mila let out an occasional shriek of delight every time her father tossed her into the air, only to catch her securely a second later.

“Ready,” you announced. All sets of eyes landed on you.

Robby’s mouth dropped open; he quickly maneuvered Mila onto the cushions and stood up, looking momentarily awkward.

“Where are we going?” Isaac asked, already hopping to his feet.

“Mom and Dad are going out,” you said. “You guys are staying here with Uncle Jack.”

Mila’s eyes widened, a flicker of genuine heartbreak passing through them.

“It will only be for a while, and you’re going to have so much fun!” You smoothed her hair back tenderly.

“We no go?” she asked, already deploying the master-level puppy dog eyes she’d clearly inherited from her father.

“You’re breaking my heart, Mimi,” Jack pouted, scooping her into his arms and causing her to shriek with laughter.

“Goodbye, kids. Be good,” Robby said, hurrying his steps and ushering you out the door before they could change their minds.

Once you were outside and hidden by the privacy of your own porch, he turned to you with a wide grin. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks,” you replied. “You too.” You closed the space between you to deliver a soft peck to his lips.

.

.

The hum of the engine was the only sound in the car for the first few blocks. Robby kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console, his thumb occasionally brushing against your wrist.

“They’re going to be fine,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, reassuring register he used when he needed to convince. “Jack has them wrapped around his little finger. They won’t even remember we exist.”

You laughed, shifting in your seat to get a better look at him. In the moonlight filtering through the windshield, the formal shirt he’d insisted on wearing looked sharp, and you felt a familiar, fluttery surge of nerves. “I know. I just… I feel so out of myself right now. It feels like it’s been ages since I did this.”

Robby pulled up to a red light and finally turned his head, his gaze lingering on your face in a way that made your breath catch. “Date? I recall some dates you had a few months ago.”

You grinned, feeling the warmth on your cheeks. “You’re one to talk.” 

He scoffed. “I wasn’t.” 

“Touchy subject?”

“Uh-huh” 

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I do.” The light turned green and the car moved again. The hum of the radio avoiding an uncomfortable silence. “I haven’t felt like this since our first date.” 

“Oh, shut up” you teased, rolling your eyes.

“What?” A smile formed on his lips, “I was nervous.”

“Yeah, right.” 

“I was!” 

You looked at him with your all-knowing glare, hinting that you didn’t buy it but also amused.

“I knew you were the love of my life by then.” His eyes caught yours briefly before returning to the road. “That’s why I was nervous.” 

You reached out and grabbed his free hand with both of yours. “Now you know you're mine too. Nothing to be nervous about.”

.

.

.

The evening dissolved into laughter and the way his big brown eyes stared at you like you held all the answers to the universe.

After dinner he took you to a vantage point of the bridge. There was a band playing and older couples dancing. 

“May I have a dance?” 

You bit your lip, a futile attempt to hide the dorky smile blooming across your face. Robby guided you onto the makeshift dance floor. His hands settled on your hips, and you followed his lead; an easy step that felt as natural as your relationship.

“Baby” he started, his voice coarse, thin at the edges. “I wanted to tell you something tonight.”

You looked up at him, a gentle nod indicating him to continue.

“I want you back” 

Your brows rose on your forehead. “What a surprise” you joked.

He scoffed, holding you closer, “I mean it.” 

“We are back, Robby, I mean–”

“Marry me” he whispered, his eyes soft. It wasn’t a proposal, not really, it was a plea. “Again”

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. 

“Please”  he breathed, his warm exhale ghosting over your lips.  

“Misha–”

“Don’t Misha me, just say yes.” His hands climbed up your back. He no longer was holding you for a dance, he was desperately clinging to you.

“Can’t you see it?” You asked, but didn’t wait for an answer, your eyes filling with tears. Your hand climbed to his face, caressing his beard softly. “This is only working because you’re trying to get me back. Once it becomes real everything will go back to how it was.” Your voice nearly broke. 

“No” he pleaded, his head shaking.

“Yes, Robby. And you know it.” A tear slipped and he didn’t care to catch it, he was still holding you like you were about to vanish.

His head leaned closer to you, his forehead against yours and eyes closed. “I’m better baby, I am, I swear.”

“I know” you pushed your chin upward to lay a peck on his lips. “You are.” 

“Then, please” 

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Why did you come back from sabbatical?” 

He swallowed, his throat working. “Because I needed to get you back.” 

You nodded, tears tracking freely down your cheeks. “Exactly. Chasing me is what keeps you going, Robby.”

“You keep me going,” he countered, his voice thick with denial, his eyes heavy and wet. “Our family keeps me going.”

“Robby,” you scoffed, a bitter edge to your voice. “We used to see you only on your days off.”

“I’m different now.”

“You’re one tantrum away from snapping back,” you spat.

“No.” He shook his head, a frantic motion. “I’ve worked so hard for this—”

“I know, baby. I know you have.” You softened, your hands cupping his face as you peppered his skin with desperate, fluttering kisses.

“You’d really rather keep the kids wondering what the hell is going on between us than have things go back to normal?” His anger began to brew—a thin, powerful veil he kept drawn over his true feelings. You’d managed to keep him at bay before, and you refused to give in now, even as he fought to find his way back.

“Normal?” You countered, your voice steady despite the ache. “Robby, they see you more now than they ever did when we actually lived together.”

“They cry everytime I leave!”

“I rather have them crying because you leave than because you’re yelling.”

“You know I’m different now.” It was a harsh accusation. He believed he had proven himself, but your heart had already shattered enough in the past; you couldn't risk it breaking again. “Please.”

“Don’t make this harder than it is,” you pleaded. “I’m telling you, you aren’t ready. We aren’t ready.”

“I’m telling you,” he insisted, his gaze hardening into something sharp and certain. “I need things to be the way they were before.”

“I don’t.” You pulled back, putting distance between you. “Robby, you used to berate me at every turn. On your good days, you wouldn’t even speak to me. I don’t want things to go back to the way they were.”

“They won’t.” He nodded, his eyes watery and his voice creaking. “Just—please—believe me.”

“I can’t risk it, Misha. I can’t do it again.” You hiccuped. “I can’t let you hurt me again, I can’t take it.”

“Baby” he kissed both your cheeks, a tender attempt to stop your crying. “I won’t I promise”

“I love you too much to risk it”

“Then love me less.” It was a desperate request, you knew it. But the way he phrased it, the energy in his voice, the raw need made it sound like an order. You were immune to those anyway. “I’ll earn the rest.”

“I can’t.” Your hand went to the back of his head, drawing circles in his nape. “I’ve tried.”

His forehead fell on your shoulder.

Through the fabric of your dress you felt his tears fall into your skin until the song ended.

tag list (tysm!!): @wonwoosthetic @thesandbeneathmytoes @missmillivanilli @honeytii @naked-hyacinth @barnes70stark @ficcyyfics

[dizzybee03]

I know where she is coming from but oh man the heartbreak is rough

[paigepie213]

Grandmother’s Memory - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - So l've been having this of a Robby x fellow attending / senior res. where she has to put a parent/ grandparent in a nursing home (they're like 90) and she's really struggling after years of taking 24/7 care. They have an established relationship and maybe Robby is sad because he looks at her mom as the closest thing to a mom. But she's getting hurt taking care of her parent, she's struggling at work and she's not herself.

thanks for the unique request 🫶

Masterlist

******************************************************

The first time Robby realized something was truly wrong wasn’t because you forgot a chart or missed a diagnosis. It was because you called him by another attending’s name.

You had been standing beside him in Trauma Two, pulling bloody gloves from your hands after an eighteen-year-old rollover. The room still smelled like iron and antiseptic. The kid had survived against every statistic stacked against him, and everyone was riding that exhausted adrenaline high that came after chaos. You looked directly at Robby.

“Can you sign off on the sedation orders, Jack—”

You stopped yourself. Your eyes blinked once. Twice.

“…Jesus. Sorry. Robby.”

He hadn’t thought much of it. Until it happened again. And again. It wasn’t like you. You remembered birthdays, obscure journal articles, nurses’ kids’ names, which residents preferred encouragement over criticism. Your mind was terrifyingly sharp. Lately, though…It seemed like pieces of you kept slipping through the cracks.

“You gonna eat today?” Dana asked one afternoon as she passed the physician workroom.

You looked up from your laptop. “Already did.”

Dana glanced toward the untouched sandwich sitting beside your keyboard.

“You mean that sandwich that’s been there since seven this morning?”

You stared at it.

“…Shit.”

Robby looked over the top of his computer screen. You honestly hadn’t remembered it was there.

******

By the third week, everyone noticed you looked tired. Only Robby knew you looked haunted. He woke up most mornings before dawn because he heard movement downstairs. Not you making coffee. Your grandmother.

Sometimes she’d be opening every cabinet in the kitchen because she was convinced she needed to get dinner started for her husband. Your grandfather had been dead for twelve years. Other mornings she’d already be dressed. Coat. Purse. Shoes. Standing at the front door.

“I have to catch the school bus,” she’d insist.

She was ninety years old. There were mornings she’d look at you with complete confusion.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart… do I know you?”

Those mornings were the hardest. Not because she didn’t recognize you. Because you smiled anyway.

You’d give her your name. “I’m your granddaughter.”

“Oh…” She’d smile back politely. “Well… that’s a pretty name.”

Then she’d introduce herself like you were strangers. Robby had watched it happen enough times that it stopped shocking him. It never stopped breaking his heart.

When you’d first moved your grandmother into the house two years ago, you’d both agreed it was temporary.

“Just until she gets back on her feet.”

Then came the diagnosis. Early dementia. Then moderate dementia. Then rapidly progressing dementia. Somehow “temporary” turned into medication schedules taped to the refrigerator. Doctor appointments. Adult diapers hidden discreetly beneath bathroom cabinets. Installing alarms on every exterior door after she wandered into the backyard at three in the morning convinced she was late for church. Hiring daytime caregivers you could barely afford. Coming home every lunch break to make sure she’d eaten. Sleeping with your bedroom door open so you’d hear her if she got up.

You had become a physician at work. A full-time caregiver at home. A granddaughter somewhere in between.

******

One Thursday evening, Robby walked through the front door after a twelve-hour shift and immediately heard your voice.

“No, Grandma.”

Patient. Gentle.

“The bathroom’s this way.”

“I don’t have to use the bathroom.”

“You told me thirty seconds ago you did.”

“I never said that.”

“You did.”

“I think you’re lying to me.”

There was no anger in her voice. Only fear. Confusion. The kind that came from genuinely believing the world had betrayed her. Robby rounded the corner. Your grandmother stood in the hallway gripping the wallpaper with both hands, glaring at you like you were a stranger trying to kidnap her.

“You leave me alone.”

Your smile never faltered.

“Okay.”

“I want my granddaughter.”

“I know.”

“She’ll know what to do.”

“I know.”

“She takes good care of me.”

Your throat visibly tightened.

“I know she does.”

Robby watched your fingers curl so tightly around your own wrist they left white marks in your skin. Then your grandmother looked at him. Her entire expression changed.

“There he is!” She smiled so brightly it was almost painful. “My handsome doctor.”

Robby couldn’t help smiling back.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

She reached for his hand immediately.

“Tell this woman she’s bossy.”

He glanced toward you. Your eyes were already glossy.

“She is a little bossy,” he agreed.

Your grandmother laughed. A genuine laugh.

“I knew it!”

She patted his cheek.

“I always liked you. You’re good to my granddaughter.”

“I try.”

“You’ll marry her someday.”

Your laugh came out strained.

“We’re already engaged, Grandma.”

She frowned.

“No…”

Then she looked at Robby again.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded gently.

“I’m sure.”

“Well.” She squeezed his hand. “Good.”

Then she leaned in and whispered loudly enough that you could absolutely hear.

“Don’t let her work so much.”

Robby swallowed.

“I’ve been trying.”

Your grandmother smiled, apparently satisfied with his answer, before wandering toward the living room in search of a television show she’d forgotten she’d already watched twice that afternoon. Silence settled over the hallway.

You stood perfectly still until you heard the television come on. Only then did your shoulders finally slump.

“You okay?” Robby asked quietly.

You nodded.

“Babe.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I said I’m—” Your voice cracked.

You closed your eyes.

“…I’m fucking tired.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was almost worse because of how defeated it sounded. Robby crossed the hallway and wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin against the top of your head.

For a long moment, you simply stood there. Neither of you speaking. Then he felt it. Not sobbing. Not shaking. Just one silent tear sliding down your cheek onto the sleeve of his scrub top.

“I miss her,” you whispered.

His arms tightened.

“I know.”

“She’s still here…” Your voice barely existed anymore. “She’s standing twenty feet away, and I miss her so goddamn much.”

There wasn’t a single thing he could say that would fix it. So he didn’t try. He simply held you in the quiet hallway while your grandmother laughed at an old sitcom in the next room, blissfully unaware that the two people who loved her most were already grieving someone who hadn’t left them yet.

******

By the time the next month rolled around, exhaustion had become part of your personality. Not the kind people joked about over coffee. The kind that settled into your bones and stayed there. You were sleeping in fragments—forty-five minutes here, an hour there—because your grandmother no longer understood the difference between day and night. Some evenings she’d fall asleep in her recliner before dinner. Other nights she’d spend three hours convinced someone was trying to break into the house because she could hear voices outside.

There were no voices. Just sprinklers. Wind. The television she’d forgotten she’d turned on. Every morning you still put on your coat, tied your hair back, and walked into the emergency department with that same calm confidence that made residents instinctively trust you.

It was becoming harder to fake. Robby noticed first. He always did.

“You’ve checked that potassium three times.”

You looked up from the computer.

“What?”

“The potassium.” He pointed at the monitor. “You’ve opened the lab results three separate times.”

You blinked.

“…Huh.”

You’d honestly had no memory of doing it. You rubbed at your forehead.

“I thought it looked different.”

“It didn’t.”

A tired smile ghosted across your face.

“Well… that’s embarrassing.”

He didn’t smile back.

“You need some sleep.”

“I need a clone.”

“You need help.”

“I have help.”

“You have caregivers eight hours a day.”

“And I take over the other sixteen.”

He didn’t have an argument for that. Because you were right.

******

He found you in the staff locker room later that afternoon. Not crying. Just sitting on the bench with your head leaned back against the lockers, eyes closed. You hadn’t even realized he’d walked in.

“Hey.”

Your eyes opened slowly.

“Oh.”

Your smile appeared automatically. He frowned.

“How long have you been sitting here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You on break?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

You looked around as though searching for the answer yourself.

“…Yeah.”

He crouched in front of you.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

A small laugh escaped you.

“Apparently.”

You looked so embarrassed that it physically hurt him.

“I came in here to grab something.”

“What?”

“I…”

You stared at the floor.

“I genuinely don’t remember.”

He reached over and rested a hand on your knee.

“You don’t have to be superhuman.”

“I know.”

“You keep acting like you do.”

“I don’t know how not to.”

******

The call came just after nine that night. Robby had barely gotten his shoes off when he heard your voice from upstairs.

“Grandma?”

No answer. Another door opened.

“Grandma?”

Your voice changed.

“Grandma!”

He was halfway up the stairs before you yelled again.

“Robby!”

He found you standing in your grandmother’s empty bedroom. The bed had clearly been slept in. The window was shut. The room…Empty. Your face had gone completely white.

“She’s gone.”

“When did you see her last?”

“I put her to bed.”

“What time?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Front door?”

“Alarm didn’t go off.”

“Back?”

“I don’t know!”

Your breathing was getting faster.

“I don’t know!”

He grabbed your shoulders.

“Hey.”

You couldn’t hear him.

“Oh my God.”

“Baby.”

“If she wandered—”

“Stop.”

“What if she crossed the—”

His voice finally cut through.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

“We’re going to find her.”

You shook your head frantically.

“This is my fault.”

“No it’s not.”

“I should’ve checked on—”

“Stop.”

“I should’ve—”

“No.” His hands squeezed your arms. “We are wasting time arguing.”

That finally reached you. You both moved. Fast. The next twenty minutes blurred together. Checking every room. The garage. Closets. Neighbors’ yards. Calling her name into the dark.

The neighborhood was eerily quiet. Every second felt like an hour. Your hands were shaking so violently you dropped your phone trying to dial 911.

“I can’t…” You bent over, hands on your knees. “I can’t breathe.”

Robby picked up your phone.

“I’ve got it.”

Before he could hit call a tiny voice floated from somewhere inside the house.

“…Hello?”

Both of you froze. It came again.

“…Is somebody home?”

The attic. Robby looked upward.

“The attic?”

You stared at the ceiling like you’d forgotten the space even existed.

“There…”

The attic pull-down ladder had been left partially open. He climbed first. Flashlight from his phone sweeping through dusty boxes. Your grandmother looked up from an old wooden rocking chair tucked into the corner. She smiled.

“Oh.”

“There you are.”

She sounded delighted.

“I was waiting for my daddy.”

Robby’s heart sank. She wasn’t ninety anymore. Not in her mind. She was six. Maybe seven.

“I didn’t want to miss him.”

He crouched beside her.

“Your daddy knows where you are.”

“Oh good.”

“He asked if I could sit with you until he gets here.”

“That was nice.”

She reached out and patted his hand.

“You’re a good young man.”

Behind him, he heard you climbing into the attic. The moment your grandmother saw you, she frowned.

“Who are you?”

You stopped moving. Every muscle in your body seemed to lock.

“I’m…” Your voice barely worked. “…I’m Y/N.”

“Oh.” Your grandmother smiled politely. “You have kind eyes.”

Robby watched something inside you shatter. You nodded.

“Thank you.”

“My granddaughter has kind eyes too.”

You swallowed hard enough that he could hear it.

“I know.”

“I miss her.”

Three words. That was all it took. Robby glanced back just in time to see you press your fist against your mouth to stop the sound trying to escape. You couldn’t do it. You turned away before either of them could see the tears spilling over. Robby carefully helped your grandmother to her feet.

“Come on.”

“My daddy?”

“We’ll keep looking for him.”

She accepted that answer with the innocent trust of a child. As he guided her toward the attic ladder, he looked over his shoulder. You were still standing exactly where he’d left you. Completely motionless. Staring at an old family photo tucked into one of the dusty boxes. One where your grandmother was young. Strong. Holding a little girl with pigtails in her lap.

You reached out and brushed the frame with trembling fingertips. Then, in a voice so quiet Robby almost didn’t hear it, you whispered into the darkness,

“I miss you too, Grandma.”

******

The emergency department had been unforgiving since six that morning. By noon, every room was full. By one, patients lined the hallways. By two, the trauma pager had gone off three separate times. By three, nobody remembered what sitting down felt like.

The air buzzed with overhead pages, ringing phones, monitors screaming for attention, and exhausted voices trying to keep pace with the chaos. You were usually the calm in the middle of every storm. Today, you felt like you were drowning beneath it. You’d been awake for thirty-four hours.

Not because of work. Because your grandmother had spent the entire night wandering from room to room. She’d accused you of stealing her wedding ring. She’d forgotten she’d already eaten dinner. She’d cried because she wanted to go home while standing in the house she’d lived in for the last two years.

Around four that morning she’d finally fallen asleep. You hadn’t. You simply stared at the ceiling until your alarm went off. Now, standing over a septic patient, your head pounded hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Pressure’s dropping,” Perlah called.

“I heard you.”

Your tone came out sharper than you’d intended. Perlah nodded once before quietly stepping away. You caught the hurt look on her face. Another thing to apologize for later. Another name added to the growing list.

By the time the patient was stabilized, you could barely feel your feet. You ducked into the physician workroom hoping for five uninterrupted minutes. Instead, you found Robby. He looked up from his computer the second you walked in.

“You okay?”

“I’m working.”

“I can see that.”

You ignored him, logging into your computer and pulling up your next chart. He watched you for a long moment.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve said that every shift this week.”

“I’m busy.”

“So is everyone else.”

“I know.”

He stood.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t even look up.

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You need fifteen minutes.”

“I don’t have fifteen minutes.”

“You’ll make fifteen minutes.”

You laughed once. It wasn’t amused.

“You gonna write me a prescription for extra hours in the day?”

“I’m trying to help.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

His jaw tightened.

“No. You never do.”

You slammed your pen onto the desk.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re trying to carry an impossible amount by yourself.”

“I’m handling it.”

“No, you aren’t.” His voice stayed calm. “You’re surviving it.”

Something inside you snapped.

“You have no fucking idea what I’m surviving.”

The room went quiet. Dana, halfway through signing discharge paperwork, slowly looked up. Langdon stopped typing. Santos sitting across the room suddenly found her coffee incredibly interesting. Robby didn’t move.

“I know it’s hard.”

“I don’t think you do.” You stood so quickly your chair rolled backward into the wall. “You don’t.”

He opened his mouth.

“You don’t wake up three fucking times a night because someone you love doesn’t know where she is.”

Your voice was louder now. Too loud.

“I know.”

“You don’t clean your grandmother after she pisses herself because she’s so embarrassed she’s crying harder than you are.”

Silence. No one moved.

“You don’t have someone look you in the eyes and ask where her granddaughter is while she’s talking to her granddaughter.” Your breathing had become ragged. “You don’t spend every goddamn day wondering if today’s the day she forgets me forever.”

Your eyes burned.

“And then I come in here and everybody wants a fucking piece of me.”

The words just kept coming.

“You.”

You pointed directly at him.

“The nurses.”

“The residents.”

“The patients.”

“Everybody needs something.”

“Everybody.”

“I am so fucking tired of everyone needing me.”

Robby stood perfectly still. “I’m not asking you to—”

“Yes you are!” Your voice cracked. “You need me to sleep. You need me to eat. You need me to lean on you. You need me to talk. I don’t have anything left!”

The last sentence echoed through the workroom. For the first time since you’d met him…You saw genuine pain cross Robby’s face. Not anger. Pain. His shoulders dropped just slightly. Like something had physically struck him. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost impossibly quiet.

“I wasn’t asking you for anything.”

That stopped you.

“I was trying to carry something for you.”

You stared at him. He held your gaze for another second before looking down at the floor. Then he nodded once.

“That’s my mistake.” He picked up the chart he’d come in to grab. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

He walked toward the door. No sarcasm. No slammed door. No argument. Just…Resignation.

He disappeared into the hallway. The workroom remained completely silent. You could hear the trauma pager going off somewhere in the department. Nobody moved. Nobody knew what to say. Dana slowly set her clipboard on the desk.

“Honey…”

Your knees suddenly felt weak.

“Oh…” You whispered it to yourself. “Oh, God.”

You hadn’t just yelled at him. You’d watched the man who loved you reach for you…and slapped his hand away.

Not literally. Somehow what you’d done felt worse. You pressed both palms against your face.

“What the fuck did I just do?”

No one answered. Because there wasn’t an answer. Langdon quietly stood from his chair.

“I’ve got your next patient.”

You looked up. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice was gentle. “But you’re not walking into another room like this.”

One by one, people quietly drifted out of the workroom. Not because they were uncomfortable. Because they were giving you privacy. Soon it was just you and Dana. She crossed the room slowly until she stood beside you.

“You know…” Her voice was soft. “I’ve worked with Robby for a long time.”

You couldn’t look at her.

“I know you have.”

“I’ve seen him angry.” She nodded. “I’ve seen him frustrated.”

You felt tears pile in your eyes.

“I’ve seen him sarcastic enough to make residents cry.”

She rested a hand on your shoulder.

“I’ve never seen him look like that.”

Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might be sick. A tear slipped onto the front of your scrub top. Then another.

“I didn’t mean…”

Your voice dissolved.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I know you didn’t.”

You finally looked at Dana. Your face had completely fallen apart.

“I hurt him.”

She nodded honestly.

“Yeah.”

More tears spilled over.

“I hurt the one person who’s been trying to help me.”

Dana gently squeezed your shoulder.

“Then when this shift is over…” She offered a small, sad smile. “…go home.”

“Tell him that.”

The pager sounded again. Life in the emergency department continued as though nothing had happened. Patients still needed doctors. Ambulances still arrived. Monitors still beeped. But for the rest of the shift, every time you caught sight of Robby across the department, he never once looked your way. Not out of spite. Not because he was punishing you. He was simply giving you exactly what you’d asked for.

Space.

And somehow…That hurt even more than if he’d yelled back.

******

The drive home was almost unbearable. Not because of traffic. Because every minute that passed gave you another sixty seconds to replay what you’d done. The way your voice had echoed through the physician workroom. The stunned silence afterward. The look on Dana’s face. The look on Frank’s.

But none of it compared to the expression on Robby’s. He hadn’t looked angry. He’d looked… wounded. You gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ached.

“Fuck…” You whispered to the empty car. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

By the time you pulled into the driveway, your stomach was in knots. His truck was already there. Of course it was. He’d gotten off an hour before you. You sat in your car for another five minutes, staring at the porch light.

Part of you wanted to stay there forever. The other part knew that wasn’t fair to either of you. Finally, you climbed out. The house was quiet. Too quiet. You pushed the front door open slowly.

“Grandma?”

Nothing. Then you remembered. The overnight caregiver. She’d started three nights a week after your grandmother had wandered into the attic. A small mercy. One less thing to fear while you slept.

You slipped your shoes off and rounded the corner toward the kitchen. Robby stood at the stove wearing an old PTMC T-shirt and sweatpants. A pot simmered quietly. The smell of chicken and vegetables filled the room. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey.”

No accusation. No cold shoulder. No bitterness. He turned the burner down.

“I made soup.”

You blinked.

“…Soup?”

“You haven’t really eaten anything that wasn’t from a vending machine in about a week.”

You couldn’t speak. He reached into a cabinet and grabbed two bowls.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry, but it’ll keep.”

You just stood there. He looked back again.

“You okay?”

That did it. Your chin started trembling so violently you had to bite the inside of your cheek.

“I’m…” You swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”

He set the bowls down immediately.

“I didn’t—” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know.”

“No.” You shook your head hard. “No, you don’t understand.”

You took a shaky step toward him

“I said those things in front of everybody.”

“I know.”

“I humiliated you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” Tears spilled over before you could stop them. “I was fucking awful.”

He closed the distance between you.

“You don’t owe me an apology tonight.”

Your head snapped up.

“What?”

“You owe yourself some grace.”

The laugh that escaped you sounded broken.

“Grace?” You wiped angrily at your face. “I was a complete bitch to you.”

“You were drowning.”

“I still said it.”

“You did.”

“I hurt you.”

“You did.”

Every honest answer landed like another stone on your chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I know you are.”

His voice never changed. Never hardened. Never even wavered. He simply reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I forgave you before you got home.”

You stared at him.

“…What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why?”

The question came out almost desperate.

“You should be furious with me.”

“I’m not.”

“Why not?”

He sighed quietly.

“Because I know who was talking today.”

You frowned.

“It wasn’t the woman I love.”

That finally broke whatever fragile wall you’d been holding together. Your knees gave out. Not dramatically. They simply…Stopped working. You slid toward the kitchen floor with a strangled sob.

Before you ever hit the tile, Robby caught you. His arms wrapped around you instinctively as he lowered both of you onto the floor. You buried your face against his chest. Then the dam burst. Not quiet tears. Not graceful crying. The ugly kind.

The kind that stole your breath. The kind that made your entire body shake.

“I can’t do this anymore…”

The words were barely understandable between sobs.

“I can’t…”

His hand moved slowly through your hair.

“Okay.”

“I can’t watch her disappear.”

“Okay.”

“I keep thinking…” You sucked in a ragged breath. “What if yesterday was the last day she remembered me?”

Another sob.

“What if she never comes back?”

“I know.”

“I miss her so much.”

“I know.”

“I feel like she’s dying…” You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt. “…and every morning I wake up and she’s still here…”

You couldn’t breathe.

“…and then I hate myself because I wish it would just…”

The sentence died in your throat. Your eyes went wide.

“Oh my God.” You jerked away from him in horror. “I didn’t…”

Fresh tears streamed down your face.

“I don’t mean I want her to die.”

“I know you don’t.” Robby gave you a sad smile.

“I don’t.”

“I know.”

“I just…” You covered your mouth. “I don’t want her scared anymore.”

Your shoulders shook violently.

“I don’t want her wondering where her parents are. I don’t want her crying because she can’t remember my name. I don’t want her apologizing because she wet herself.”

You looked at him with complete devastation.

“And I don’t want to keep praying tomorrow will be better because I know…”

Your voice disappeared into another sob.

“I know it’s only going to get worse.”

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound in the kitchen was your crying and the quiet bubbling of the soup still warming on the stove. Eventually, Robby shifted just enough to cup your face.

“Look at me.”

It took several tries before you managed it. Your eyes were swollen. Your cheeks soaked. He brushed away another tear with his thumb.

“You know what I see?”

You shook your head.

“I see the woman who has spent two years loving someone through one of the cruelest diseases imaginable.”

Another tear escaped.

“I see someone who has sacrificed her sleep.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Her peace.”

Another kiss.

“Her body.”

He gently rubbed one of the fading bruises on your forearm from catching your grandmother during a fall the week before.

“Her career.”

Another kiss.

“And even after all of that…” His own voice grew thick. “…she still thinks she hasn’t done enough.”

Your face crumpled all over again.

“I promised her…”

“I know.”

“I promised I’d never put her in a home.”

He rested his forehead against yours.

“No.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You promised she’d never be alone.”

You closed your eyes.

“Those aren’t the same promise.”

The room fell silent. Your breathing slowly began to even out. He wrapped both arms around you again, holding you against his chest as if he could somehow absorb every ounce of pain you were carrying. After several minutes, you whispered something so quietly he almost missed it.

“I’m scared you’ll get tired of this.”

His heart broke. He leaned back just enough that you had to look at him. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

“I fell in love with the woman who carries everyone else.”

His hand settled over yours.

“So if she needs me to carry her for a while…” He offered the smallest, saddest smile. “…then that’s exactly where I want to be.”

A fresh wave of tears rolled down your cheeks. Not because he had forgiven you. Not because he’d excused what happened. But because after the worst version of yourself had looked him in the eye and pushed him away…He had come home, made you soup, and loved you exactly the same. You buried your face against his neck again, your voice muffled by his skin.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not today.” He pressed a kiss into your hair. “But tomorrow’s another day.”

His arms tightened around you.

And for the first time in weeks, you allowed someone else to hold the weight. Even if it was only for one night.

******

Three weeks later, the silence in the house still caught you off guard. It wasn’t empty. It was… peaceful.

There were no alarms chiming because someone had opened the front door. No hurried footsteps at two in the morning. No frantic searches for misplaced dentures, wedding rings, or a husband who had been gone for over a decade. No crying from the hallway because the wallpaper in the guest room somehow wasn’t the wallpaper from the house your grandmother had lived in during the 1960s.

For the first few nights after moving her into memory care, you’d barely slept. Not because she’d been there. Because you hadn’t. You’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, convinced she’d wake up terrified and alone, calling your name.

Every morning you’d reach for your phone before your eyes were even fully open. No missed calls. No emergencies. No frantic messages.

The guilt remained. But the fear? The fear had finally begun to loosen its grip.

“You ready?”

Robby leaned against the front door, sunglasses perched on top of his head and a paper bag from your favorite bakery hanging from one hand. You smiled softly.

“You remembered the blueberry muffins.”

He shrugged.

“Your grandmother says mine taste like drywall.”

A real laugh escaped you.

“She’s not wrong.”

“I know.” He looked appropriately offended. “I’ve accepted that I’ll never impress her with baked goods.”

“You’ve impressed her with everything else.”

He smiled.

“I’ll take it.”

You grabbed your purse, and together you climbed into his truck. Neither of you talked much during the drive. You never did anymore. Not because things were awkward. Because the quiet had become comfortable again.

It was something you’d almost forgotten how to enjoy. As the assisted living community came into view, your stomach tightened anyway. Robby noticed immediately. He reached across the center console and took your hand.

“You don’t have to be nervous.”

“I know.”

“You can still be nervous.”

You nodded.

“I hate that she’s here.”

He squeezed your fingers gently.

“I know.”

“…But I don’t hate that she’s safe.”

He looked over at you.

“That’s okay too.”

You exhaled slowly.

“I think I’m finally starting to believe that.”

The memory care wing was brighter than you’d expected the first time you’d walked through it. Large windows. Soft music drifting through the hallways. Paintings made by residents hung proudly on the walls. Staff members greeted everyone by name.

There were bird feeders outside every window. Your grandmother had always loved watching birds. When you rounded the corner toward the common room, a nurse smiled immediately.

“Oh good.” She pointed toward the activity room. “She’s been telling everyone her granddaughter’s coming today.”

Your heart skipped.

“She has?”

“Since breakfast.” The nurse grinned. “She also told us to make sure someone handsome came with you.”

Robby smirked.

“That tracks.”

You rolled your eyes.

“She’s shameless.”

“She absolutely is.”

The nurse laughed and walked away. You looked at Robby.

“You ready?”

He nodded.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Together, you stepped into the activity room. Half a dozen residents sat around a large table decorating flowerpots with bright acrylic paint. Your grandmother sat in the middle of them wearing a pale yellow cardigan dotted with tiny blue flowers.

She looked… lighter. Not cured. Not magically herself again. But lighter. She was laughing. Really laughing. One of the residents beside her was arguing that his painted sunflower looked more like a fried egg. Your grandmother cackled.

“It does!”

“It does not!”

“It absolutely does.”

Then she looked up. For one terrifying second, Nothing. Your chest tightened. Then her face transformed.

“There they are!” She pointed at the two of you. “I told you they’d come.”

She pushed herself up from her chair with her walker. A staff member instinctively moved to help.

“I’ve got it,” your grandmother huffed. “I’m old, not helpless.”

The staff member chuckled and stepped back. You met her halfway across the room.

“Hi, Grandma.”

She cupped your cheek.

“My beautiful girl.” Your eyes immediately filled. “Hi.”

She studied your face for a long moment.

“You look rested.”

You laughed through the tears threatening to fall.

“I guess I do.”

“I worried about you.”

Your throat tightened.

“You did?”

She nodded matter-of-factly.

“You looked so tired.”

For just a heartbeat…There she was. The grandmother who had practically raised you. The woman who always knew when something was wrong before you ever said a word.nYou wrapped your arms around her carefully.

“I missed you.”

She hugged you back.

“I know.”

When you stepped aside, she looked at Robby.

“Well?”

He blinked.

“Well what?”

She put a hand on her hip.

“Come give me a hug.”

He laughed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He bent down and hugged her gently. She patted his back twice before leaning close enough that only he and you could hear.

“You still taking care of my girl?”

His eyes flickered toward you.

“Every day.”

“Good.” She nodded with complete satisfaction. “She forgets to take care of herself.”

“I know.”

“You remind her.”

“I do.”

She smiled.

“I knew I picked the right one.”

He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.

“I’ll keep reminding her.”

She reached up and squeezed his cheek.

“I know you will.”

The three of you spent nearly two hours there. Your grandmother introduced you both to every resident as though she’d personally founded the place.

“This is my granddaughter.”

“This is her doctor.”

“No, Grandma,” you laughed. “My fiancé.”

She frowned.

“I know what I said.”

Robby nearly choked trying not to laugh. At lunch she insisted he trade desserts with her because “men need feeding.” She beat him soundly at a game of dominoes. Twice. When it came time to leave, the old guilt crept back into your chest.

You hated saying goodbye. You always would. You knelt beside her chair.

“We’ll be back Sunday.”

She smiled. “I know.”

“I love you.”

She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear exactly the way she had when you were little.

“I know.” She kissed your forehead. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

As you stood, she caught Robby’s hand one last time. He turned back.

“What is it?”

She looked between the two of you with surprising clarity. The kind that seemed to arrive without warning and disappear just as quickly.

“You know…” Her voice softened. “Dementia takes a lot.”

Neither of you spoke.

“It took my memories.”

She smiled sadly.

“It took my independence.”

Another pause.

“But it didn’t take knowing who loves me.”

A tear escaped down your cheek. She looked at you.

“You stopped trying to keep me alive…” She squeezed your hand. “…and started helping me live.”

The words stole the air from your lungs. Then she looked at Robby.

“Thank you…” She smiled warmly. “…for making sure my granddaughter finally remembered she gets to live too.”

Neither of you trusted yourselves to answer. You simply kissed her goodbye and walked out together. The afternoon sun was warm against your faces as you reached the truck.

For several moments, neither of you climbed in. You both looked back toward the windows of the memory care wing. Your grandmother stood inside, waving enthusiastically through the glass. You waved back until she disappeared from view. Only then did you finally lean against Robby.

“I still feel guilty.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“I know.”

“I think part of me always will.”

He kissed your temple.

“Probably.”

You looked up at him.

“That doesn’t mean I made the wrong choice…does it?”

He rested his forehead against yours.

“No, baby.” His answer came without hesitation. “It means there was never going to be a choice that didn’t hurt.”

A tear rolled down your cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb.

“You gave her dignity.”

He rubbed your side.

“You gave her safety And you gave yourself permission to be her granddaughter again…” His voice grew quiet. “…instead of trying to be her doctor, her nurse, her caregiver, and her entire world.”

You closed your eyes. For the first time since her diagnosis, you let yourself believe him. Not because the guilt had disappeared. Not because the grief was over. But because as you looked back one last time at the woman who had raised you—laughing with new friends, safe, cared for, and loved—you finally understood something your heart had been fighting for months.

Love hadn’t ended the day you moved her into memory care. It had simply changed what it looked like. And somehow…That made carrying it feel just a little bit lighter.

[dizzybee03]

This was such a beautiful story…but a hard read as it definitely reminded me of the last couple years before my mom passed away, being a caregiver is not for the faint of heart

[drhobby]

ex!wife and robby idea where robby asks jack/langdon to babysit so he can take ex!wife on a proper date to officially win her back

ohhh I loved this!! thank you for the request. There most definitely will be an extra bit with the date itself coming soon <3 word count: 700 check out the masterlist for more toxic content

big ideas

“Why don’t you get takeout from her favorite restaurant and have a movie night?” Jack suggested while reviewing the charts after handover, his strong forearms leaning against the nurses’ hub.

“Get her something, man,” Frank chimed in, biting into a protein bar. “Flowers.”

“I never liked flowers,” Robby said, grimacing.

“They’re not for you,” Jack countered.

“They’re a useless gift,” Robby said, raising both hands.

Dana chuckled and shook her head.

“Any ideas?” Robby inquired, turning to her.

“Yeah. Get better friends,” she snarked.

Robby leaned his head sideways with a disapproving look, but at this point, Dana was immune.

“Next week’s my anniversary,” Robby said. “Any ideas for my wife?”

“You mean ex-wife?”

Robby felt like a cartoon character; he was almost certain his face was red and steam was coming out of his ears.

She took a step closer. “You know, Robby, these two may not, but I remember how hard you worked to get her to date you. Be that man again. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

He simply nodded, remembering all the schemes he’d pulled just to get you downstairs. All the favors he’d asked to have you in the same room. All the bribes he’d sent in order for his plans to work. But first and foremost, he remembered the effort and how it made you blush.

“Jack, can you babysit my kids next Tuesday night?” Robby asked, his fingers tapping against one of the iPads.

“I’m working.”

Robby slapped his arm as he passed behind him, whispering a “Not anymore.” 

He reached your floor feeling uncharacteristically lucky, until the front desk nurse stopped him.

“Where are you headed?”

“To see my wife. Ex-wife.”

“Let me announce you.”

“It’s alright.” Robby took another step towards your office. 

“It’s procedure,” she said, offering a practiced, polite smile that gave Robby the feeling that he was the reason procedure existed in the first place.

He released a tiresome huff and crossed his arms, waiting.

“The Chief of Emergency Medicine is here to see you,” she announced into the phone. She listened for a moment, said, “Yeah,” and hung up. She turned her gaze back to him. “You can go in.”

With a smile that felt more like a grimace, he walked into your office. You were already standing, arms stretched above your head as a wide yawn took over your face. He could have been lying to himself, but he swore he saw your expression brighten the moment you saw him.

“Rough day?” he asked, immediately reaching your side to rest his hands on your waist.

“Uh-uh,” you nodded, leaning into him. “Just boring.”

“Hmm.” He kissed the top of your head. “You know where the fun is.”

You looked up at him, already smiling. “Yeah—home, with a glass of wine.”

He smirked. “Yeah, that’s fun, too.” He leaned down and pressed a simple, domestic kiss to your lips. “Hey, what are your plans for Tuesday?”

“Let me see.” You pulled away from his embrace and returned to your chair, pulling your agenda from a drawer and opening it to the marked page. “Ah—Tuesday.” You looked up at him through your lashes.

Robby nodded, already lowering himself toward the floor. “Yeah, Tuesday.” He knelt beside your chair and turned you to face him, his hands settling on your hips. “I want to take you out on a date.”

Your eyes widened. “What about the kids?”

“It’s been taken care of.” He gave a single, firm nod, then pushed up on his knees to reach your mouth, pressing a tentative kiss to the corner of it. “Dinner. Drinks. And back to my place. No kids.”

He watched a slow smile form on your lips. 

“Sounds nice.”

“It’s going to be even better than that.”

“You’ve got yourself a date, Robinavitch.” You pecked his lips. “Now go get the kids. I’ll see you in the parking lot.”

He stood in one fluid movement, extending a hand toward you to help you stand. “Yes, boss.”

As you busied yourself packing your things to leave, he walked toward the door.

“Dr. Robby?” you called out, your eyes fixed on sliding your laptop into your bag.

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned back. “Yeah?”

“Does it include breakfast?” You peeked at him with a teasing glint in your eyes.

His blood pressure spiked. “Damn right it does.” He nodded once, gave you a look, and walked out of the office.

tag list (tysm!!!): @thesandbeneathmytoes @missmillivanilli

[dizzybee03]

I love how they are working their way back to each other

[marvelcriminalhoe]

When In Vegas

Chapter 1 - “devil rolls the dice, angels roll their eyes”

Series Masterlist

You wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by an aircraft carrier.

Which, honestly, would have been preferable to whatever the hell was currently happening inside your skull.

Your head was pounding.

Not aching.

Not throbbing.

Pounding.

Like someone had taken a hammer, crawled inside your brain, and started renovating without a permit.

Your mouth was dry. Your stomach was rolling. There was a horrible taste on your tongue that you were pretty sure was tequila, regret, and possibly the cheapest champagne known to mankind.

The first thing you became aware of was the sunlight.

Bright, aggressive, offensive sunlight.

It poured through the hotel curtains in thin golden lines, landing directly across your face like the universe had decided to personally punish you for every poor decision you had made in the last forty-eight hours.

Which, to be fair, was a lot.

It was Vegas.

You were here for Phoenix’s bachelorette weekend.

And Rooster’s bachelor weekend.

Because apparently, when two naval aviators decided to get married, they didn’t believe in doing anything normally. No, they had to combine the bachelor and bachelorette party into one weekend-long disaster with the entire squad, too much alcohol, and absolutely no adult supervision.

That had been the first mistake.

The second mistake had been trusting Payback when he said he knew “a great place” for dinner Saturday night.

The third had been letting Fanboy order something called a Scorpion Bowl.

The fourth had been Coyote saying, “One more drink.”

The fifth had been believing him.

After that, things got blurry.

Not blacked out.

Not gone.

Just… soft around the edges.

A neon-colored mess of music and laughter and dancing and heat.

You groaned softly and tried to roll onto your stomach.

Your body immediately rejected the idea.

Every muscle protested.

Your legs were sore.

Your back ached.

Your neck felt stiff.

There was a tenderness in places you did not want to think about this early in the morning.

God, what time was it?

You blindly reached toward the nightstand, hoping for your phone, water, Advil, a priest, anything.

Your fingers found nothing but empty air.

You frowned.

That was wrong.

You always put your phone on the nightstand.

Always.

Even drunk, you had systems.

Drunk you was chaotic, but drunk you still understood that losing your phone in Las Vegas was how people ended up crying in a casino bathroom at three in the morning while their bank account got drained by someone named Crystal.

You reached again.

Still nothing.

With another miserable groan, you forced one eye open.

Big mistake.

The room tilted.

You immediately closed it again, “Nope,” you whispered hoarsely.

Your voice sounded like you had swallowed gravel.

You took a deep breath through your nose.

Regretted that too.

The room smelled like alcohol, sweat, expensive hotel sheets, and something vaguely floral.

Perfume.

Your perfume.

Also cologne.

His cologne.

Your eyes snapped open.

Well.

They attempted to.

Mostly they squinted in horror as your brain slowly, painfully, and reluctantly registered the very large problem in the bed beside you.

Jake Seresin.

On his stomach.

One arm shoved under a pillow.

Hair a complete disaster.

Back bare.

Sheet low on his waist.

Golden skin warm under the Vegas sunlight like he was some sort of unfairly attractive fever dream your hungover brain had conjured up to make your suffering worse.

For a moment, you just stared.

Because that was what a person did when they woke up next to Jake Seresin.

They stared.

It was biology.

A reflex.

A terrible, shameful, inconvenient reflex.

Then reality crept in.

Slowly.

Cruelly.

Jake was in your bed.

Or you were in his bed.

Honestly, that detail was not immediately clear.

The room looked like every other overpriced hotel room on the Strip. White sheets, dark furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, evidence of terrible decisions scattered across every available surface.

A black heel near the bathroom door.

Your heel.

A discarded dress on the floor.

Also yours.

Jake’s button-down shirt hanging halfway off a lamp.

That was new.

A tiny plastic bride veil tossed over the back of a chair.

That was concerning.

A half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the dresser.

That was worse.

Someone’s cowboy hat upside down on the floor with poker chips inside it.

That was probably Jake’s.

Unless Rooster had suffered a personality transplant sometime around midnight.

You stared at the room.

Then at Jake.

Then at the room again.

Your brain tried very hard to reboot.

Jake in bed with you was alarming, yes, but not impossible.

You had fallen asleep next to him before.

On couches.

In ready rooms.

On the beach after one too many Hard Deck nights.

Once, during a layover in Virginia, you had woken up with his arm across your stomach and your face smushed into his shoulder because the two of you had decided the airport chairs were a war crime and the floor was somehow better.

So, no waking up next to Jake Seresin was not the end of the world.

Waking up next to Jake Seresin while both of you appeared to be naked?

That was closer.

Your heart gave one hard, painful kick against your ribs.

You looked down at yourself. Sheet pulled up to your chest. Bare shoulders. No straps. No fabric.

No dignity.

“Oh, God,” you whispered.

Jake didn’t move.

Of course he didn’t.

The man slept like the dead when he wanted to. Bombs could go off, alarms could blare, Coyote could yell his name directly into his ear, and Jake would keep sleeping like the world simply had no right to disturb him.

You envied him. You envied him so much you considered smothering him with a pillow.

Not fatally.

Probably.

You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest like modesty mattered at this point.

The movement sent a violent wave of nausea through you.

You froze. Breathed. Swallowed hard. Made a silent promise to every god that had ever existed that if you survived this morning, you would never drink again.

Which was a lie.

But it felt sincere in the moment.

You glanced around for your phone again. Still nothing. You shifted, preparing to climb out of bed, when something caught the light. Something small. Something silver.

On your left hand. Your entire body went still.

No.

You lifted your hand slowly. Like if you moved too fast, it might somehow become more real. There, sitting neatly on your ring finger, was a wedding band. A simple silver band.

Shiny.

New.

Damning.

Your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your lungs.

For several seconds, you did nothing. You just stared at it.

Your brain, usually so helpful in times of crisis, offered absolutely nothing except a distant, high-pitched scream. Then, very slowly, you turned your head toward Jake. His left hand was half tucked under the pillow. You reached for it before you could talk yourself out of it.

Your fingers brushed his wrist. Warm skin. Steady pulse.

He shifted slightly, making a sleepy sound under his breath, but didn’t wake. You pulled his hand free anyway. There was a ring on his finger too. Matching yours.

Your stomach dropped so fast you were surprised it didn’t hit the floor.

“Oh,” you breathed.

Then, because apparently your vocabulary had abandoned you along with your common sense, you said it again, harder this time, “Oh.”

And that was when everything came back.

Not in pieces.

Not flashes.

Not the merciful little snapshots a person could dismiss as drunken imagination.

Everything.

The club. The music. Jake’s hands on your waist. Your back against his chest.

The way he had leaned down, mouth close to your ear, and asked if you were trying to kill him in that dress. The way you had laughed and told him not to flatter himself. The way he had looked at you like he wasn’t joking anymore.

The bathroom.

Or maybe the hallway outside the bathroom.

No. The hotel room. His room. Your room.

The adjoining door.

His mouth on yours. Your fingers in his hair. The way he had said your name like it meant something.

Like it meant everything.

Then the Strip. Warm night air. Neon lights. Your hand in his. Laughing so hard you could barely walk straight. His jacket around your shoulders. His thumb brushing over your knuckles. A chapel sign glowing pink and white in the distance. Someone saying, “Imagine if we did it.”

Jake laughing.

You laughing.

Both of you standing there, staring at the chapel for too long. Too long for it to be a joke. His voice softer when he said, “You wanna?” 

Your heart pounding.

Your whole body warm with alcohol and want and something so much worse than both.

You asking, “Do you?” 

Jake looking at you.

Really looking at you.

No smirk.

No performance.

No Hangman.

Just Jake.

“I’ve wanted a lot of things when it comes to you,” he had said.

And God help you, you remembered the way that had felt.

You remembered the ceremony. The tacky little chapel. The fake flowers. The officiant in a sparkly jacket. The cheap rings.

You remembered laughing through the vows until suddenly you weren’t laughing anymore. You remembered Jake’s hand shaking slightly when he slid the ring onto your finger. You remembered doing the same to him. You remembered kissing him after.

You remembered wanting it.

Every second of it.

Your heart twisted painfully.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? Not that you got married. Not that you slept with him. Not that you had managed to turn a weekend in Vegas into a legal and emotional catastrophe before checkout.

The problem was that you remembered it, that you remembered wanting it. That if someone asked you, right now, sitting hungover and half naked in a hotel bed beside Jake Seresin, if you wished it hadn’t happened You didn’t know if you could say yes.

Jake stirred beside you, making you freeze. His brows pulled together first, like even unconscious, he was annoyed to be awake.

Then he groaned, low and rough, burying his face deeper into the pillow, “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

You didn’t move, didn’t speak. You just sat there, sheet clutched to your chest, ring heavy on your finger, watching the man you had accidentally married come back to life.

Jake turned his head slightly, one eye cracking open, slowly followed by the other. That furrow still heavy on his forehead. 

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His gaze found you and for a second, neither of you said anything, then his eyes dropped. To the sheet. To your bare shoulders. To the room. To his own bare chest.

His expression shifted.

Confusion first. Then realization. Then something dangerously close to panic.

“Morning,” you said, because apparently you had decided now was the perfect time to lose your mind politely.

Jake stared at you, “Morning?”

“I didn’t know what else to say.”

He pushed himself up onto one elbow, then immediately winced. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“My head feels like Rooster played Great Balls of Fire inside my skull.”

“That would imply rhythm. This feels more like Payback with a wrench.”

Jake huffed something that might have been a laugh if either of you had been less close to death.

Then his eyes caught on your hand, the ring, and the room went silent. So silent you could hear the distant hum of traffic from the Strip below.

Jake stared at your hand then slowly looked down at his own.

You watched the exact moment he saw it. The exact moment he remembered.

His whole body went still. Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just still.

His jaw tightened and his eyes flicked back to yours.

And there it was.

The same thing you felt. The same horror. The same understanding. The same awful, unspoken question. 

What now?

Jake sat up fully, dragging a hand over his face, making the sheet slip dangerously low on his hips. You looked away so fast your neck hurt.

Not because you hadn’t already seen him. You had.

A lot of him.

Very recently.

In enthusiastic detail.

But morning made things different. Morning had sunlight. Morning had consequences. Morning had no tequila softening the edges of what you had done.

“Please tell me,” Jake said slowly, voice still rough with sleep, “that I’m hallucinating.”

You lifted your left hand making the ring shine as it hits the sunlight coming in through the window. 

Jake closed his eyes, “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“How much do you remember?”

You swallowed.

All of it. 

You looked down at the ring, “Enough.”

Jake was quiet.

Too quiet.

Jake Seresin was never quiet unless something mattered.

“How much do you remember?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Which was answer terrifying. Then he said, “Enough.”

Your stomach twisted. Great. Perfect. Wonderful. So you both remembered. There would be no easy out. No shared horrified laughter over missing pieces.

No pretending it had been some drunken mistake that neither of you had consciously participated in.

You remembered. He remembered.

You had both been there. You had both said yes. You had both meant it, at least for the length of one glitter-covered Vegas night.

You looked around the room again, desperate for something else to focus on. Anything else.

The champagne bottle.

The veil.

The dress.

The marriage certificate on the dresser.

Your gaze snapped back to it.

A white envelope sat underneath the bottle, half-crumpled, with both your names written across the front in a loopy font surrounded by tiny printed hearts.

Because apparently hell had stationery.

You slid out of bed, keeping the sheet wrapped around yourself, and immediately stumbled.

Jake’s hand shot out.

He caught your wrist before you could fall.

His fingers wrapped around your skin.

Warm. Familiar.

Too familiar.

For one terrible second, neither of you moved. Your pulse jumped beneath his thumb making Jake notice.

Of course he noticed.

Jake noticed everything when it came to you.

Then he let go like he had been burned, “You good?” he asked.

No.

Not even remotely.

“Fine,” you lied.

Your dress was on the floor, wrinkled beyond repair.

You grabbed it with one hand, still clutching the sheet with the other, and marched into the bathroom with as much dignity as a hungover newlywed disaster could manage.

Which was none.

Absolutely zero dignity.

You shut the bathroom door behind you and leaned back against it. The mirror across from you was cruel. You looked like Vegas had chewed you up, stolen your credit card, and left you for dead. Your makeup was smudged and Your hair was tangled.

There was a faint mark blooming near your collarbone that definitely had not been there yesterday afternoon.

You touched it with two fingers.

Remembered Jake’s mouth there.

Closed your eyes.

“Oh, you stupid, stupid girl,” you whispered to yourself.

Because what else was there to say? You had done a lot of dumb things in your life. Joining the Navy was debatable, depending on the day. Becoming a fighter pilot had certainly not been the safest career choice. Befriending Jake Seresin had been questionable from the beginning. Falling in love with him had been idiotic.

Marrying him in Vegas? That might have been your masterpiece.

A soft knock came at the door.

“You alive in there?”

Unfortunately.

“Debatable.”

“We have to check out in an hour.”

You opened your eyes.

Right.

The flight.

California.

Real life.

You weren’t just waking up married to Jake in some alternate universe where time stopped and nothing mattered. You had to get on a plane. With the squad. With Phoenix and Rooster and Coyote and everyone else.

You had to sit in an airport with a ring on your finger and act like you hadn’t married the one person everyone thought you could barely tolerate.

You looked down at your hand again. The ring looked wrong there.

No.

That wasn’t true.

That was the worst part.

It didn’t look wrong. It looked like it belonged and You hated that. You hated that more than anything.

“I know,” you called back.

Your voice sounded almost normal. A miracle, really.

You got dressed slowly, trying not to think about the fact that Jake was on the other side of the door doing the same thing.

Trying not to think about last night. Trying not to think about his hands. Trying not to think about the way he had looked at you beneath cheap chapel lights like you were the only thing in all of Las Vegas worth seeing.

By the time you stepped out of the bathroom, Jake was dressed. He was standing by the dresser, holding the marriage certificate.

Your heart dropped.

He looked up when you came out. Neither of you spoke.

“Well,” he said.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Well?”

“We did it right.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He lifted the certificate slightly. “License. Officiant. Witness. The whole thing.”

You stared at him, “Are you complimenting our drunk administrative skills?”

“I’m saying we were thorough.”

“That’s worse, Jake.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

Something in his voice made you stop. Not the words. The way he said them. Soft. Careful. Like he was waiting for you to shatter. Or maybe waiting for himself to. You looked away first.

Coward.

“So what do we do?” you asked.

Jake exhaled, “I don’t know.”

That scared you more than anything else had. Because Jake always knew. Even when he didn’t, he pretended he did. He always had a plan. A smirk. A stupid comeback.

Some infuriating piece of confidence tucked in his back pocket like he had been born with it.

But now he was standing in the middle of a trashed hotel room, holding proof that the two of you had done something wildly stupid and painfully honest, and he looked just as lost as you felt.

Your phone buzzed somewhere in the room making both of you flinch. You found it half-buried under Jake’s jacket near the chair. There were twelve missed texts.

Mostly from Phoenix.

A few from Coyote.

One from Rooster.

One from Fanboy that just said: are you dead or worse

You groaned.

Jake watched you closely, “What?”

“We’re supposed to meet them downstairs in thirty minutes.”

“Great.”

“Phoenix says if we miss the flight, she’s leaving us here.”

“She would.”

“She absolutely would.” Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

You had no idea what to say.

Alive. Hungover. Accidentally married Hangman.

No.

Probably not that.

You typed back that you were awake and getting ready.

That was safe.

Technically true.

A lie by omission, sure, but those barely counted before noon.

Jake was packing in silence. Which was horrible. Not because you wanted to talk. You didn’t. Talking was dangerous. Talking meant questions and questions meant answers. Answers you didn’t have. Answers you didn’t want to hear. 

Still, the silence pressed against your skin.

You shoved your clothes into your bag with none of the careful organization you had arrived with. Your makeup bag went in upside down. One shoe was missing. Your charger was tangled around a hotel pen. Your entire life felt like it had been packed by someone fleeing a crime scene.

Maybe because you were.

Not legally. Probably.

Emotionally, definitely.

Jake found your other heel under the bed and held it out to you without looking.

You took it, “Thanks.”

“Yep.”

You wanted to laugh. You also wanted to cry. Jake zipped his bag and stood there for a second, staring at nothing. Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

Your breath caught. For one horrible moment, you thought he might say it.

That this was a mistake.

That you should fix it.

That you should forget last night.

That you should both laugh it off and go home and pretend he hadn’t kissed you like he had been waiting years to do it.

You braced yourself.

Jake’s mouth opened.

Then closed. His jaw flexed. “Ready?” he asked instead.

No, sweetheart, I’m not ready to leave this room because once we do, the real world gets to touch what happened between us, and I don’t know if it will survive that.

That would have been insane.

You nodded, “Yeah.”

Another lie. You weren’t ready. You didn’t think you would ever be ready.

Jake picked up the champagne bottle, then the veil, then the certificate.

He hesitated. “Do you want this?”

The certificate. You stared at it. The paper felt like a weapon. A memory. A promise. A mistake.

Maybe all of them.

You should have told him to throw it away. You should have said no. You should have laughed, rolled your eyes, made some joke about burning the evidence.

Instead, you held out your hand.

Jake gave it to you, his fingers brushed yours. Just barely, but enough  You slid the certificate carefully into the front pocket of your suitcase.

The walk to the elevator was humiliatingly normal.

People passed you in the hall with luggage and coffees and sunglasses hiding their own poor decisions. Somewhere, a child was crying. Somewhere else, someone laughed too loudly for the hour.

Vegas kept moving.

It did not care that your entire life had been split into before and after sometime around three in the morning inside a tiny chapel with pink neon lights.

At the elevator, you stood beside Jake with six inches of space between you and a marriage certificate in your bag.

For a second, it was just the two of you.

Your reflection stared back from the mirrored elevator wall.

You looked exhausted. Jake looked wrecked.

Both of you still had rings on. You noticed at the same time. His eyes dropped to your hand. Yours dropped to his.

Neither of you moved to take them off.

The elevator hummed softly as it began to descend. Your stomach twisted tighter with every floor.

Finally, because you couldn’t stand the silence anymore, you said, “We can’t tell them.”

Jake looked at you.

You kept your eyes on the doors.

“Not yet,” you added quickly. “I just—Phoenix and Rooster are getting married next week. This is their thing. Their weekend. Their wedding. We can’t just show up downstairs and say, surprise, we accidentally beat you to it.”

Jake was quiet. Too quiet. Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.”

Of course you were right. You wished it felt better.

“Not until we figure out what we’re doing,” you said.

There it was.

The thing.

The terrible, unavoidable thing.

Jake’s gaze stayed on you, “What are we doing?”

Your throat tightened because You didn’t know.

You wanted him to know. You wanted him to say something first. You wanted him to tell you last night mattered. You wanted him to tell you it didn’t, so at least you could be humiliated in a clear direction.

You wanted too much.

That had always been your problem with Jake, wanting things you had no business wanting.

You forced a shrug, “I don’t know.”

Jake looked away while the elevator continued down.

Twenty-three.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-one.

The numbers changed slowly above the doors.

Your reflection didn’t.

Two pilots.

Two idiots.

Two people who had spent years pretending hatred was easier than wanting.

Now married.

Now silent.

Now terrified.

The elevator dinged.

Lobby.

You took a breath, Jake did too, and for one strange second, the two of you moved in sync.

Like you always had. Like nothing had changed.

The doors opened to chaos.

Phoenix was near the entrance with Rooster, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, looking every inch the woman who had survived her own bachelorette weekend through sheer force of will. Coyote stood beside her, scrolling through his phone.

Fanboy and Payback were arguing over something near the luggage cart. Bob looked pale and deeply traumatized by whatever he had consumed the night before.

Normal.

It all looked so painfully normal.

“Finally,” Phoenix called when she saw you. “I was about two minutes away from sending a search party.”

“Bad idea,” you said, forcing your face into something that resembled a smile. “Search party might not have survived.”

Rooster pointed at you. “You look like hell.”

“You look like a man who willingly sang karaoke last night.”

He lowered his hand. “That was a private moment.”

“It was on stage.”

“Emotionally private.”

You snorted despite yourself. For one brief, miraculous second, things almost felt okay. Then Coyote looked from you to Jake. Just once. Quick. Sharp.

Too knowing.

His gaze dropped. You realized too late that your left hand was visible.

The ring.

You curled your fingers inward.

Coyote’s eyes flicked back to your face. Then to Jake. Jake had noticed too. You could feel it in the way he went still beside you.

Coyote didn’t say anything.

Not there. Not in front of everyone. But his expression changed. Barely.

Just enough.

Oh, he knew something. Maybe not everything. But something.

Perfect.

Wonderful.

Add that to the growing list of disasters.

Phoenix clapped her hands. “Okay, come on. Cars are outside. If we miss this flight, I’m making all of you walk back to California.”

“You say that like the Navy wouldn’t call that training,” Payback muttered.

“Don’t tempt me.”

Everyone started moving.

Suitcases rolled. People groaned. Someone complained about coffee. Someone else complained about the sun.

You fell into step with the group, Jake beside you but not close enough to touch.

That was probably for the best. Touching him felt like a bad idea. Looking at him felt worse.

Not looking at him felt impossible.

As you stepped through the sliding hotel doors into the brutal Vegas morning, the heat hit you immediately.

Your sunglasses were in your bag, buried under evidence of your terrible life choices, so you squinted into the light and tried not to fall apart.

Jake walked beside you, still wearing the ring. You wondered if he had forgotten. You wondered if he was waiting until no one was looking to take it off.

Two black SUVs waited at the curb.

Phoenix and Rooster climbed into the first one. Fanboy, Payback, and Bob took the second.

Which left you, Jake, and Coyote for the third.

Because the universe was not done being funny.

Coyote opened the passenger door, then paused and looked back at the two of you.

His eyes flicked between your faces. Then, very slowly, he smiled. Not a nice smile. A “Coyote knows something and is choosing violence” later smile.

You narrowed your eyes, “Don’t.”

He lifted both hands innocently, “I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

Jake muttered, “Javy.”

Coyote’s smile widened. Oh, he absolutely knew something. You climbed into the backseat before either of them could say anything else. Jake slid in after you.

Vegas blurred past the window. Hotels. Palm trees. Billboards.

Wedding chapels.

You looked away from those.

Bad idea.

Your hand rested in your lap, the ring catching in the sunlight. You covered it with your other hand.

Jake saw.

You knew he saw.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of all. Because last night, you had said everything.

In kisses. In vows. In laughter.

In the way you had reached for each other like there had never been any other choice.

And now, in the cold light of morning, you couldn’t say a single honest thing. Not in front of Coyote. Not in front of the squad. Not even to each other. You leaned your head against the window and closed your eyes.

Your hangover pulsed behind your temples. Your chest ached worse. Beside you, Jake shifted and his knee brushed yours. Barely. Accidental, probably. Neither of you moved away. For the rest of the ride to the airport, that was the only part of him touching you.

One small point of contact. One quiet reminder. One more thing neither of you knew how to let go of.

The weekend was over. Vegas was behind you. California waited ahead. And on your left hand, hidden beneath your palm, was a ring you couldn’t bring yourself to take off.

You have no idea what happens next. You just knew one thing with sudden, terrifying clarity.

You didn’t want to take it back.

And that was the worst part.

[dizzybee03]

Oh this is gonna be messy and I love it

[drhobby]

the anesthesia

dr. robby x exwife!reader / You’re injured and end up in the ER. Drowsy and without social cues, you say a few things to Robby. Inspired by “I want that one” by @afterdarkbydel word count: 2k warnings: the nickname "misha" / medical inacuracies / robby's misogyny & possessiveness don’t forget to check the masterlist for more toxic behavior content

“Staff injury, Trauma One.”

The overhead page cut through the ED’s morning buzz. Robby didn’t even look up from his coffee, but Dana was already at his elbow.

“Robby, elevators. Now.”

“Santos, McKay” He called on his way, sinking his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He hated the reverence staff injuries had. It was a legal thing, he knew, they had an obligation to provide the best medical attention to the staff to avoid a negligence lawsuit, but he’d need all of the available fingers in the ED (attached or not) to count how many times he had taken time from a real emergency to check on an injury that needed two stitches tops. 

He leaned against the wall, waiting for the elevator doors to part. When they did, his annoyance vanished. A gurney. A code gurney.

So it was an emergency. 

Then he saw two nurses he found awfully familiar. He was certain to have seen their faces before.

“Doctor Robby” one of them said with a face that screamed it was something far worse than he thought.

He moved forward, professional mask snapping into place, until he saw your face. Pale, slick with sweat, eyes glassy with pain.

“Robby…” you murmured, your breaths hitching in gasps.

The frustration of moments ago was replaced by pure fear. “What the hell happened?”

He didn't wait for a hallway report. He pushed you straight into the nearest empty trauma bay, shouting for his team. “Dana, get the crash cart and a full trauma panel! Santos, McKay, I need vitals, now!”

The young nurse trailing the gurney looked shaken. “She—a heavy supply cart hit her, pinned her against the wall. I think her hip is dislocated. Posterior, I’m pretty sure.”

“I got it,” Robby said. He needed her to leave so he had room to work, so he could have room to breathe. He stepped into your space, his hand finding yours. Your fingers locked with his like a magnet.

He looked down. 

“Oh, God,” he breathed.

Your scrubs had been cut away to assess the injury. Your legs laid bare and a pretty set of pink panties still hugged your hips. The deformity was classic—your leg was flexed, adducted, and internally rotated. He felt bile coming up his throat at the sight of your injury, and at himself for being so recklessly distracted by your underwear.

“Robby?” your voice was muffled by the sheer force of the pain. “What’s wrong?”

He hovered, his fingers trembling millimeters from your skin. He didn’t want to touch it; he didn't want to hurt you further.

“I want her under general,” he barked at the room,radiating authority and deliberately ignoring your aching whimpers. “Get anesthesia down here.”

“No,” you wheezed. “Absolutely not.”

His jaw tickled as his eyes returned to your face. “You’re in shock, you aren’t thinking clearly—”

“What if I don’t wake up?” The crack in your voice silenced him.

“You will,” he promised, but it was closer to a dismissal than an oath.

“You don’t know! I can’t do that to the kids.”

He stared at you, his head tilting slightly as he processed the absurdity of your argument through the veil of his own fear. 

“They’d grow up with zero fashion sense. It would be a tragedy.” A ghost of a smile touched your lips. 

“You’re so god damned stubborn,” he sighed, his eyes hardening. “Santos, prep the ketamine. We’re doing a conscious reduction. You” His gaze returned to you, a commanding finger your way. “are staying with me.” 

“Is that a threat?” you whispered. You were fading, your pupils dilating as the trauma set in.

Robby leaned against the gurney, his posture dropping into that of closer doors you have had the privilege to see so many times. “You crashed into a supply cart? Really?”

Your eyes rolled back for a second—the ketamine kicking in—before snapping back to his. “Yeah.”

“Uncorrectable,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then straightened, returning to the attending’s posture.

“The femoral head is locked behind the acetabulum,” he announced. “I’m going to reduce it. It’s going to be intense, but the ketamine will keep you from feeling the worst of it. Look at me. Stay with me.” There was no tenderness in his voice as he commanded you. But he found no space in his heart to feel anything other than fear and responsibility over fixing you. And if he had to order you not to die, he was ready to do it. 

“You’re too bossy” you complained, your stubbornness refused to be washed by the anesthesia.

He snorted. “Takes one to know one.” 

“It… it really fucking hurts,” you groaned.

“I know,” he said, pulling a stool over and bracing his knee against the gurney for leverage. “I’ve got you.”

“I hadn’t seen you from this angle in a while” you giggled as he kneeled one leg between yours. 

He looked up at you through his lashes, his hands already reaching for your leg and a blush creeping up his neck. “Yeah? whose blame is that?” 

Lighter giggles followed his question. “Why have I never been your doctor?” your voice was light, teasing and driving him crazy. If it wasn't for the obvious injury he was looking at, he’d be kissing that smirk right off your face.

He snorted. “Because I don’t have a uterus.” 

“Mmmm” your mouth pulled to the side, unsatisfied with the answer. “Maybe because you don’t ever let anyone take care of you.”

“Headshot” Dana announced in the corner, earning your sweet giggles and Robby’s killer stare.

Behind him, he heard Santos stifle a snort. 

“I want everyone but Dana out of here.” Robby didn’t turn around; his entire world was the space between his hands and your hip.

“Hold on.” You tried to sit up, a frantic, reflexive movement, before the pain sent you back against the mat. You looked at him—really looked at him—and his heart stuttered.

“Are you going to do it?” You looked terrified, your pupils blown wide from the ketamine.

“Of course, honey,” he said, his voice dropping into that honeyed cadence he used for you only.

You started crying; tears spilling over, hot and fast. Robby froze, his hands hovering over your hip. He was doing everything right—this time he was sure— why were you breaking down?

“Can’t… can’t anybody else do it?” Your voice creaked. “Cassie?”

“Why?”

The question came out sharper than he would’ve liked. It was irrational to feel stung—you were dissociated, intoxicated, and experiencing a painful injury—but the request hit him like a physical blow. He was the attending. He was the one who knew your anatomy better than anyone. He was your husband. Or he had been. Semantics.

Your lower lip wobbled. “It’s going to hurt,” you whimpered, a sound so raw it made his chest ache. “I don’t want you to hurt me.”

With the ketamine blurring your edges, the tough, high-powered doctor who bossed him around had vanished, and replaced by the soft, needy woman he’d once held in his home. It was a cruel irony: he’d spent two years trying to move on while fixing that he had broken, only to find himself standing over you in a trauma bay, forced to be the one to inflict you pain again.

He looked over at Dana. She gave a subtle, sympathetic shrug—a silent Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. 

Robby took a steadying breath, his professional focus anchoring him. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum that only you could hear.

“I would never hurt you, sweetheart. But I have to do this. I’m the only one who can get it back in place properly.”

You shook your head, a tear tracking into your hairline.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice steadying as he moved to set his stance. He braced his foot against the frame of the gurney, preparing the leverage.

“With everything I got,”

He felt a wave of relief so intense his knees nearly buckled. Was it the ketamine or raw truth hidden beneath your feud? He chose to believe the latter. He was moving to lock his grip, his thumbs finding the landmarks on your pelvis, when you spoke again.

“Can Langdon do it?”

Your eyes were glassy, floating somewhere miles away, but the name sliced through the silence. Robby felt a surge of jealousy so strong it made his vision darken. He wanted to bark, he wanted to leave the room, to let anyone else deal with this. But he took a deep breath and tightened his jaw until his teeth ached.

“No,” he said, his voice devoid of all softness now. “I’m doing it.”

“Misha, please” you whined.

A part of him wanted to yell at you for using that name—his Baba’s pet name—here, in the middle of a trauma bay. So unworthy of your intimacies, of your story, of your scars and his. You knew he had no other family left but you and the one you made, the one your hips breeded. You knew he had no other arms to curl into, and that he would have worshipped the ground you walked on simply because you had blessed it with your presence.

But beside the devotion he held for you, there was a wicked, primal, uncivilized part of him that still laid claim to you. He was still yours, body and soul. And those hips, which he held with the reverence of a cleric—those hips he had once called home—were his to fix. Only his.

His eyes snapped to yours, and he felt his composure splinter. He could have dropped to his knees right there, just to be closer to you, to soak up the tears clinging to your temples.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. Closer to a beggar than a doctor. “Let me.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, a ragged breath hitching in your chest. “Is it… is it really necessary?”

“Absolutely.”

You swallowed hard, your throat working. “Okay.”

His fingers pressed into your skin—he hadn’t even bothered to glove up, the pads of his fingers ached to touch you again, he ignored the protocol to satisfy his primal need.

He locked his grip on your hip and hoisted your leg, hooking it over his shoulder to gain the leverage he needed to reset the joint.

The crack was unmistakable—a sickening, heavy thud of bone sliding back into place. But the sound that hit him harder was your sharp, fractured hiccup of pain.

He hated himself for being the one to cause it. To have caused it so many times before that it was recognizable.

“I need you to move your foot, please,” he murmured, his voice thick.

You rotated your ankle, a small, natural movement that signaled the joint was clear. The tension in the room drained away, leaving only the sound of your uneven breathing.

Without a word, he dropped your leg and moved to your side, pulling you firmly against his chest. He didn't care who was watching; he just needed to hold you together. Your tears soaked through his scrubs, hot and fast, while his hands traced soothing, heavy circles across your back.

“It’s done, baby,” he murmured into your hair, pressing a kiss on your scalp.

He shot a sharp look at Dana, a silent command for the room to clear. She took the cue, pulling the curtain shut behind her. Only then did he allow his hands to tremble, cupping your cheeks with shaking palms.

“It’s done. You’re okay.”

He held you until the jagged rhythm of your sobs slowed into the heavy, rhythmic breathing of sleep. It was a natural physiological response—your brain, exhausted by the trauma and the chemical cocktail of the ketamine, simply surrendered to regenerate.

Technically, Robby knew the medical explanation. He knew the biology behind your fatigue. But he still chose to lie to himself, letting his heart believe that you drifted off on his chest because, even after all this time, it was still as much your home as your hips were for him.

tag list: @thesandbeneathmytoes

[dizzybee03]

I absolutely love these two

[drhobby]

the sabbatical

michael robinavitch x exwife!reader / how you found out about the sabbatical, what happened during and after. Based on this request. It is also inspired in @dirtyb1rdy 's masterpiece "house rules" Word count: 3.8 k (I told you I was deranged!!!! this is the longest i've written, i really hope u like it <3) Warnings: mental health talks, mentions of suicide, non-sexual intimacy don’t forget to check the masterlist for more toxic behavior content

“You are what?” Your mouth had gone sour at the news.

Robby looked back at you through hooded, exhausted eyes, slouched on the sofa across from you in your living room. Upstairs, the children were fast asleep. Down here, the two of you sat with the half-empty glasses of wine that had become your Saturday night sanctuary.

A part of you hadn’t believed Dana when she first told you. You’d convinced yourself it was just a bluff Robby was throwing around to scare administration off; a maneuver to get them to leave him alone for five minutes. You guessed he’d take a week, two tops. But three months of solo parenting? It felt like an impossible challenge. You had always been willing to make sacrifices for his health and his career, but you drew the line at the kids’ well-being.

“It’s a three-month sabbatical. I need it.” He sounded convinced, but his certainty didn’t stop the feeling you had that the earth was being removed from beneath your feet.

“What am I supposed to do without you for three months?” You hadn’t meant for the question to sound so needy, but once it was out there, pride didn’t seem to matter anymore.

“Jack will be around for whatever you need. And there’s that boyfriend of yours.”

“I don’t want a surrogate man!” You wheezed. “I need you. Your kids need you.”

“You can always c—”

“Call? While you’re driving into the middle of nowhere? I don’t think so.” Your voice snapped louder, sharper, cutting him off.

“Sweetheart.” His voice, by contrast, was a low, warm friction against your anger.

“‘You’re always one call away,’ remember? That’s what you always say.” You knew you sounded like one of the kids throwing a tantrum. You didn’t care. “But what happens when you’re two days' drive away?” You pressed, the panic finally overtaking the anger, tightening your ribs.

Robby swallowed hard. His throat bobbed, and his eyes caught the lamplight, glassy and wet, as he muttered, “I need to do this.”

You stopped. You took a breath and actually looked at him. Really looked. You saw the deep, bruised hollows beneath his eyes, the total absence of the spark that you loved so much. His shoulders looked sharp and bony beneath his shirt, and even his hair seemed dull. The permanent line between his brows had entirely replaced his usual knowing smirk. He was eroding.

“Everyone thinks you’re going to kill yourself” you whispered, the brutal honesty tearing out your throat. Your chest ached at the mere weight of the words. Putting them out there only made them real.

He couldn’t hold your gaze. He dropped his eyes to his lap, staring at his own hands. “I am drowning.”

“Michael.” You shifted forward, your voice turning firm and unyielding. “Are you going to kill yourself?”

He covered his face with both hands, the formidable man in front of you suddenly folding in on himself like a weeping child. His shoulders hitched in hopeless hiccups, shaking with every breath he tried to claw into his lungs.

You moved before you could think. In a single motion, you crossed the space between you and climbed into his lap, straddling his hips and pulling his heavy frame against you. Robby’s hands instantly locked around your waist, burying his face into your neck. Within seconds, his hot, silent tears were soaking into your collarbone.

“I don’t want to,” he choked out, his voice muffled against your skin. “I don’t want to.”

You held him tighter, one hand tracing soothing, heavy strokes up and down his spine while your other tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. You pressed your lips to his temple, murmuring sweet reassurances.

“I know. I love you. Your kids love you. We need you, baby. We’ll wait for you, always."

You stayed like that, anchored together in the dark, rocking him gently until the ragged hitches in his chest finally slowed.

The next morning, you held him at the door, your arms wrapped tightly around his jacket, a silent promise that he would come back, before you finally let him go.

***

You never stopped communicating with him. Every night, he appeared on video, reading stories to the kids until they drifted off. You’d also send him texts whenever anxiety struck you.

One morning, you typed,

“Have the skies cleared yet?”

and hit send.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

“No more night. Blue skies forever.”

You whispered the words to yourself, letting them settle until the melody clicked in your mind. A soft smile tugged at your lips.

“Since when do you listen to Lana Del Rey?”

You watched the three dots dance on the screen. Then:

“Since you.”

The weight those two words brought to your heart could be studied.

*** 

Message from Michael: 

“Saw this and thought of u.” 

You smirked despite yourself at the picture of a bunny in a prairie. The memory of Robby getting you a stuffed bunny when you were dating, in a game on Coney Island brought an unexpected warmth to your stomach. 

“Don’t you dare get me that one.”

You hit send with a grin on your lips.

***

When you saw "Michael Robinavitch" flash on your screen, your blood felt like it had drained from your body. The paralyzing fear that something terrible had happened to him forced your hands to tremble as you answered on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

The sound of his voice hit you, and the tension in your chest began to fray. "Are you alright?" you nearly spat, the words breathless.

"Jeez, a man can’t call his ex-wife during her lunch without her assuming I’m dead?" He chuckled, and you released a shaky, jagged breath.

"You’re a jerk," you scoffed, though the edges of your panic were already dulling. You gave an apologetic shrug to Tom, who was a few steps ahead in the hospital cafeteria line.

Tom caught your eye, winked, and gestured toward the tables. "Pick a spot, darling. I’ve got the orders."

You nodded and retreated to a quiet corner.

"Darling?" Robby’s voice sharpened with amusement over the line. "What is he, your grandfather?"

"Shut up, Robinavitch," you countered, pressing the phone harder against your ear as you sat. "How's it going?"

"Great. I’ve been thinking about many, many things."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like I think I owe you an apology… actually, plenty of them."

You frowned, your fingers shredding a paper napkin in front of you. "You do? What for?"

"For everything. I was an asshole to you."

"Mmm.” Your breath hitched. This was not the time, nor the place to engage in such conversation, so you evaded. “Had I known a motorcycle would make you say that, I’d have given you one as a push present for Mila."

Robby let out a sharp, genuine laugh. "A push present for me? That’s not how that works."

"How would I know?" you sneered.

The line went silent for a long moment. You watched Tom approach with two wraps and a pair of Diet Cokes. The weight of the conversation suddenly felt too heavy for the cafeteria air.

"Robby, I’ve had a shitty day. I didn’t mean to—"

"No, you’re right. I never got you anything." His tone was low and honest. And your chest ached to know you had hurt him.

As Tom drew closer, you stood up and navigated toward a more secluded corner.

"No, I’m not. You got me a house and that hybrid Volvo I wanted, even though you are obsessed with fossils."

He scoffed. "You’re into fossils, too."

A ghost of a smile tugged at your lips. "A little bit."

You both lingered in the silence, letting the distance between you shrink for a heartbeat. "Robby, I have to go."

"Don't leave Grandpa hanging," he teased.

"See you later. Prepare the tale for Mila."

You hung up, but your mind kept repeating his words over and over.

***

He called every morning to map out his day for you, sending snapshots of the vistas he crossed. The rule was a video call with the kids every night at 8:00 PM, right before bedtime—and he never once missed it.

"Sleep well, angel," Robby said, his voice thick with tenderness.

"Night, Daddy," Mila murmured, a sleepy smirk on her lips.

"Send a kiss to Daddy," you prompted softly.

She pressed a messy kiss into her palm and waved it at the screen.

"I love you," Robby said, his tone softening into something much warmer, much calmer.

"Ove yu..." she mumbled, already drifting off.

Stepping out of the room, you flicked off the lights and headed toward your own bedroom.

"Ah, my favorite show is on," Robby joked as you propped the phone against your vanity and started wiping away your makeup. "How was your day?"

"It was alright. Yours?"

"Contemplative." He sighed, leaning back.

"What did you contemplate?"

"Yellowstone," he began, "It’s majestic. And now you, of course."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Are you hitting the bars tonight?" you teased.

"Nah. None of the things I’m looking for are there." He was already tucked into bed, the camera capturing only his face and bare shoulders.

"Oh? And what exactly are you looking for?" You gathered your hair, twisting it up into a claw clip.

"Take a wild guess," he teased.

At the sight of your amused, knowing expression, he let out a low laugh.

"Are you going to be back in time for Mila’s birthday party?" You walked over to the sink to wash your face.

He sank back against his headboard. "You know I am. Do we have a verdict on the theme yet?"

You patted your face dry with a clean towel, letting out a dramatic huff. "I need you to lobby for me."

"Lobby?" He chuckled. "What are the options?"

"Bluey or mermaids. I obviously want mermaids."

Robby cackled. "Obviously," he mocked.

"I mean it!" you whined, returning to the vanity. "Everyone throws a Bluey party. I want her to be chic."

"I’m sure her kindergarten friends will really appreciate that."

You laughed with him. "It will be much prettier." You collapsed onto the bed, pulling the phone securely onto the nightstand beside you.

"I’ll see what I can do," Robby teased.

"Maybe tell her about the mermaids you saw on your trip."

"Ah, yes. The famous mermaids of the Canadian woods."

Lately you smiled at him so much your cheeks hurt. Lying there in the quiet, you took a long moment to just look at him. In the shared silence, you noticed the old sparkle was back in his eyes. An easy smile played on his lips. Even his shoulders looked relaxed through the tiny screen.

"You look better," you breathed out.

His brows creased, a playful glint in his eye. "Better than what?"

You smiled softly. "Just... better."

"You should sleep," he countered. "You’re so tired you’re hallucinating."

This time, you cackled. "A girl can’t tell her ex-husband he looks handsome without him thinking she’s deranged?" You threw his own teasing right back at him, rewarded by the slow creep of a blush rising up his neck.

"Handsome is different than 'better.'"

"You’re always handsome."

"Yeah?" He looked caught between genuine surprise and amusement.

"I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t find you handsome."

"And here I was, thinking you married me for my money."

"You should’ve gotten a prenup," you quipped.

With a soft breath, you stared at the screen, watching him watch you. Before you even realized what you were doing, your teeth caught your lower lip.

"You should get some sleep." Your eyes dropped to your hands when the silence felt too loud.

"You too." He sighed. "Good night, sweetheart."

"Good night, Misha."

You cut the call, but sleep wouldn't be coming anytime soon.

—-

The metallic glint of Robby’s motorcycle sitting right there in the middle of your garage caught you completely off guard. A sudden, helpless grin spread across your face before you could even think to check it. According to his schedule he’d be arriving later that day, but maybe he’d been too anxious and stepped on the gas a little more to get there sooner. You made a mental note to chastise him for that.

You killed the engine, parking right behind the bike. Through the windshield, you caught his eye. Robby was leaning against the wall, lifting a single finger to his lips with a conspiratorial smirk.

Adrenaline and excitement hit you all at once. You threw your door open and hurried to the back row, your hands moving with practiced, frantic speed as you popped the stiff plastic buckles of the car seats.

“Look who’s here,” you whispered the second the straps fell away.

An immediate, synchronized shriek of “DADDY!” tore through the garage, loud enough to make your ears ring. But the volume only made your smile widen. The car doors flew open, and a blur of sneakers and tangled limbs erupted onto the concrete, sprinting toward him.

Robby didn’t even hesitate. He dropped to his knees, catching the full force of their momentum as they collided with his chest. With a sharp exhale, he wrapped his arms around both of them. You could see the sudden brightness in his eyes, how his body relaxed against your kids' love. Without noticing, your body did too at the sight of them.

“Heyyyyyy,” Robby groaned happily, burying his face into the messy crown of their hair, pressing a heavy, lingering kiss onto each of their heads. “I missed you guys so much. You want to grab some dinner?”

“YESSS!” they squeaked in unison, their voices echoing off the drywall.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, and carefully set them back down on their feet, giving them each a gentle pat on the back to send them scurrying toward the house door. 

Robby straightened up, wiping a stray tear from his cheek with the back of his thumb before turning his full attention to you.

The warmth in his eyes was almost overwhelming—a deep, loving glint that felt entirely too familiar, yet entirely too dangerous. As you slowly closed the car door and took a step toward him, your heels clicking softly against the concrete, your stomach did a flip. He was looking at you like no time had passed at all, but your chest still held the weight of years.

Dismissing the voices in your head yelling you to stop, you wrapped your arms around his neck. His hands found your waist like a magnet and you finally let out a breath you had been holding for three months.

“You’re back” You murmured against his thick leather jacket. The smell filled your lungs as you crawled desperately for air.

“In one piece.” He pressed a kiss to your temple before pulling away. “Pizza is already on the way.” He breathed.

You smiled at him, nodding.

“I got that fancy one you like.” 

You walked past him before he could see the tears rimming in your eyes.

That night he told the kids everything about his trip. He mapped out the places he’d seen and the spots where he promised he’d be taking them soon, his voice animated as he painted pictures of dense woods, towering mountains, and sprawling cities.  

Reaching into his duffel bag, he pulled out a plush stuffed moose for Mila and a structured baseball cap for Isaac. The kids crowded around him as he swiped through the photos on his phone, showing them glimpses of his world. You sat on the opposite side of the couch, ankles crossed beneath you, watching the scene over the rim of a wine glass with a loving smile. 

When it was time for bed, he tucked them in with the fierce promise that he would never be away from them again. Watching him in the hallway light, your heart ached so sharply it almost worried you.

Once the house finally settled into a quiet hush, you both ended up back on the couch. You curled your legs up beneath your hips, watching him as he reached for the duffel bag once more.

“I brought something for you too” he said softly. 

“I was wondering about my keychain.” you teased, leaning forward to set your empty wine glass onto the wooden surface of the coffee table.

Instead of a souvenir, Robby pulled out a small, square velvet box and held it out. You let him place it in your open palms, your fingers frozen, not daring to wrap around it just yet. It was unmistakable. A dark, midnight-blue jewelry box. 

“What is this?” 

You could’ve spitted your heart right there and then. A ring. Or earrings. The possibility laid there, on top of your palm, and you had entirely forgotten how to move.

“Just a little gift,” Robby murmured, his eyes locking onto yours, intense and pleading. “Open it.” 

You searched in his eyes for something you couldn’t name. A question, perhaps. A question that seemed so in the past, but so current. If there was a word for it, it would be haunting. 

With a deep breath, you opened the box. It was a ring. And you audibly gasped at it. Because it was a ring and because it was gorgeous. 

“I never got you a push present.” He confessed. His voice was warm and soft, the way apologies are supposed to be said. “I was reading up on it, and everything said a ring with the kids' birthstones is the standard. But I knew you wouldn’t want two separate bands cluttered with giant rocks, so… I figured this was a little more your style.” 

It was a single, elegant band hosting two distinct stones nestled together in an asymmetrical bypass setting. One was a brilliant, vivid green emerald, and the other a deep, rich tourmaline. Isaac and Mila. May and october.

You looked up at him, the room blurring. “Michael, this is—” Warm tears instantly began to pool along your lower lashes. “I can’t accept this—” 

“You can and you will.” Though there was an order there, his voice was nothing but careful supplication.

You cleaned your face as soon as the first tear fell. “It’s gorgeous.” 

“Try it on.” He urged, nodding toward your hand. 

You pulled it out and wore it on your ring finger, where your engagement ring and wedding band used to be. 

“It’s perfect” you gave him a weary smile, a knot on your throat stopped you from saying anything else.

“I spent three months out there thinking about every single mistake I made,” he said, his gaze finally dropping, his eyes tracing the pattern on the hardwood floor. “Listing every single thing I’d have to do just to earn a chance to get you back. I told myself I’d come back here and wait like a fucking dog for you to finally break up with that preppy idiot.” 

You felt your breath hitch. You swallowed before murmuring, “We—we called it quits a month ago.”

Before you could even draw a breath to explain, the space between you vanished. The weight of his body pressed you back into the cushions of the couch. One of his large hands slid up to cradle the angle of your jaw, anchoring you, while his other hand clamped firmly onto your hip, pulling you flush against him. His lips crashed into yours. Violent, starved and desperate.

The familiar shape of your bodies synced up instantly, like pieces of a puzzle clicking back into place. Your hands flew to his chest, fistfuls of his shirt pulling him closer until he shifted to crowd over you, his knees framing your hips as the kiss deepened into something more. He broke away just a fraction of an inch, his breath hot and ragged against your mouth.

“You have no idea how many times I pictured you back in the ER,” he rasped, his voice calloused with raw need. “Wide-eyed, frantic, and pleading.”

A breathless laugh caught in your throat. “Yeah? Drugged and in pain?”

A wicked, familiar smirk flashed across his lips before he leaned back in. “Yeah.”

“You’re a perv,” you murmured against his mouth.

“Oh, you have no idea.” He caught your upper lip between his teeth, kissing you again, slower this time, each stroke of his tongue a declaration of absolute surrender and total conquest.

His hand drifted downward, his fingers tracing a burning line up the hem of your shirt, his palm craving the bare warmth of your skin. But as his fingers started to bunch the fabric to pull it over your head, your hand clamped over his wrist, gently locking him in place.

“We—we can’t,” you managed between kisses.

“No?” He didn’t stop, shifting his focus to trail a path of heavy, damp kisses down the column of your neck. “Your parents could come down any minute, or what?”

You chuckled. “Something like that.”

He paused, pulling back just enough to catch your gaze. “Why?”

With a long sigh, your hands traveled from his shoulders to his stomach and back up. He pushed his hips against yours, and you gasped.

“What kind of ex-wife would I be if I let you have your way on the couch the literal hour you get back?” you teased, tilting your chin up to capture his lips in a soft, lingering touch.

“A very satisfied one,” he muttered against your cheek, his hands tightening on your waist. “Because I’ve spent a quarter of a year imagining doing this on the couch, in our old bed, against the wall—wherever you’d have me.”

“Very generous of you,” you whispered, shivering as his lips began to trace the delicate line of your collarbone. “But no, I’m serious, Robby.”

He let out a low groan against your skin, the vibration sending a wave of heat straight down your spine.

“We can’t do this to the kids. One minute we’re divorced, then you’re gone, the next we’re back together? They need stability.”

He pulled all the way back, a lopsided smile already on his face. “What are you talking about? They conspired against us! They were ready to trash Tom’s car if it meant you came home early. They’re little mobsters.”

“They are,” you admitted, a genuine laugh bubbling up. “But they are kids too.” 

“Then what?” He leaned down, kissing you again, surrendering into something softer, needier, and agonizingly warm. “We sneak around like teenagers?”

Your eyes closed at the contact. His breath hot on your face and the lingering smell of him taking over your logical thinking. “No.” You pecked his lips, slow and sensual. “Let’s see those ideas to get me back.” 

A fleeting, triumphant smirk touched his lips, and as he leaned down to drown out any further protests, the rest of the world simply faded away.

tag list: @thesandbeneathmytoes @missmillivanilli

[paigepie213]

We’ll Learn This Version Too - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request- I acknowledge this is a hard one but a really important one. I feel like the Pitt covers a wide scope of issues and since the patient that was sexually assaulted in season 2 l want to see how that dynamic would unfold between reader and Robby if she was assaulted. Especially how that dynamic would affect a relationship.

hopefully I can do this important topic justice, and readers are lenient with me in how I portray these characters 🫶

Masterlist

*********************************************************

The emergency department had never felt so small. Not in the middle of a mass casualty incident. Not during the height of COVID. Not after losing patients they had fought for with everything they had. Nothing had ever shrunk the walls of PTMC around Dr. Michael Robinavich the way this night had. Because for the first time in his career, the woman he loved was on the other side of a set of doors he wasn’t allowed to walk through.

The irony was cruel. Chief Robinavich could overrule administration, command a trauma bay, and terrify interns with a single raised eyebrow, but none of that mattered now. The police officers stationed outside the examination room knew exactly who he was and exactly why he wasn’t permitted inside.

He wasn’t Dr. Robinavich tonight. He wasn’t Chief. He wasn’t even Michael. He was your boyfriend. And that meant he had to wait.

It had been nearly four hours. Four hours of pacing. Four hours of sitting for approximately thirty seconds before standing again. Four hours of checking the same wall clock every two minutes. Four hours of staring at the closed doors with such intensity that Dana had finally come over and quietly covered his coffee with a lid because she’d noticed his hands shaking enough to spill it.

“You need to sit down,” she said gently.

Robby didn’t even look at her.

“No.”

“Robby.”

“No.”

Dana sighed softly. “Honey, you’re no good to her if you collapse.”

His eyes finally flicked toward her.

“I’m already no good to her.”

The words broke something in Dana’s face. Across the room, Langdon immediately stopped pretending to review charts. Collins lowered her phone. McKay went completely still.

Because that voice wasn’t Chief Robby. It was Michael. And Michael was unraveling.

“Hey,” Dana said firmly, moving in front of him. “Absolutely not. You hear me? Absolutely not.”

He laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it.

“I wasn’t there.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t there.”

“No, honey, you weren’t.”

His jaw flexed.

“I should’ve—”

Dana stepped closer.

“You should’ve what? Known? Been psychic? Been everywhere at once?”

His eyes glistened.

“I should’ve protected her.”

Nobody spoke. Not because they didn’t want to contradict him. Because everyone in the room knew that no one would ever accuse Michael Robinavich of not loving you enough. No one. Dana’s voice softened.

“Oh, honey.”

Robby closed his eyes.

“I wasn’t there.”

And suddenly Dana wrapped her arms around him. Not because he asked. Not because he leaned into her. Because she’d known him too long. Because she’d watched him become a doctor. Because she’d watched him become a leader. And because she knew the little boy underneath all that brilliance still blamed himself for things no child should’ve had to carry.

“You listen to me,” she whispered fiercely. “You don’t get to do this to yourself. You don’t get to make yourself guilty because somebody evil made a choice. You hear me?”

His breathing shuddered.

“But—”

“No.”

The single word was sharp.

“No, Michael. Don’t you dare.”

He swallowed hard. And for one awful second, the Chief of Emergency Medicine looked frighteningly young.

“I’m supposed to keep her safe.”

Dana cupped his face.

“And she’s supposed to keep you safe. That’s what loving someone means. It means neither one of you can stop bad things from happening, sweetheart.”

His eyes filled.

“She was scared.”

“I know.”

“She was alone.”

“I know.”

“And I wasn’t there.”

Dana’s own eyes watered.

“I know.”

Behind them, Langdon looked away. Santos blinked rapidly. McKay pressed her lips together. Because there wasn’t anything to say. Nothing. Nothing that would fix this.

Hours later, after statements had been given and evidence collected and every horrible necessity had finally ended, one of the detectives emerged from the room. Robby was on his feet before anyone else could breathe. The detective gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Dr. Robinavich?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s asking for you.”

And Michael Robinavich nearly fell apart. His hand covered his mouth. His eyes squeezed shut. And for one second he simply stood there, unable to move. Because after everything, after all of it, you still wanted him. Dana touched his shoulder.

“Go.”

He nodded quickly. Too quickly. His breathing was uneven as he walked down the hallway. The detective quietly opened the door. And then he saw you.

You were sitting in a chair, wrapped in a hospital blanket. Your eyes looked exhausted. Empty. Like someone had taken the brightest parts of you and left you behind to gather whatever pieces remained. And the sight of you almost brought him to his knees. But he wouldn’t do that. Not now. Because this wasn’t about him.

So instead, he entered the room slowly. Slowly enough that you could see him. Slowly enough that you could tell him to stop. And when your eyes found his, your lip trembled. Neither of you spoke. He closed the door behind him. And then, very carefully, he lowered himself to his knees in front of your chair.

Not touching. Not reaching. Just there. His own eyes were red. His own face exhausted. And when he finally spoke, his voice was soft enough to break hearts.

“Hi, baby.”

Your face crumpled immediately. His own mouth trembled.

“I’m right here.”

A tear slid down his cheek.

“I’m right here, baby.”

You made a sound he had never heard from you before. Not crying. Not sobbing. Something wounded. Something broken. And it shattered him. But still he didn’t touch you. Didn’t assume. Didn’t move. He simply looked up at you with all the love in the world written across his face. And quietly, with tears running freely down his cheeks now, Michael Robinavich whispered the only promise he could make.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

That was all it took. You broke. Your body folded forward as grief and fear and humiliation and pain crashed through you all at once. And before he moved an inch, before he dared anything at all, he asked in that same trembling voice.

“Can I hold your hand?”

Your answer came through tears.

“Please.”

His eyes squeezed shut. Not from relief. Not from happiness. But because he knew what that simple word had cost you. And with hands that shook harder than they had all night, he reached up and took your hand in both of his. Then he lowered his forehead against your knuckles and quietly cried with you.

Not trying to fix it. Not asking questions. Not demanding answers. Just loving you. And staying. Exactly as he’d promised.

******

The apartment had never been this quiet. Not after difficult shifts. Not after losses. Not after those rare nights when exhaustion had won and both of you had simply collapsed into bed without speaking.

This silence was different. This silence felt fragile. Like the slightest wrong word might shatter something neither of you knew how to put back together. Robby had spent most of the day pretending to be useful. He’d changed the sheets because the smell of the hospital still lingered. He’d ordered groceries. He’d called your sister. He’d answered texts from Dana, Whitaker, and Langdon, who had all checked in without pushing. He’d put fresh batteries in the television remote because apparently his brain had decided that was an emergency. Anything. Anything except sit still.

Because sitting still meant thinking. And thinking meant hearing your voice from the night before. Please.

Just one word. One word that had broken his heart because he knew how much trust it had taken for you to say it. You’d slept most of the afternoon. Or rather, you’d drifted. Sleep wasn’t the right word.

Every twenty minutes, he’d peek around the bedroom door and find you curled beneath the blankets, only for your eyes to suddenly open with confusion and panic before realizing where you were. And every time, he was there. Not hovering. Not intruding. Just visible. Just enough. Because he was learning.

Learning that loving you right now meant following your lead. Learning that his instinct to protect had to make room for patience. Learning that he couldn’t love you back to normal. He hated that. God, he hated that. Because Michael Robinavich had spent his entire life fixing things.

Patients. Residents. Colleagues. Broken equipment. Impossible traumas. And now the woman he loved was hurting in ways medicine couldn’t reach. And all he had was himself. He had never felt so inadequate.

By midnight, you’d finally fallen asleep. Robby sat on the couch with a blanket over his lap and a book open in front of him. He hadn’t read a single page. Every creak in the apartment made his head lift. Every sound. Every breath. He was listening. Not because he expected danger. Because he knew fear didn’t follow rules.

And then, at two thirty-seven in the morning, he heard it. A scream. Not loud. Not even fully formed. But enough.

The book hit the floor. Robby was moving before he’d even realized he’d stood. He reached the bedroom doorway in seconds.

“Sweetheart?”

You were sitting upright in bed. No. Not sitting. Thrashing. Your face twisted in terror. Tears. Breathing too fast. Still asleep. Still trapped somewhere else.

“Hey,” he said softly, stopping himself from climbing onto the mattress. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flew open. And for one second, one horrible, awful second, you looked terrified of him. Not startled. Terrified.

His entire world stopped. You recoiled. Your voice broke.

“No.”

His heart dropped into his stomach.

“No.”

“Sweetheart—”

“No!”

You scrambled backward. And when he instinctively took a step toward you, you flinched. Actually flinched. The look on Robby’s face would have haunted anyone who saw it. Not anger. Not offense. Just devastation. He immediately raised both hands.

“Okay.”

Your breathing was ragged.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, baby, don’t apologize.”

“Don’t touch me.”

His eyes closed for half a second. Not because he was hurt. Because he needed that half second to keep himself together. When he opened them again, his voice was gentle.

“Okay.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“Please don’t touch me.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

You covered your mouth with your hand.

“I can’t—”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m scared.”

His own eyes watered.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head immediately.

“No. No, sweetheart.”

You looked absolutely miserable.

“I’m scared of everything.”

And God help him, that sentence nearly brought him to his knees. Because you looked horrified by your own fear. Horrified that it included him. As though your body betraying you somehow made you cruel. As though you thought he could possibly misunderstand. His voice broke.

“Baby, look at me.”

Your eyes lifted. And Michael Robinavich smiled through tears. Not a big smile. Just enough.

“You don’t ever have to be afraid of me.”

That did it. Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks.

“I know.”

“No, sweetheart, I mean it.”

He slowly lowered himself onto the floor beside the bedroom doorway. Not entering. Not approaching. Just sitting.

“You don’t ever have to force yourself to be brave with me. You don’t ever have to pretend. If your brain says no, then the answer is no.”

You buried your face in your hands.

“But it’s you.”

His chest tightened.

“Yeah.”

“It’s you.”

“I know.”

“You’re Michael.”

“I know.”

“My Michael.”

A sad smile touched his mouth.

“I know who I am.”

“No, I mean…you’re you.” And then the guilt came pouring out. “You’re my favorite person.”

His eyes immediately filled.

“And I don’t want you near me.”

His heart shattered. Not because of what you’d said. Because of the pain in your voice. Because you sounded so ashamed. As though this wasn’t happening to you. As though you were doing something wrong.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered.

“It isn’t fair.”

“Baby—”

“It isn’t fair to you.”

He shook his head immediately.

“Don’t.”

“It isn’t.”

“Don’t.”

Tears poured harder.

“You’ve done everything right.”

“Sweetheart—”

“You’ve done everything right and I don’t want you touching me.”

His voice cracked.

“Baby, stop.”

“No, it’s true.”

He took a shaky breath.

“No, what’s true is that something horrible happened to you.”

“It’s me.”

“No.”

“It is.”

“No.”

His voice grew stronger.

“No, sweetheart. Absolutely not. This is not you hurting me. This is something that happened to you. Not something you’re doing to me.”

You cried harder.

“I hate this.”

He nodded.

“So do I.”

“I hate myself.”

And suddenly his expression changed. Not angry. Not loud. But firm. The Chief. Not Dr. Robinavich. Not your boyfriend. The part of Michael Robinavich that could look into chaos and speak truth.

“No.”

The word carried enough weight to stop you.

“No.”

Tears fell down his face now too.

“We’re not doing that.”

You stared at him.

“We’re not blaming you. We’re not hating you. And we’re sure as hell not letting you sit there and tell me the woman I love deserves to hate herself.”

You sobbed. And he sobbed right along with you. Because he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. But he couldn’t help it. Seeing you hurting felt unbearable.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you whispered.

And his face crumpled. Because neither did he. Neither did the brilliant emergency physician who always knew what to do. Neither did the man who had saved countless lives. Neither did Michael. His answer came out shaking.

“I don’t know either.”

And somehow, admitting that made you both cry harder.

“I don’t know how to do this, sweetheart.”

You sniffled.

“Neither do I.”

His smile appeared through tears.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

He wiped his face.

“Then we’ll suck at it together.”

Despite everything, despite the exhaustion and grief and fear, a watery laugh escaped you. And the sound nearly stopped his heart. Because he’d missed it. God. He’d missed you. And then your voice became very small.

“I can’t sleep next to you.”

The words physically hurt. Not because they offended him. Not because they made him angry. But because he could hear how afraid you were to say them. As though you expected him to break. Instead, he smiled softly.

“Okay.”

You blinked.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“But—”

“I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Your lip trembled.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, sweetheart.”

His voice was warm.

“I want to.”

Fresh tears came.

“I ruined everything.”

And Michael Robinavich actually laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was absurd. Because he loved you so much he couldn’t believe you didn’t know.

“Baby, listen to me.” His eyes shone. “You could wake me up every night for the next twenty years screaming bloody murder and I’d still be the luckiest bastard in Pittsburgh.”

Your face broke.

“Michael…”

“No, sweetheart. You listen.”

His voice softened.

“I love you. Not the easy parts. Not just the happy parts. I love all of you.”

He smiled through tears.

“And right now, all of you is scared.”

His hand rested over his own heart.

“So then that’s what I love.”

You cried openly. And he smiled gently.

“We’ll figure out tomorrow tomorrow.”

Neither of you noticed the sunrise beginning outside the window. Neither of you noticed the clock. You only noticed each other. And after a long silence, you whispered the words that nearly undid him all over again.

“Will you leave the door open?”

Robby swallowed.

“Always.”

You nodded weakly. And twenty minutes later, after you’d finally drifted back to sleep, Michael Robinavich sat on the floor outside your bedroom. Not on the couch. Not in his own bed. Just outside your door. His back against the wall. His knees bent. The lamp on. Watching over the crack of light beneath the doorway.

Because you hadn’t asked him to stay. But you hadn’t asked him to leave either. And for now that was enough.

For now, being close enough to hear you breathe was enough. And for the first time since the worst night of his life, Michael Robinavich closed his eyes. Not to sleep. Just to whisper one exhausted prayer into the empty hallway.

“Please let her come back to herself.”

Then after a long moment, he smiled sadly and shook his head.

“No.” His voice cracked. “Not herself.”

He looked toward the bedroom door.

“Just let her know I’ll love whoever she is when she gets there.”

And then he stayed. Exactly where you needed him. Exactly where he wanted to be. Right outside the door.

******

Three weeks later, everyone at PTMC had become experts in pretending. Not lying. Not exactly. Just pretending. Pretending things were normal when they knew they weren’t. Pretending not to notice that you startled easier. Pretending not to notice that your coffee usually went untouched until it was cold. Pretending not to notice that the bright, easy smile everyone loved still appeared, but not nearly as often.

And you were pretending too. Pretending that putting on scrubs somehow made you feel like yourself again. Pretending that medicine had always been your safe place. Pretending that if you just kept moving, eventually your mind would stop remembering things your heart desperately wanted to forget.

But trauma wasn’t polite. Trauma didn’t care that you were a doctor. Trauma didn’t care that you were trying. And perhaps what hurt most was that Robby was trying too. God. He was trying so hard.

Not touching without asking. Not hovering. Not sleeping in the bed, though you’d quietly started allowing him to fall asleep on the couch beside you during movies. He made dinner. He learned how to braid your hair because you hadn’t wanted anyone behind you. He’d started leaving sticky notes around the apartment.

Don’t forget to eat.

You have therapy at four.

Love you.

The coffee machine misses your abuse.

Little things. Little reminders. Little pieces of Michael Robinavich trying to love you without smothering you. And somehow that made you feel guilty. Because he deserved more. He deserved the woman who had once tackled him onto the couch after shifts and kissed him senseless. He deserved the woman who used to crawl into his lap while he charted and distract him until he threatened to report her to HR. He deserved the woman who used to steal his sweatshirts and his fries and his peace.

Instead, he got this. Someone scared. Someone exhausted.nSomeone who loved him desperately and still couldn’t quite let him in. And yet every morning he kissed the top of your head and said the same thing.

“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”

Proud. As though surviving deserved applause. As though breathing was an accomplishment. As though you were brave. You didn’t feel brave. You felt broken. Which was perhaps why, on a Thursday evening after a particularly brutal shift, your body betrayed you.

You had just exited the employee entrance into the parking garage. It was raining. Not hard. Just enough to leave the concrete slick and shining beneath the fluorescent lights overhead. You’d parked farther away than usual. You hated that.

You hated that you’d become the woman who checked over her shoulder three times before getting into her car. You hated that your keys now sat between your fingers. You hated that fear had become a companion.

But mostly you hated that it worked. Because fear kept you safe. Or at least your brain thought so. And as you reached your car, you heard footsteps. Nothing sinister. Nothing threatening. Just footsteps.

Someone else leaving work. But your body didn’t know that. And suddenly you weren’t in the parking garage anymore. Your breathing stopped. Your vision blurred. The keys slipped from your fingers. And before you even understood what was happening, your knees hit the concrete.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. The panic came like a tidal wave. You wrapped your arms around yourself and squeezed your eyes shut. And then you heard a familiar voice.

“Hey. Hey, hey.”

Langdon. Dr. Frank Langdon immediately dropped to one knee. Not close. Not touching. Just there.

“Okay.”

You couldn’t answer. Your chest hurt. Everything hurt.

“I’m here.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“I can’t breathe.”

“Yeah, you can.” His voice was calm. “You are breathing. It sucks. But you’re doing it.”

You sobbed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. It’s annoying.”

A laugh almost escaped through your tears. Almost. He nodded.

“Good. Hate me. Be annoyed with me. That’s better.”

Your hands trembled violently.

“Frank—”

“Nope. Don’t explain anything.” His voice softened. “Just stay with me.”

The rain drizzled around you both. And then Langdon saw another figure running toward you. Robby. He’d been finishing charts upstairs. And one look at you kneeling on the ground, sobbing in the rain, made every ounce of color drain from his face.

“Sweetheart—”

You froze. And Langdon’s eyes immediately flicked up. He saw it. The fear. Not fear of Michael. Not really. Just fear.

Fear itself. But Michael saw it too. And God. God. The devastation on his face. He stopped moving instantly. As though he’d been shot. His chest rose sharply. And for one awful second, nobody moved.

You. Curled on the ground. Langdon beside you. And Michael standing six feet away in the rain. Langdon stood slowly. Not because he wanted to protect you from Robby. Because he understood. Because beneath the sarcasm and arrogance and disastrous personal choices, Frank Langdon was an emergency physician.

And he loved you too. Not romantically. As family. He quietly approached Robby. Michael’s eyes never left you. But his voice broke.

“What happened?”

“I think it was just footsteps.”

Robby’s eyes closed. And Langdon saw it. The way Michael nearly folded in half. The guilt. The heartbreak. The helplessness. Frank lowered his voice.

“She froze.”

Robby nodded weakly.

“Okay.”

“Robby.”

His eyes opened.

“Yeah?”

“This isn’t about you.”

Robby swallowed hard.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Frank’s tone wasn’t cruel.

Just honest.

“Don’t do that thing you do.”

“What thing?”

“The martyr thing.”

Robby almost laughed. Wrong person. Wrong day.

“Frank—”

“I’m serious.” He stepped closer. “She isn’t choosing me.”

Robby’s eyes watered.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Langdon sighed.

“Jesus Christ, Michael. She didn’t call for me. I found her.”

Robby’s face crumpled.

“I know.”

“She loves you.”

“I know.”

“Then act like you know.”

And then Frank clapped him on the shoulder.

“Go sit on the damn curb and shut up.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Frank smiled sadly.

“She doesn’t need Chief Robinavich. She doesn’t need you fixing anything.”

He glanced at you.

“She needs Michael.”

And with that, Frank walked away. Not because he didn’t care. Because he did. Because he knew whose place this really was. Robby slowly lowered himself onto the curb ten feet away. Not approaching. Not speaking. Just sitting.

The rain soaked his hair. His scrubs. His shoes. He didn’t care. Minutes passed. He didn’t move once.

And eventually you looked up. And there he was. Completely drenched. Sitting on the curb. Waiting. Like he’d sat outside your bedroom door. Like he’d waited outside that exam room. Like he’d wait for the rest of his life if he had to. And your lip trembled.

“Michael?”

His head lifted immediately.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“You’ll get pneumonia.”

He smiled. Actually smiled.

“The human body doesn’t work like that.”

Despite yourself, a watery laugh escaped. His entire face softened. God. He’d missed that sound. He missed you. Not the old you. Not who you’d been.

Just you. Always you. And softly, carefully, he asked.

“Can I come closer?”

Your breathing steadied. And then came the answer.

“Not yet.”

His smile never faltered.

“Okay.”

Not disappointment. Not hurt. Just okay. And somehow that almost made you cry harder. Because he meant it. Twenty minutes later, you sat side by side on the curb beneath the rain. Not touching. Not speaking. Just existing together.

And that night, back at the apartment, everything finally exploded. Because guilt had become unbearable. And love had become terrifying. You stood in the kitchen while he unpacked takeout containers. And suddenly you burst into tears.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

Robby immediately abandoned the food.

“Sweetheart—”

“No.”

You wiped angrily at your face.

“No, because this isn’t fair.”

His expression fell.

“Baby—”

“You deserve a girlfriend.”

His head tilted.

“I have one.”

“No, you don’t.”

The tears came harder.

“You have someone who jumps every time you walk into a room.”

“Sweetheart—”

“You have someone who can’t let you touch her.”

His eyes softened.

“You let me hold your hand yesterday.”

“Michael—”

“You fell asleep on my shoulder during the movie.”

“That’s not enough.”

And then, for the first time in weeks, Michael Robinavich became angry. Not at you. Never at you. But angry.

“Stop.”

The word stunned you. He stood straighter.

“No.” His eyes glistened. “No, sweetheart.”

You blinked.

“I mean it.”

His voice shook.

“Stop deciding what’s fair for me.”

Fresh tears slid down your face.

“You deserve—”

“No.” His voice cracked. “You don’t get to tell me what I deserve.”

He pointed at his chest.

“I love you.”

Tears streamed down his cheeks now.

“I love you.”

Again.

“I love you.”

And then quieter.

“Stop trying to leave me for my own good.”

You stared at him.

“I’m broken.”

And suddenly his face shattered. Not angry anymore. Heartbroken. Because he hated those words. Because he knew somewhere, somehow, you’d started believing them. Michael crossed his arms over his chest. Not to shut you out. To hold himself together. And when he spoke, his voice trembled.

“Sweetheart…” His eyes overflowed. “Do you know what the worst day of my life was?”

You shook your head.

“The night I thought maybe you wouldn’t let me love you through this.”

His voice cracked completely.

“Not because you owe me anything.” He shook his head. “God, baby, not because you owe me kisses or sex or anything else.” Another tear slipped free. “But because I thought maybe you’d decided I wasn’t worth staying for.”

And that finally broke you. Because after everything, after all the fear, after all the guilt, Michael Robinavich’s greatest fear wasn’t that you’d never touch him again. It was that you’d leave. And sobbing, you whispered the truth you’d been too scared to say.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to be your partner anymore.”

His face softened instantly. And with tears running down his own cheeks, he smiled.

“Then we’ll learn.”

Your lip trembled.

“Michael—”

“We’ll learn.”

His voice was gentle now. Patient. Steady.

“Sweetheart, I wasn’t born knowing how to love you.”

A shaky laugh escaped you. He smiled through his tears.

“I had to learn.”

You took a shaky breath.

“And you had to learn how to tolerate me.”

Another laugh. And God, his entire face lit up.

“There she is.”

You cried harder. And Michael Robinavich smiled with tears in his eyes and all the love in the world written across his face.

“We’ll learn this version too.”

And neither of you realized it then. But for the first time, you had finally stopped fighting each other. And started fighting beside each other.

******

By the time two months had passed, neither of you talked about “going back to normal” anymore. Normal had become a cruel word. Because normal implied that everything before had been untouched. Normal implied forgetting. Normal implied that healing meant erasing. And neither of you wanted that. Not anymore.

You wanted peace. There was a difference. Because life had started again. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But in little pieces.

Movie nights on the couch had become routine. Robby had finally earned permission to sleep in the bed again, though some nights you still woke in tears and ended up wrapped in your blanket burrito while he sat beside you reading articles on impossible surgical procedures simply because his voice helped ground you. Sometimes you held his hand. Sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes he kissed your forehead. Sometimes you couldn’t bear it. And every single time, he accepted the answer without complaint. Without disappointment. Without that look you had feared.

God. You had expected resentment. Frustration. Loneliness. Instead, Michael Robinavich had somehow become gentler. Which honestly seemed impossible. Because he had already loved you so fiercely before.

Now it was quieter. Steadier. There were no grand declarations. No demands. Just him. Showing up. Every day. Every morning. Every bad dream. Every therapy appointment. Every panic attack. And somehow that almost made you cry more than anything else.

Because you were beginning to realize that maybe love wasn’t passion. Maybe love was consistency. Maybe love was a man who still packed your lunch because you forgot to eat. Maybe love was a man who learned the names of your therapist’s dogs because he remembered which stories made you smile. Maybe love was Michael Robinavich pretending not to notice when you stole his sweatshirt for the hundredth time. Though he absolutely noticed. And he absolutely enjoyed it. The entire department noticed, actually. Especially Dana.

“You know he’s hopeless, right?” she’d asked one afternoon while the two of you grabbed coffee.

You laughed softly.

“Who?”

“Chief Broody.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“He is not broody.”

Dana nearly choked.

“Honey, he’s practically writing poetry with his eyebrows.” And then more quietly. “He loves you so much.”

Your smile faded.

“I know.”

“No.” Dana reached over and squeezed your hand. “I don’t think you do.”

You looked down. And Dana’s expression softened.

“Sweetheart, that man would walk into traffic if he thought it would make you smile.”

You laughed through tears.

“That’s not healthy.”

“No, but it is romantic.”

Another laugh. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel forced. Healing wasn’t dramatic. Healing looked like laughter sneaking back in. Healing looked like teasing Robby because he’d started wearing reading glasses. Healing looked like fighting over pizza toppings. Healing looked like discovering that the world hadn’t ended. Not entirely.

But underneath all of that lived another fear. The biggest one. The one you hadn’t said out loud. Because saying it out loud made it real. And you were terrified of the answer. So you buried it. Until one Tuesday night.

Takeout containers covered the kitchen island. Robby had somehow convinced himself that buying enough Chinese food for six people constituted “portion control.” You stood beside him as he unpacked everything. He was muttering to himself.

“Extra dumplings because apparently we’re at war with vegetables.”

You smiled.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours.”

“Mine?”

“Absolutely.”

He pointed with the chopsticks.

“You corrupted me.”

“I corrupted you?”

“You made me happy.” His eyes sparkled. “I used to eat sadness and caffeine.”

You laughed.

“There are vegetables in lo mein.”

“That doesn’t count and you know it.”

He opened another container. And without thinking, without fear, you leaned over. And kissed his cheek.

It lasted barely two seconds. Maybe less. But the moment your lips touched his skin, You froze. Robby froze. The container in his hand stopped halfway to the counter. And suddenly the apartment became very quiet.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. Slowly, painfully slowly, Robby turned his head. Not because he expected more. Not because he wanted anything. Simply because he couldn’t quite believe it had happened. And your eyes met. His face. Not excitement. Not triumph. Not relief. Wonder. As though someone had handed him the moon. As though he’d just witnessed something sacred. And immediately, you burst into tears.

“No.”

Robby’s expression changed instantly.

“No?”

Your breathing quickened.

“No.”

The tears came harder.

“No, no, no.”

“Sweetheart?”

“I can’t.”

He set down the container immediately.

“Okay.”

“I can’t.”

“Okay.”

“I thought I could.”

He was beside you in seconds. Not touching. Never assuming. Just kneeling.

“Okay.”

You shook your head violently.

“No.”

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

Your eyes lifted. And his face nearly broke. Because you looked terrified. Not of him. Of yourself.

“What happened?” he asked softly.

“I kissed you.”

His voice remained gentle.

“Yeah.”

“And I liked it.”

He blinked.

“Okay.”

“And then I got scared.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know why.” And suddenly you were sobbing. “I don’t know why.”

He wanted to hold you. God. He wanted to hold you. But he stayed where he was. Because wanting and doing were different things. Because loving you meant respecting both.

And quietly he said, “Baby, you’re allowed.”

You covered your face.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

His eyebrows furrowed.

“Nothing.”

“No.”

“There is nothing wrong with you.”

“What if I never want…”

You couldn’t finish. But he understood. His heart broke anyway.

“What if I never want sex again?”

The silence that followed felt enormous. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just honest. And when he finally answered, his voice was calm.

“Okay.”

You blinked.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks.

“Michael.”

“Sweetheart, if that’s where this ends up, then that’s where it ends up.”

“You can’t mean that.”

He looked genuinely confused.

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not fair.”

And something almost amused crossed his face. Not because he was mocking you. Because you still weren’t understanding.

“Baby, life isn’t fair.” His smile was small. “You know what else isn’t fair?”

You sniffled.

“What?”

“I’m fifty years old.”

That earned a watery laugh.

“And?”

“And my back hurts.”

Another laugh.

“I have cholesterol.”

“Michael—”

“I wear reading glasses now.”

You actually smiled. He pointed dramatically.

“And I make weird noises when I stand up.”

You laughed harder.

“And somehow you still keep me around.”

His eyes softened.

“So maybe fairness isn’t the point.”

The tears came again.

“But what if you miss me?”

His expression changed.

“Sweetheart, I miss you every day.”

You froze. And immediately his eyes widened.

“No, no.”

He shook his head.

“Not like that.”

His voice cracked.

“I miss hearing you laugh without thinking about it first.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I miss watching you dance in the kitchen.” Another tear slipped down. “I miss the way you climb into my lap and steal my fries.” His mouth trembled. “I miss seeing you happy.”

And then quieter.b“But not because you’ve done anything wrong.” His eyes overflowed. “I miss seeing the woman I love hurt.”

That broke you. Completely. He had managed to remove himself from the equation again. Not because he didn’t matter. Because he loved you more. And suddenly you whispered the truth.

“What if I don’t know how to be that woman anymore?”

Michael Robinavich’s entire face softened. And then he smiled. Not sadly. Not bravely. Just lovingly.

“Sweetheart.”

His voice was warm.

“I don’t want that woman.”

You stared. He smiled wider.

“She already exists.”

His eyes glistened.

“I had her.”

He pointed toward you.

“I want her.”

“The scared one?”

“Yep.”

“The broken one?”

He frowned immediately.

“Don’t like that word.”

“The angry one?”

“Especially that one. She’s got excellent taste in men.”

A laugh escaped you.

“The sad one?”

His smile gentled.

“The healing one.” And then his voice cracked “The one who gets through therapy and comes home exhausted.” Tears filled his eyes.

“The one who wakes me up from nightmares.”

“The one who still apologizes too much.”

“The one who kissed my cheek and scared herself half to death.”

“I want all of her.”

You cried openly now.

“Michael…”

And suddenly he sat down on the kitchen floor. Not because he had to. Because he knew you’d follow. And sure enough, a moment later you sat beside him. Not touching. Just together.

And softly, he said, “Can I tell you something embarrassing?”

You nodded. His ears turned pink.

“If sex is off the table forever, I reserve the right to become extremely annoying.”

Despite yourself, you laughed.

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

He pointed.

“I’m getting cats.”

“Michael.”

“At least three.”

You laughed harder.

“And knitting.”

“Knitting?”

“I’m retired now.”

“You’re not retired.”

“In this scenario, I am.”

He smiled.

“And every morning I’ll make coffee and complain about crossword puzzles.”

You shook your head.

“You are ridiculous.”

His eyes softened.

“No.”

He smiled through tears.

“I’m in love.”

Silence settled around you. Warm. Safe. And then, after a long moment, you whispered the thing that terrified you most.

“What if I never kiss you again?”

His eyes met yours. And without hesitation, without pain, Michael Robinavich answered.

“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life thanking God for every kiss you already gave me.”

And that was the sentence that shattered whatever walls remained. Because only Michael. Only your Michael. Would somehow turn love into gratitude instead of grief. And with tears still wet on your cheeks, with takeout growing cold on the counter and your hearts sitting exposed between you, you looked at him. Really looked at him.

And for the first time in two months, not because he asked. Not because you owed him. Not because you were afraid. But because you wanted to. You leaned forward. And kissed him.

Softly. Tenderly. Not desperately. Not passionately. Not trying to prove anything. Just your lips against his. A promise. A beginning. And when you finally pulled away, Robby was crying. Actually crying. His forehead fell against yours.

And through a shaky laugh he whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

You blinked.

“What?”

His smile trembled. Another tear escaped.

“I forgot how nice that was.”

And somehow that made you both laugh. And cry. And laugh again. While the dumplings went cold. And neither of you cared. Because healing wasn’t dramatic. Healing was simply two people sitting on the kitchen floor. Falling in love with each other all over again.

******

Three months. Ninety-three days. Not that Michael Robinavich was counting. Except he absolutely was. Not the way people might assume. Not counting kisses. Not counting touches. Not counting how many times you’d let him hold your hand or curl against his side on the couch.

He counted the victories. The first full night you slept without waking. The first time you drove yourself to therapy. The first time you stole one of his fries again. The first time you’d laughed so hard at one of Dana’s inappropriate stories that coffee came out your nose and Collins had nearly required medical intervention from laughing herself.

Those were the things he counted. Because somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it aloud, healing had stopped being measured by what you hadn’t done. And started being measured by everything you had. And that mattered. God, it mattered.

The entire department saw it. Not because you were magically “better.” But because there was color returning to you. Not every day. Not even most days. But enough. Enough that Dana had started leaving gossip magazines in your mailbox again. Enough that McKay had started rolling her eyes whenever you and Robby bickered over coffee. Enough that Langdon had finally stopped looking at Michael like he might spontaneously combust from sadness. Though Frank still checked on him. In his own irritating way.

“You look less pathetic,” Langdon had announced over charts.

Robby raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you.”

“Still pathetic.”

“Frank.”

“Just saying.”

Langdon shrugged.

“You’ve upgraded from Victorian widow to divorced dad.”

Collins snorted so hard she’d almost inhaled her yogurt. Michael had laughed. Because laughter had come back. Not all at once. But enough. Enough to remind both of you that life hadn’t ended. Life had changed. There was a difference.

And then, on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, your phone rang. Neither of you thought much of it. You were standing in the break room pouring terrible hospital coffee. Robby was beside you making one of his famous complaints.

“This machine commits crimes.”

You smiled.

“It’s coffee.”

“It is mud.”

“It’s coffee.”

“It insulted my ancestors.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I’m right.”

You smiled. And then your phone vibrated. An unknown number. You almost ignored it. But something told you to answer.

“Hello?”

Robby barely paid attention. He was still squinting suspiciously at the coffee. And then he heard the cup hit the counter.

He turned. Immediately. Because he’d learned. Because he’d memorized your face. Because he’d spent three months studying every expression. And whatever he saw made his heart stop. You’d gone completely still. Not panicked. Not frozen. Your eyes filled.

“Okay.”

Silence. And then.

“Thank you.”

Your voice cracked.

“Thank you.”

You hung up. And just stared. The phone slipped from your hand onto the counter. Robby was beside you instantly. Not touching. Never assuming.

“Sweetheart?”

Nothing.

“Baby?”

You looked up. And tears poured down your face.

“They got him.”

His world stopped.

“What?”

You laughed. A broken sound. Half sob. Half disbelief.

“They convicted him.”

Robby blinked.

“They convicted him.”

And suddenly your knees buckled. Not from fear. Not from pain. From release. Three months. Three months of holding yourself together. Three months of lawyers and depositions and therapy and waiting.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

It was over. The man who had hurt you would never hurt you again. The world hadn’t ignored you. People had believed you. Justice had happened. Imperfect. Incomplete. But real.

And you cried. God. You cried. Not neatly. Not beautifully. Ugly tears. Shoulders shaking. Years of grief packed into ninety-three days spilling out all at once. And Michael Robinavich just stood there. Helpless. Tears already filling his own eyes. Because he’d imagined this moment a hundred times.

Imagined holding you. Imagined kissing your forehead. Imagined telling you everything was okay. But he’d learned. So instead, He waited. And softly asked.

“Sweetheart?”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. For the first time since that horrible night you saw fear in his eyes. Not fear of losing you. Not fear of your trauma. Fear of getting this wrong. Fear of hurting you. Fear of assuming. And suddenly your heart broke for him.

Because your Michael, your beautiful, stubborn, endlessly loving Michael, still asked. Still checked. Still waited. Even now. You whispered.

“Can you hold me?”

Everything stopped. The entire world. Because Michael Robinavich forgot how to breathe. Actually forgot. His eyes widened. His mouth opened. And for one awful second, he looked like he might cry right there. Then his voice cracked.

“Yeah.” His eyes overflowed. “Yeah, sweetheart.”

Another tear slipped down his face.

“Come here.”

And you went. Not because he reached. Because you moved. Your choice. Your feet. Your arms. And the moment you buried yourself against his chest, Michael nearly collapsed. Because three months. Three months. Three months of wanting nothing more than to protect you. Three months of sleeping lightly. Three months of asking. Of waiting. Of loving.

Now you were in his arms. And he held you. Not tightly. Not desperately. Not possessively. Just enough. His cheek rested against your hair. And then he started crying. Not quietly. Not dignified. No. Michael Robinavich sobbed. Actual tears. Actual shaking shoulders.

Because the relief was too much. Because he’d missed this. Not the touching. Not the physicality. He’d missed holding you when you were hurting. And between your own tears, you almost laughed.

“Michael.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

He laughed and cried simultaneously.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“For what?”

His voice cracked.

“Everything.”

And immediately you pulled back.

“Michael.”

“No.” He wiped his face. “No, I know.”

Another tear escaped.

“I know I didn’t do anything.”

His mouth trembled.

“But I hate that I couldn’t save you.”

And there it was. The secret he’d carried. The guilt. The shame. The burden. Suddenly you understood. He’d been grieving too. Not because he had any right to center himself. But because he loved you. And love hurts when someone you love is hurt.

You cupped his face. Not thinking. Not afraid. Just loving. And Michael froze. Completely froze. Because your hands. On his face. His eyes closed immediately. Not because he wanted more. Because he knew what it meant. And your voice broke.

“You did save me.”

His eyes opened.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Fresh tears came.

“Not that night.”

Your thumb brushed his cheek.

“But every night after.”

His face shattered.

“Sweetheart—”

“You stayed.”

He cried harder.

“You stayed.”

“Baby—”

“You sat outside my door.”

His lips trembled.

“You remembered my therapy appointments.”

Another tear slid free.

“You learned to braid my hair.” And suddenly you smiled through tears. “Badly.”

He laughed.

“Very badly.”

“You made terrible grilled cheese.”

“They weren’t terrible.”

“They were crimes.”

“They had love.”

“They had too much butter.”

And then the laughter disappeared again. And softly with your forehead resting against his, you whispered.

“You saved me, Michael.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“No.”

Your voice cracked.

“Yes.”

And then the truth. The truth that made him break completely.

“I couldn’t have done this without you.”

He shook his head immediately.

“Sweetheart, yes you could.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.” You cried. “Because I didn’t want to.”

His entire expression softened.

“Oh.”

Not judgment. Not disappointment. Just understanding.

“Oh, baby.”

And he held your face gently.

“So that’s what we’re carrying.”

Fresh tears came.

“I didn’t want to.”

His eyes filled again.

“Yeah.”

“I was tired.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to stop trying.”

His face crumpled.

“I know.”

“And you wouldn’t let me.”

His tears spilled freely.

“No.”

His voice shook.

“Never.”

And then Michael Robinavich smiled through tears. The same smile he’d worn outside your hospital room. Outside your bedroom. Outside every nightmare. Every panic attack. Every bad day. Like it was the easiest promise in the world, he whispered.

“I’ll carry hope for both of us when yours gets heavy.”

And you cried. Because he meant it. God. He meant it. Neither of you noticed that Dana had quietly ushered Collins and McKay out of the break room. Neither noticed Langdon standing awkwardly by the doorway. Until Frank cleared his throat.

“Not to ruin this profoundly emotional Hallmark movie.”

Robby laughed through tears.

“Frank.”

Langdon pointed.

“But if either of you make me cry, I’m suing.”

And somehow everyone laughed. Even you. Especially you.

And as Frank disappeared with a muttered, “Jesus Christ, you two are disgusting,” Michael Robinavich smiled against your forehead. And for the first time in ninety-three days, not because justice fixed everything. Not because pain disappeared. Not because trauma ended. But because hope had returned, you let him hold you. Really hold you.

And Michael, with tears still drying on his cheeks and your heart beating safely beneath his hands, closed his eyes and silently thanked God. Because after all this time, his girl had finally come home to his arms. And this time he wasn’t letting go until you asked him to.

******

Six months later, the sunsets had become your thing. Not intentionally. Not because either of you had declared it some grand tradition. It had simply happened. The two of you had spent so much time surviving that somewhere along the way, you’d forgotten to notice beauty. Then one evening, months earlier, you’d found yourselves on the balcony of Robby’s apartment with takeout and cheap beer, watching the sky turn pink over Pittsburgh. And somehow, without speaking, you’d both decided that this mattered.

So now, whenever schedules allowed, you sat together and watched the day end. Not because life was perfect. But because it wasn’t. And you had both learned that ordinary moments deserved protecting too.

The evening air was warm, and the sounds of the city below felt soft and far away. Robby sat in his old chair with his feet stretched out and his reading glasses perched low on his nose, studying an article on his tablet with all the seriousness of a man trying to solve world hunger. You stood in the doorway watching him. Watching the silver beginning to creep into his hair. Watching the lines around his eyes that deepened whenever he smiled. Watching the broad shoulders that had held so much grief and so much love.

And God. You loved him. Not because he’d saved you. Not because he’d stayed. Not because he’d been perfect. You loved him because he was Michael. Because he’d cried with you. Because he’d made terrible grilled cheese. Because he’d learned to braid your hair and failed magnificently. Because he’d sat outside your bedroom door. Because he’d never once treated your healing like a finish line. Because he’d loved you through every version of yourself. He glanced up. And immediately smiled.

“Staring again?”

You smiled back.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” His eyes softened. “You okay?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

And then, before you could think too much about it, you walked over and settled yourself sideways in his lap. Not because he asked. Not because you thought you should. Because you wanted to.

And Michael Robinavich froze. Not dramatically. Not nervously. Just with that same reverent stillness he’d had when you’d first asked him to hold you. His arms remained carefully at his sides. Always asking without words. Always waiting. Until you reached for one of his hands yourself and wrapped it around your waist.

His eyes filled instantly. And slowly, carefully, he slid his other arm around your back, drawing you close against his chest. Not tightly. Never tightly. Just enough.

You tucked yourself beneath his chin and rested your head on his shoulder, your cheek against the soft fabric of his old Pitt sweatshirt. And Michael closed his eyes. Because you were there. Because you were in his arms. Because after all this time, he still couldn’t quite believe he’d been trusted with your heart.

His chin rested lightly atop your head. One hand stroked slowly up and down your back. Neither of you spoke for a while. You simply listened to each other breathe. His chest rose beneath your cheek. His fingers absentmindedly traced circles against your side. And when he kissed the top of your head, you smiled.

Not because the gesture was extraordinary. Because it was familiar. Because it was home. Eventually, you spoke.

“Michael?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m scared.”

His hand never stopped moving.

“Okay.”

“I know things are better.”

“They are.”

“I know I’m better.”

He smiled.

“You are.”

“But I’m scared.”

He nodded.

“Okay.”

You looked up at him.

“That’s it?”

He smiled softly.

“Sweetheart, being scared isn’t illegal.”

A laugh escaped you.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

His thumb brushed gently over your arm.

“You don’t have to earn peace by never being afraid again.”

Tears gathered in your eyes.

“I’m afraid I’ll always carry this.”

His expression softened.

“Yeah.”

You blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice was calm. “You probably will.”

The tears spilled over.

“And you’re okay with that?”

And Michael Robinavich looked genuinely puzzled.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because—”

“Sweetheart.”

His voice was gentle.

“You carry your childhood.”

You nodded weakly.

“You carry patients you’ve lost.”

Another nod.

“You carry memories.”

“Yeah.”

“And now you’ll carry this too.”

He brushed your hair behind your ear.

“But carrying something isn’t the same thing as being crushed by it.”

You cried quietly.

“I’m different.”

His eyes grew suspiciously wet.

“I know.”

“And?”

“And thank God.”

You laughed through tears.

“What?”

He smiled.

“Sweetheart, so am I.” His forehead rested against yours. “I was different after COVID.” He smiled sadly. “I was different after Adamson.”

“I was different after every patient I couldn’t save.” Another tear slid down his cheek. “And I’m different because I almost lost you.”

His hand gently squeezed yours.

“We’re all changing.”

His voice cracked.

“The trick isn’t trying to become who we used to be.”

He smiled softly.

“It’s learning how to love who we are now.”

You stared at him. And suddenly you started crying. Not the ugly sobs from before. Not grief. Not despair. Just tears. Because he understood. God. He understood. And your voice shook.

“I thought you’d leave.”

The words stopped him. His eyes widened.

“What?”

“I thought you’d eventually get tired.”

His face crumpled.

“Sweetheart.”

“I thought you’d wake up one day and decide you deserved someone easier.”

And suddenly Michael looked offended. Not angry. Actually offended.

“You think I stayed because I had to?”

Fresh tears slid down your cheeks.

“No, sweetheart.” His voice broke. “No.”

His forehead touched yours again.

“I stayed because every morning I wake up and get to love you.”

His eyes overflowed.

“You.”

Not louder. Just softer.

“You.”

His voice trembled.

“The woman who laughs too hard.”

“The woman who steals my fries.”

“The woman who cries during commercials.”

You laughed. “I do not.”

“Sweetheart, you cried over a dog food commercial.”

“It was emotional.”

“It was kibble.”

You laughed harder. And Michael smiled through tears.

“The woman who survived.”

“The woman who healed.”

“The woman who fought.”

“The woman who let me sit outside her door.”

His voice cracked completely.

“The woman who came back to me.”

And then he shook his head.

“No.” His hand cupped your cheek. “That’s wrong.”

You frowned.

“What is?”

His smile trembled.

“You never left.”

And suddenly you were both crying again. Because he was right. You hadn’t left. You’d just been hurting. And he’d stayed close enough for you to find your way back. You leaned forward then, and kissed him. Deeply. Tenderly. Not out of fear. Not out of guilt. Not because you owed him. But because you loved him.

Because you wanted to. Because you could. And his hand immediately came to your cheek, the other settling gently against your waist as he kissed you back with the same patience and adoration he’d shown you for months. When you finally separated, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes closed. And he smiled. And quietly, Michael Robinavich whispered the words he’d carried inside him for months.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks.

“You promise?”

He smiled.

“No.”

You blinked.

“No?”

“No, sweetheart.”

His thumb brushed away a tear.

“I can’t promise there won’t be bad days.”

“I can’t promise nightmares won’t come back.”

“I can’t promise life won’t hurt.”

His voice softened.

“But I can promise you this.”

His nose brushed yours.

“You’re you.”

His eyes shone.

“And you are the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”

Another tear slid free.

“And whether you need me beside you…” He kissed your forehead. “…or twenty feet away making you grilled cheese sandwiches…” He kissed your nose. “…or sitting outside your door like some creepy lovesick Victorian ghost…”

You laughed.

“…I’m staying.”

And with tears in your eyes and laughter on your lips, you buried your face in his neck and held him. Really held him. Your fingers tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His arms wrapped around you immediately, and he simply held you against his chest while the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. No fear. No guilt. No pressure. Only trust. Only love. Only two imperfect people who had discovered that healing wasn’t about forgetting. It was about finding joy again.

And later that night, hand in hand, with your fingers intertwined and his thumb rubbing lazy circles against the back of your hand as though he simply couldn’t stop touching you now that you had found each other again, you led Michael Robinavich back inside. Not because everything was fixed. Not because the story was over. But because hope had returned.

And because after everything, You were finally, beautifully, wonderfully in love with each other again. And this time, both of you knew something neither of you had understood before. Love was never about preventing pain. Love was staying. And Michael Robinavich had stayed.

Always.

[dizzybee03]

Beautiful story! The way they love each other through something unimaginable is so raw and real

[quicksilver21]

A Year, Anyways: Chapter 8

M.R. x reader

Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.

WC: 4.7k

Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, hospital inaccuracies, this one is tough guys fair warning, they’re really bad at communicating, lot of swearing, therapist

(Masterlist) (Previous) (Next)

The morning came sooner than you would have liked. Pale grey light filtering in through the windows and the sound of your zoom call ending. Mason was still asleep in his crib when there was a knock on your door.

Ugh. Maybe if you ignored him, you wouldn’t have to do this scheduled breakfast. Wasn’t last night torture enough?

This was premeditated, you were sure of it.

A way to get in your head.

Your therapist would say otherwise.

Yeah well, fuck him and his four eyes.

You pulled your robe tighter as you shuffled to the door. Robby stood there in a pair of scrubs with his signature zip up hoodie. The odd thing was the pressed white coat over top the hoodie, with his name precisely sewed into it with blue thread.

Yep, this is a terrorist attack.

It was ridiculous really. Who puts their white coat over a hoodie. And since when did Robby know where his white coat was? Why did it kind of look good?

“Please, don’t make me feel any weirder than I already do,” he grumbled, looking everywhere but you. “Admin has been on my ass about ‘looking professional’.”

Robby shifted his weight but didn’t step inside. You both stand there, waiting for the other to make the first move.

“You can come in-“

“Is Mason awake-“

You both say at the same time. A blush creeps up Robby’s neck as you suddenly find the door across the hall very interesting.

“Sorry,” he mutters, sagging his shoulders in the way he did when he wanted to seem less imposing.

“Oh shut up.” You grumble as you take multiple steps back, leaving the door open for him to enter.

The two of you were acting like two cats who had just been introduced. Hackles raised and ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Maybe it was just you though.

Robby takes a tentative step inside, careful, like he’s waiting for permission to be revoked halfway through. He keeps one hand hooked tightly through the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t set it down, just holds it.

Your eye twitches.

“For fucks sake,” you huff, turning towards the kitchen before you can think too hard about why that bothered you so much. “Be normal.”

You immediately move for the coffee pot, needing to do something that didn’t feel like avoiding landmines.

“Coffee?” You call.

“Yeah, sure.” He says as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, “Do you have that-“

“Why wouldn’t I have the vanilla creamer?” You cut him off. Your tone definitely harsher than intended, but FUCK!

He was being weird. This is his fault.

You’re met with inhumane silence.

“Sorry,” you mumble when you see the way he shrinks. Your therapist told you that you were projecting your insecurities onto Robby. It might have had some validity.

You carefully carry the mug over to the counter and place it in front of him. You both watch as the coffee sloshes in the chipped cup.

“Two sugars and more milk than coffee, right?” You say, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his eyes watching you. Warm and steady in a way that made your skin itch.

God, it pissed you off.

Why? Whatever.

“Yeah,” he nods too quickly, swallowing to try to mediate his suddenly dry throat. His large hands engulf the coffee cup. “Don’t tell anyone though, it’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Okay.” You say immediately, turning back towards the coffee pot. That was a landmine and you had almost fell face first onto it.

Dangerous.

Your eyes dart over to the door of Mason’s nursery. Wake up, please. Instead, you busy yourself with the repetitive nature of making breakfast.

Crack the egg.

Whisk.

Pour into the pan.

Behind you, the barstool creaks softly.

“Would you like some help?”

“No.” You say automatically.

Silence stretches again.

You hear movement from the other side of the kitchen. A cabinet door opens halfway before immediately clicking shut again.

Robby freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime.

Your shoulders tense instinctively before you glance over. He’s standing there awkwardly beside the cabinets, one hand still hovering above the handle.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I was going to grab plates then realized-“ he cuts himself off with a tight shrug.

Realized what?

That this wasn’t his kitchen?

That last night changed something?

That he didn’t know what he was allowed to touch anymore?

The knot in your chest twists painfully.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, turning back to the stove before your expression can betray you. “You know where the plates are.”

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then quietly, “yeah.”

The cabinet door opens again, slower this time.

For a moment, it’s like you’ve fallen into an old rhythm. Robby starts the toast and spreads peanut butter onto the slices, while you scoop the eggs onto the plates. He doesn’t ask anymore.

That should probably bother you more than it does.

Everything is going as well as to be expected until he reaches around you to pop a bottle into the warmer.

Your entire body locks.

The smell of his cologne and soap his first, clean and familiar enough to make something stab sharply beneath your ribs. Heat radiates from his chest for barely a second before he seems to realize what he’s done.

Robby jerks away so fast his elbow knocks against the counter.

“Sorry,” he says immediately.

Again.

God, you were going to lose your fucking mind if he apologized again.

A cry sounds from the nursery. Not a painful one, just one to let you know Mason was awake. You both move to go get him. You both lock eyes for the first time today.

It’s a stand off.

“Fine,” you relent. “Go, I’ll get his breakfast ready.”

Robby disappears behind the nursery door like a man on fire. Meanwhile, you grab Mason’s high chair and the baby food from the cabinet.

You both try to get Mason settled. Hands batting the other out of the way. Robby gives you a weird look when you finally thrust the baby food and spoon at him.

“His pediatrician said it was fine to start him on soft foods,” you say, rolling your eyes as you hop up onto the counter.

Robby turns the tiny spoon over in his hand like it might explode, “Already?”

“He’s four months, not a Victorian orphan.”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “I didn’t know… I missed a lot apparently.”

And there it is again.

That guilt.

You regret softening enough to notice it.

“Well,” you say bristly, “you’re here now, so congratulations. Today’s lesson is applesauce.”

He hums at that and scoops a small amount of applesauce up.

You finish your breakfast before switching with Robby so he can eat his rapidly cooling eggs. Mason immediately starts fussing at the betrayal.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “God forbid anyone else eats.”

Without thinking too much of it, you swipe a tiny bit of peanut butter from your toast onto Mason’s lip.

Robby glances up immediately.

“He likes peanut butter?”

“He likes literally everything,” you snort as Mason happily smacks his lips together. “Tiny garbage disposal. He’d eat drywall if I let him.”

Mason lets out an excited squeal that earns him another microscopic swipe.

Point one mommy.

Robby seemed to finally relax enough to eat once Mason seemed content enough to smear applesauce across most of his face instead of actually eating it.

“Good job,” you told your son with a laugh. “You managed to get none of that in your mouth.”

Mason squealed.

“See, he disagrees,” Robby said around a bite of toast.

“He’s good at that. He’d make a great lawyer.” You say dryly.

You reached over with the napkin and whipped a streak of applesauce from Mason’s cheek. He immediately made grabby hands for the toast in Robby’s hand. He turns on those puppy dog eyes you’re sure are genetic.

“Absolutely not,” you say, scooping him from the high chair and peppering his chubby face with kisses.

Mason protested loudly.

“Oh, now you’re starving?” You ask.

He answers with another indignant squeak.

“Drama queen,” Robby laughs.

The sound surprises both of you.

His smile vanishes almost immediately.

Right. He’s the weird one.

“Gets it from his father.”

Robby opened his mouth to argue before Mason lunges for the lapels of his white coat.

Traitor.

You glance at the clock on the wall. Ten after six. Shit.

“Do you mind putting him in the carrier? I’ve got work in twenty.”

You were already backing towards the bedroom before he could answer.

Distance. Good.

“I can always drop him off, you know,” Robby calls.

You freeze halfway through pulling on your scrub top. He was just being helpful. He was always trying to be helpful.

The house was suddenly so quiet you could hear the neighbors moving around next door.

“It’s on my way.”

“Mine too.”

“Michael.”

Robby looks like he wants to argue before thinking better of it.

“Right.”

You rush into the living room and grab the carrier, propping it in your hip.

“Let me-“ you shove his hands away before he can get near the carrier. You both stare at the other, another stand off.

“I’m just trying to-“ he tries to explain with a huff.

“I know.”

“Then why are you looking at me like I suggested arson?”

“Because every time I turn around, you’re trying to do something for me.”

Robby blinks.

“I was offering to help load our son into your car.”

“Exactly.”

Robby’s eyebrows pinch together as he tries to forks words. Then closes it. Then tries again.

“I genuinely don’t know what that means.”

You carry Mason down the multiple flights of stairs and down to the car, Robby on your heels the whole time.

“I switched his daycare.” You say as you snap the carrier into place.

“Oh?”

“St. Mary’s.” You shut the back door. You toss your bag into the passenger seat.

Robby rests his hand on your car door like he had done that rainy night when he had demanded answers.

“At your work?”

“They had an opening.”

His jaw works for a second.

“PTMC’s daycare had openings too.”

You cross your arms, squinting at him.

So?

“St. Mary’s is cheaper.”

“Okay.”

“It’s closer to home.”

“Okay.”

“And I can get there in two minutes if they call me.”

His shoulders sink slightly as he takes a step back from your car.

“That makes sense.”

It did. You’d only be a moment away. It was practical. Everything in your life was practical. That didn’t mean Robby had to like it.

“We’ll see you at pick up,” you grab your door handle. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Okay.”

Mason quickly settled into the new daycare at St. Mary’s. The daycare workers were nice enough. Truthfully, a weight was lifted off of your shoulders knowing he was only minutes away. The downside apparently was having a hidden baby made you hospital gossip.

Between being the transfer resident no one knew much about and Robby’s lunch performance a few days ago, half the hospital seemed convinced your personal life was public property.

Great.

Apparently, there was a betting pool about who Mason’s father was.

Katie, who had somehow appointed herself your unofficial publishist after the infant seizure case a while back, did her best to intercept the rumors before they reached you.

Unfortunately, Katie was only one woman.

“I’ve got those labs you wanted Doc,” she says, bouncing to your side.

“Thanks Katie,” you mutter, already skimming the results as you headed to Exam 4.

You weren’t trying to be standoffish. Robby had a way of turning your baseline level of irritation into a full-time personality trait.

“Well?” Katie asked.

“Well what?”

“You going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try speeding up.

“Hm,” Katie matched your pace.

You shot her the nastiest look you could muster.

Katie beamed.

“Heard we had a new friend down at the daycare,” she tries, standing way too close. Did she know what a personal bubble was?

“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” You snap on a pair of gloves.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from literally everyone?”

Wonderful.

“I went down there during lunch to see my niece," Katie continued, snapping on a pair of gloves she absolutely did not need. “Cute kid by the way.”

“Thank you.” You lean over the patient, a small kid, to palpate her abdomen.

“Very cute.”

You narrow your eyes.

Katie grinned wider as she grabs the iPad to seem like she was assisting.

“The daycare ladies seem to love him.”

“Mmhm.” You glare at her from over the patient.

Possible bowel obstruction. Wouldn’t that be fun?

“And I remember, from the other day, a very handsome doctor dropping off lunch for you the other day.”

“I’d like to run a few more test-“

“Same puppy eyes.”

You nearly walked into the supply cart.

Katie’s eyes light up.

“WAIT!”

“Katie, I’m with a patient-“

“Is it lunch guy baby daddy?”

“I didn't say anything.” You chuck your gloves in the trash and coat your hands in sanitizer.

“LUNCH GUY IS BABY DADDY!”

“Katie.”

She was practically vibrating from excitement. “The betting pool is going to lose its mind!”

“There’s no betting pool.” You shoulder the door open. Usually, you wouldn't pray for a trauma but it would give her something better to do.

“There absolutely is!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “I hate this hospital.”

“Aw, come on,” Katie bumped your shoulder. “He’s cute! Well… not as cute as that graying doctor that sat with you at the PEDS seminar.”

“Jack? Ew!” You slam the chart onto the nursing station.

“No, listen! Help a girl out-“ a blush coats her cheeks as she tears up to make her case.

“That’s gross.” You shake your head immediately backing away.

“Doctor-“

“No!” You call as you turn the corner, leaving her to hopefully get back to work.

It’s usually freezing in the hospital. The whole idea being that diseases can’t exist if you freeze them out. It’s got some merit to it, but really it’s just to make you shake harder than your nerves already are.

Robby is supposed to meet you to pick up Mason from daycare.

Here.

In your hospital.

In front of the people who already knew too much about your life.

He’s been in your territory once, and look at the trouble it’s already caused.

Breathe.

Obviously, you would rather jump out of a plane with no parachute than do this.

Your therapist claimed this would be good for you. Then, after hearing your response, had to backtrack and correct it in a way where it was good for Mason.

It is good for Mason.

You knew that.

Two parents were better than one.

That didn’t mean you had to like it.

Still, you had moved Mason’s daycare to St. Mary’s in an attempt to grasp for some control in your quickly spinning life. Maybe because it was closer. Maybe because it was cheaper. Maybe also to shut up the annoying overly pleasant chirps his old daycare used to send constantly.

Were the updates really bad? Or was it just another spotlight on your private life?

Doesn’t matter.

Unfortunately, hospitals operated like oversized high schools with better parking and significantly more student loan debt.

Everyone knew everything.

Or at least they thought they did.

You glance at the clock as your back presses into the wall across from the daycare.

Five more minutes.

Then Robby would walk through the hospital front doors.

Five more minutes until Katie and all the staff spotted him and cashed in their prize money.

Five more minutes until half the staff accidentally found a reason to walk past daycare.

Five more minutes until your life became a spectator sport.

Awesome.

Your phone buzzes.

Robby: Here.

Your stomach drops.

Ridiculous.

You were co-parenting, not diffusing a bomb.

Still, you glance at the door automatically.

Nothing.

The hospital lobby remained exactly as chaotic as it had been thirty seconds ago.

Visitors wandered past, a volunteer pushing a wheelchair, someone dropped a stack of papers near reception.

Then a familiar voice drifted down the hallway.

“… I’m telling you, no one needs that many forms.”

You closed your eyes.

Fuck.

Robby appeared around the corner carrying a coffee carrier in one hand and a half eaten bagel in the other.

A volunteer was laughing at something he said.

A nurse smiled and held the elevator for him.

Traitorous behavior from everyone involved.

The white coat was gone now, leaving him in his black scrubs and stupid hoodie. His hair was mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

He looked tired.

He also looked entirely too comfortable for a man walking into an active gossip situation.

Then he spotted you.

The soft smile appeared immediately, effortless and automatic.

Like he hadn’t just spent the last twenty-four hours making things painfully awkward.

Like he hadn’t almost kissed you in your son’s nursery.

Like he hadn’t spend breakfast apologizing every five minutes.

Just happy.

Your chest did something painfully unhelpful.

“No.”

Robby slowed as he reached you. He pops a coffee out of the holder for you.

“What?”

“You can’t smile at me like that.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” You huff as you take the coffee like a lifeline.

“Then why are you saying it?”

Because, unfortunately, neither of you knew how to be normal anymore. You’d bring it up in your next therapy session.

“Can we just get Mason?” You don’t wait for an answer as you tuck tail and hurry for the daycare.

Coward.

The daycare was a world of color. Bright clouds adorned the walls, kids played with multicolored blocks, tiny plastic kitchens sat around the abandoned corner. Mason sat in an offensively bright pink chair gnawing on a toy giraffe.

His entire face lit up the second he spotted you.

Both hands shot into the air as he screeches in greeting.

Well, it wasn’t actual words yet, but close enough.

“Hi buddy!” You crouch down just as Mason starts kicking his legs excitedly.

Then his attention shifts.

Brown eyes lock onto the man behind you. The squealing somehow doubles in volume.

The daycare worker behind him laughed.

“Oh good! I’m assuming this is dad.”

You both froze.

Mason, however, was practically vibrating in his chair.

“Yep,” Robby says after half a beat, offering the daycare worker a tight smile. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder as he extended a hand. “Michael Robinavitch.”

The daycare worker shook it.

“It’s a good thing you’re both here. There are some forms I need you both to fill out.” She quickly hurries off before either of you could respond.

Silence.

You focused very hard on unbuckling Mason from his chair.

Robby focused very hard on Mason.

Neither of you acknowledged the fact that no one had questioned it.

No one asked who he was. No one had looked confused. Just, dad. Like it was obvious.

It probably was.

“Hey, little man,” Robby said, crouching beside you. “How was school?”

Mason immediately launched into an enthusiastic stream of nonsense.

“Really?” Robby asked seriously.

More babbling.

“No way.”

Another squeal.

You rolled your eyes, “he’s lying to you.”

“Is he?”

“Yes.”

Robby nodded thoughtfully.

“That tracks. He does seem dishonest.”

Mason shrieked with delight.

Drama queen.

“You lyin’, Mason?” Robby laughs as he scoops Mason up.

Mason immediately grabbed a fistfull of hoodie strings and shoved them directly towards his mouth.

“See?” Robby said. “Evidence tampering.”

Somehow, Robby managed to balance Mason in one arm while carrying the coffee container in the other.

Effortlessly.

Like he’d been doing it forever.

It had taken you weeks to learn how to juggle a baby and everything else with him. Robby had been a father for barely a month.

Fucking stupid.

“I’ve got the forms here,” the daycare attendant chirped, setting a stack of papers down on a comically small table.

You were already moving.

“I’ll handle it.”

The attendant blinked, “so you’ll both be signing-“

“Yep,” Robby answered easily from behind you.

Your fingers tightened on the pen.

Of course he would.

That was normal.

Fathers signed daycare forms.

Mason chose that moment to smack Robby on the chest.

“Ba!”

“Thank you,” Robby told him gravely. “I thought so too.”

You have half a mind to tell both of them to wait outside.

You dropped into the tiny plastic chair and instantly regretted it. Your knees hit your chin.

Across from you, Robby tried to fill out forms one handed.

“Middle name?” He asked.

“You know his middle name.”

“I know his middle name.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because I’m making conversation.”

“Don’t.”

Mason immediately spotted the half-eaten bagel still sticking out of the paper sleeve in Robby’s hand.

His entire body lunged.

“Oh no,” Robby laughed. “Absolutely not.”

Mason grabbed it anyway. A tiny chunk tore free on Mason’s fist.

You barely looked up from your chunk of paperwork.

“He won?”

“He always wins.”

Mason immediately shoved the bread towards his mouth.

Robby hesitated for all of half a second. Breakfast flashed through his mind.

The peanut butter.

You laughing.

Mason smacking his lips together demanding more.

“He likes literally everything.”

“Tiny garbage disposal,” you mutter.

Robby huffed a laugh. “Fine. One bite.”

Robby swiped a microscopic bit of peanut butter from the bagel onto his finger, letting Mason gum on it.

You signed another form without looking up.

Neither of you thought twice about it.

The forms seem to take ages. Every time you thought you were finished, another page appeared.

Emergency contacts.

Authorized pick ups.

Medical releases.

Finally, the three of you escaped daycare and started down the hallway towards the exit. Or at least attempted to.

“Doctor!”

You pretended not to hear it.

“Doctor!”

Katie’s cheery voice carried across the linoleum floor.

God hated you.

“Faster,” you mutter, quickening your pace.

“I have longer legs than you.” Robby huffed.

Mason was unusually quiet from where his cheek was pressed into Robby’s shoulder. He rubbed his face against the fabric of Robby’s hoodie.

Once.

Then again.

You frowned. “What is he doing?”

Robby glanced down, “Probably tired.”

You don’t have time to overthink it as Katie’s bouncy ponytail stops in front of you. “Doctor!” She beams. “Oh my goodness, and you must be Dr. Robinavitch.”

“Robby is fine,” he mutters, trying to keep you both moving.

“You should swing by the nurses’ station-“

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “Katie.”

“What? Everyone thought lunch guy was a myth.” She exclaims like that made this whole situation better.

“I hate this hospital.” You groan as you tug your bag higher onto your shoulder.

Robby snorts, “As much as the Pitt?”

Katie points at the three of you then Mason, her mouth falling in an overdramatic gasp. “Okay, wow. He really does look like Dr. Robinavitch.”

“Katie.” You scold.

“Right,” she seems to straighten, “Professionalism.”

She immediately fails at “professionalism” as she wiggles her finger at Mason. “Hi, buddy.”

Mason doesn’t smile back. Weird.

“Aw,” she coos, “Someone is tired.”

You look over at Mason. He was still rubbing his cheek. Not lazily.

Persistently.

His little hand drags across his face before he buries it in Robby’s shoulder. He lets out a wheezing cough.

A knot forms in your stomach.

No.

No, that wasn’t there before.

“Mason?”

Robby shift him high, “Hey, little man.”

Mason turns his head towards his father. That’s when you see it.

A cluster of tiny red bumps around his mouth.

Maybe drool rash.

Maybe from rubbing his face.

Maybe-

“Robby.”

Something in your voice makes him look to you immediately. That’s when his eyes lock on Mason. You reach for Mason’s chin and gently turn his face towards the light.

The bumps extend across one cheek now. They seem darker now.

Angry.

Raised.

The air in the room seems to get heavy.

No.

No no no no.

Not him.

Mason lets out another wheezy cough.

“What did he eat?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

Robby’s eyebrows pinch together.

“Nothing abnormal-“

You see it happen. The exact second his face changes. He sees them too.

Not drool rash.

Hives.

“Oh, fuck.”

You both move. Feet pounding against the floor as you rush to the emergency department. Katie startles as Robby shoves past her.

The emergency department was three halls away.

Too far.

Farther than it had ever been before.

“MOVE!”

Heads turn as the doors to the trauma bay are kicked open. Mason’s set down on the gurney as the medical team swarms him.

Mason coughs again.

Not that sound.

You’ve heard that sound before.

And for the first time since he walked back into your life, Robby looked scared.

The air leaves your lungs on a harsh woosh. It’s like you're witnessing everything from outside your own body. All of the horrific traumas you’ve seen, and this is the one that takes you out?

Fucking move!

You faintly hear someone call for respiratory. Someone pulling supplies. Someone holding Robby back.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Every instinct in your body screams at you to move.

“Weight?”

You know his weight.

Of course you know his weight.

Why can’t you remember it?

“Possible allergen?”

You can’t answer. The room is too bright. Too cold. Your son shouldn’t be in a cold room. Why can’t you move?

Strong arms wrap around you, suddenly your feet aren’t on the ground anymore. The doors shut behind you.

No.

They can’t do that.

They can’t close the doors.

You’re a god damned doctor.

Mason is in there.

Mason is in there.

“Hey,” you don’t hear it. Two warm hands grip the sides of your face forcing your eyes away from the doors. “Hey, he’s going to be okay.”

Your eyes meet those brown eyes. Those sad sad brown eyes.

Mason’s eyes

No.

Michael’s.

“He’s going to be okay,” it sounded like you were underwater.

You faintly hear a voice that sounded like your own say, “Doctor’s can’t lie.”

“I’m not,” his voice cracks, “Baby, I’m not.”

A cry you would know everywhere sounds from trauma room three.

Mason.

Thank fuck.

The sound only lasts for a second before a doctor steps out, pulling off her gloves. You recognize her, one of the attendings.

Good.

“We’re going to keep him for observation.” She says, “the reaction responded well.”

Responded well.

Stable.

Observation.

Words you used everyday.

Words you had said to parents a thousand times.

Words that meant absolutely nothing.

The attending says something else, but you don’t hear it.

Beside you, Robby’s grip tightened on your hand. Neither of you let go.

You’d spent years learning how to save children.

Countless shifts, boards, sacrifices, and missed holidays. Every awful thing.

Mason was twenty feet away.

Twenty feet.

Mason had two parents standing twenty feet away.

That’s all.

Twenty fucking feet.

You’d moved his daycare across town because being closer was supposed to matter.

You’d picked the hospital daycare because you could get there in two minutes.

Two minutes.

Turns out twenty feet wasn’t close enough either.

All this time you had been trying to protect him. And none of it mattered.

Because the worst thing to ever happen to him happened while you were holding the other end of a pen signing daycare paperwork.

You spend years learning how to save children.

Standing outside trauma room three, it didn’t mean jack shit.

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© quicksilver21 2026

[dizzybee03]

Every parents worst fear! So scary

[drhobby]

the reminder

dr robby x exwife!reader / your son gets injured and robby reminds you why the heck you divorced

word count: 1.2 k

warnings: this could be triggering because it is aggressive and harassing behavior. Super angst with soft ending. I wasn’t going to post this but then I read someone saying they love angst and figured ehhh what the heck

nameless children, drop your name suggestions btw

“Five-year-old with a broken wrist!” you shouted past the entrance of the Pitt. Your two-year-old daughter was perched on your hip, your son walking shakily ahead of you.

An army of staff swarmed you in seconds, helping your son onto a gurney and gently lifting your daughter from your arms. Out of the sea of scrubs and masks, only Jack’s face anchored you. He stood by your side, his hand a steadying weight on your elbow. He was saying something like, “I’ve got this; he’s going to be alright,” but the words were muffled, lost in the high-pitched ringing in your ears. The adrenaline was cratering, and you felt as though your body might collapse at any second.

You followed the gurney into the trauma room, watching as they evaluated your son. There was no blood, nothing that raised immediate alarms, but given he was the boss’s son, the staff was working with a frantic precision.

Jack was on the boy's left, examining the injury, while you remained on the right, gripping your son's small hand. You saw Michael enter, and for a split second, there was nothing you wanted more than to be held—

“What the fuck?” Michael yelled at you. “How did he break his wrist?”

You looked up at him with widened, weary eyes. Deep down, you knew he was terrified, but on the surface, he was nothing but pure, unadulterated rage.

“Michael, he fell down the stairs. As soon as I saw him, I—”

He snapped a pair of gloves on, moving in beside Abbot. “How did he fall?”

“I—” your chest hitched, air refusing to come easily.

“You don’t even know!” he scoffed. “Did you even check his movement?”

You shook your head, unable to speak. In the background, you could hear your daughter starting to cry.

Your eyes locked with Jack’s. A knowing look exchanged in silence. He had been your confidant for the last months of your failed marriage to his best friend. You felt like sharing his ups and downs with your friends would be a betrayal of his trust, so you only went to Jack for advice. And he had helped you, until the day you told him you couldn’t hold it anymore, that you feared you’d end up hating him if you did. Even then, he remained a good friend to both of you.

“That’s alright,” Jack said, turning his focus back to your son. “Hey, champ, can you move your fingers for me?”

The boy wiggled his fingers, his eyes darting between you and his father.

“You’re a doctor and you didn’t think to check his movement?” Michael demanded, looking at you with raw hate.

The tears you’d been fighting finally broke through, rolling down your cheeks and stealing your voice while your ex-husband continued to berate you.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be here,” Jack instructed, sensing your breaking point.

“Get out,” Michael spat.

“Neither should you, Dad,” Jack glared at Robby.

You stayed rooted to the spot, locking eyes with Michael across the gurney.

“I’m staying so he’s not afraid.” Robby said.

Jack turned his entire body toward Michael. “With the way you’re talking to her mother, we’re all afraid, man. Get the hell out of here.”

Michael shook his head, taking a step back as he peeled his gloves off and tossed them into the trash. You followed him out.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Dana called from the nursing station. You turned to see her holding your daughter, who had stopped crying and was now grinning. “Go get some coffee.”

Michael practically ran to her, and your daughter reached out with chubby, desperate arms.

“Take a sandwich, hun,” Dana said, tossing a Ziploc bag your way.

You caught it and offered her a tired smile. “Wait, my car’s still in the—”

“Give me the keys,” Michael said, extending a hand. “I’ll move it and bring the diaper bag.”

You handed him the keys and took your daughter back. “Thanks.”

“Go eat something.”

You nodded. Dana walked you to the breakroom.

“The heck was that?” She asked.

You practically collapsed on the chair. Huffed. Then turned to her. “A reminder of why we divorced.”

She laid a friendly hand on your shoulder before leaving you alone.

Robby returned quickly, dropping the bag on the table and taking a seat across from you. He immediately busied himself preparing a bottle for your daughter.

“You didn’t think to tell me?” he asked, his voice low.

“I tried, Michael,” you whispered, still hiccupping through the remnants of your tears. “Maybe if you took your head out of your ass, you’d realize twenty missed calls are a fucking emergency, not a 'good morning' wish.”

“Bad word!” your daughter yelled.

The absurdity of the moment broke the tension, and you both shared a tiny, breathless giggle. Michael’s gaze scanned you—your oversized Pink Floyd shirt, biker shorts, messy bedroom hair, and bare face.

“Is that my shirt?” he asked, his voice dropping to the pitch that had once made you fall for him.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, looking down.

His mouth quirked to the side. “It is. I was asking out of courtesy.”

“And what do you want me to do? Take it off?”

He chuckled, the sound devoid of its earlier malice. “You can keep it.”

“Oh, jeez. Thanks.”

“Listen,” he cleared his throat. “I was an asshole.”

“You were.”

“I overreacted.”

“An understatement.”

“I was terrified.”

“So was I!”

“I’m sorry.”

You let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Me too.”

“Come here,” he whispered.

The moment he opened his arms, you were a magnet. You climbed into his lap, curling into him like a second home, finally letting the rest of your tears fall against his scrubs.

“I was so scared,” you mumbled into his chest.

He maneuvered your daughter out of your arms and into his own, his free hand moving in soothing, rhythmic circles against your back. “I know, honey. I know.”

“I needed you.”

“I am so sorry, baby,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “Why did he fall? Was he dizzy or something?”

You pulled back, wiping your cheeks. “He…” You took a deep, jagged breath. “He heard the door and went running down the stairs. He fell.”

“Why was he running?”

“He thought it was you,” you said, grabbing a napkin to dab at your nose. “It’s a holiday, Michael. You said you’d be home for the holidays. The Amazon driver rang the bell, and he ran.”

A single, heavy drop of water landed on your hands. You looked up to find Michael crying, too.

“I forgot it was a holiday,” he whispered.

You reached up, catching his tears with your thumb. “This isn’t working, Michael,” you said, your voice trembling as you met his gaze.

“Neither were we.”

“But I can’t do this alone. That wasn’t the deal.”

“I suck at being a parent, baby.” His voice was nothing but a muffled cry.

You shook your head, “No. You don’t. You’re a great dad; horrible husband though.”

You shared a breathy laugh. Both your tears finally drying off.

“I’m starting therapy this week,” he said.

You pulled back, searching his face for a lie, but finding only sincerity. “Michael, I’m—that’s…” The words caught in your throat, so you settled for wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him close.

The breakroom door swung open, revealing a smirking Jack. “Your kid’s good to go.” His eyes scanned the two of you—you still in his lap, his hand firmly on your waist. “Get a room, you freaks.”

He closed the door and left you alone.

[drhobby]

power move

dr robby x exwife!reader / this might become a little series just for funnn / slightly fluffy i guess? warning: unnecesarily bitchy towards poor Noelle lmao word count: 1.6 k

The ER was chaotic as usual. Staff running around, patients complained, and monitors beeped asynchronically.

You were used to it… ish. Scanning your ID badge at a workstation, you began typing up your patient notes. That was when your ex-husband, Michael Robinavitch, appeared on the other side of the central station. You caught sight of him over the rim of your glasses. He was talking with Noelle Hastings, in what you initially dismissed as a standard conversation between a case manager and an attending, until you heard her laugh.

Your mouth parted in surprise. To your left, Dana’s eyes widened. The two of you exchanged a knowing, startled look.

Dana inched closer to you. “He doesn’t even listen to anyone else when he’s talking to her,” she murmured. To prove her point, she called out, “Robby!”

He didn’t even blink.

“See?” Dana whispered.

“Well, good for him,” you said with a tight, half-smile, even as jealousy twisted in your stomach.

“Give it a try, darling. For me, please?” Dana winked, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“Why would I?” you asked, keeping your focus on the electronic chart.

“I have a theory.” Dana nodded, smirking.

Quirking your mouth to the side, you decided to play along. Without standing up or raising your voice, you simply called out, “Michael.”

The way his shoulders turned in your direction felt less like a force of habit and more like a force of nature. His brows pulled together, and his sad puppy eyes instantly locked onto yours.

Beside you, Dana disguised a chuckle with a poorly masked cough.

“Yes, swee—Doctor?” Michael corrected himself quickly. He walked over, leaning his forearm on the high counter just behind your monitor.

“The patient in bed twelve is good to go,” you said, keeping your tone professional. “Both she and the baby are healthy. I gave her some caring instructions, and an appointment for next month for her pre-natal care. There's no need to admit her. You can go ahead with the discharge.”

“Alright. Thank you.” His voice carried a tight, professional restraint; it sounded even, almost dull. His eyes, however, screamed that you had broken his heart and begged you to fix it.

You finally stood up from your chair, keeping the counter between you. His eyes trailed your every movement.

“One more thing,” you added.

Michael nodded, his hand drifting to the back of his neck. Oh, he was nervous.

“Do you think you could stop by the house later?”

The request clearly caught him off guard. His eyes widened, and his lips parted slightly.

“I think there’s an issue with the water heater,” you supplemented before he could get the wrong idea. “Since you fixed it last time, I thought you could take a look at it before I call a plumber?”

Both of his hands landed on the counter, as if he were steadying himself after taking a physical blow. He looked slightly dazed, trying to piece together what was happening.

“Of course,” he said, his voice dropping. “I’ll be there as soon as I wrap up here.”

You offered a sweet smile. “Thanks, Michael.”

Before he could respond, the automatic doors slid open as a gurney rushed in. Paramedics flanked both sides, bagging the patient and shouting stats as they pushed the wheels forward.

“Trauma One is open!” Dana’s voice echoed across the unit.

Michael was already moving. You didn't bother waving goodbye. Grabbing your coffee mug, you prepared to head back up to your own floor.

When you turned around, Noelle was standing right in front of you.

“Noelle.” You smiled warmly, acting as if you hadn’t just pulled a massive power move purely out of ego. A small, fleeting part of you felt guilty.

“We have plans tonight,” Noelle announced, a smug smirk on her lips.

“Oh.” You took a step back, turning toward the elevators. “Then you better hope it’s an easy fix. Otherwise, the kids and I will be showering at his apartment.”

You threw a wicked wink over your shoulder and kept on walking.

[mariamariquinha]

Bossa Nova (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x f!reader) - Masterlist

SUMMARY: Broken hearts, dirty mouths and dead bodies.

GENERAL WARNINGS: Talks about drugs and crimes, violence, blood, death, mature themes, eventual smut, bad words, consumption of legal drugs and angst moments. Any other warning will accompain every chapter.

It’s always good and safe to remind that this history is FICTION, not related to real life people at all or with any US police force. There will be canon references, but just that - if you didn’t watch the movie, it’s okay.

+18 STORY

Love u all! Let’s have some fun!

****

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five 

Six 

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

ON DEFINITIVE HIATUS!

ADDITIONAL STUFF:

Moodboards 

 1

2

3

Director’s Cut

Father and Daughter

What’s behind…

Prequels 

Big Nick 

I think I’ve seen this film before

[dizzybee03]

STOP IT! Are you updating???!!!!

[mariamariquinha]

Am I?

Kidding hahaha I will. But I’ve been thinking about revisiting the whole thing to add some stuff… So… You know…

[dizzybee03]

This honestly made my day!

[mariamariquinha]

Bossa Nova (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x f!reader) - Masterlist

SUMMARY: Broken hearts, dirty mouths and dead bodies.

GENERAL WARNINGS: Talks about drugs and crimes, violence, blood, death, mature themes, eventual smut, bad words, consumption of legal drugs and angst moments. Any other warning will accompain every chapter.

It’s always good and safe to remind that this history is FICTION, not related to real life people at all or with any US police force. There will be canon references, but just that - if you didn’t watch the movie, it’s okay.

+18 STORY

Love u all! Let’s have some fun!

****

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five 

Six 

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

ON DEFINITIVE HIATUS!

ADDITIONAL STUFF:

Moodboards 

 1

2

3

Director’s Cut

Father and Daughter

What’s behind…

Prequels 

Big Nick 

I think I’ve seen this film before

[dizzybee03]

STOP IT! Are you updating???!!!!