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[drhobby]

masterlist

at the moment i am only writing for robby but requests are open <3

Updated: 04/06/26

The jugular, series - the jugular (4.6 k) - chapter 2 (2.5 k) exwife reader

power move (1.6k)

endless cycle (1k)

the reminder (1.2k)

the vacancy (1k)

nightcall (1.2k)

the smirk (1.3 k)

the warning (1k)

ficlets

oxytocin (800)

divider: @chrisssiren

[bluetimeombre]

Ladybug !

synopsis hi fell in love with your portrayal of dr. robby is it okay for me to request for dr. robby’s attending! wife and the early signs of pregnancy before she decided to take a test? (like falling asleep while doing charts or over a casual conversation hehe) request!

warningsTW vomit, usual hospital-ness. language, smutish, pregnancy and baby talk stuff

authornote this was a request that I loved writing so much but nobody needs to know the work that went into publishing it, that stays between me and @expreissionism who requested, thanks so much again!

Robby left exam room four and- like always- he found you first. 

He smiled. The kind that took over his whole face, that crinkled his eyes and caused his cheeks to hurt. The sort people didn't see often in the deep hells of the Pitt unless he was looking at you. Or talking about you. Or thinking about you. Basically, if he smiled like that it was you.

But his smile faded quick when he took note of you. 

“Hey?”

You jerked up, looking at him. 

Robby leant over the counter, sliding on his glasses and looked closer. 

He was too close to you to be studying you like a patient, but just close enough for his wife. 

“You eat anything today?” he asked. 

You squinted at him. “We literally got breakfast this morning.”

“Okay, okay.”

There were darkening circles under your eyes and your lips were chapped which was his first sign something was wrong: you treated moisturising your lips like some do religion. Other than that your body was slumped over a computer. You were far more active than this. 

“You sleep okay last night?” he asked.

You smirked. “Well no, not really, someone kept me up.”

Robby smirked right back, leaning back just enough to give you space. “Are you complaining?”

“No.”

Flashbacks of last night came to mind in searing heat. The sweat of your bodies, the grip he held on your hand as he fucked you into the mattress like he did most nights. 

They said your libido goes down the older you get but Robby was going through another one. His box of blue pills sat abandoned in his bedside draw- thank god. 

Robby nodded once. “Good.”

“But that saying,” you continued, swivelling in your chair to face him. Still, he didn't move. He could smell the shampoo you'd bathed yourself in this morning and his mouth salivated like a dog with his favourite treat. “Four rounds?”

Robby took a quick sweep of the area, making sure nobody was missing him and his wife as they flirted shamelessly. “You asked for it.”

You frowned. “Did I?”

“Hey!” called Dana. “Mr and Mrs Adams, we could use your help here!”

You playfully rolled your eyes and Robby backed away slowly, hands up in surrender. He watched Dana turn to at least give them a second to finish up their flirting before digging into his pocket. 

“Here- for your lips.”

A small, practically un-used tube of chap-stick fell from the palm of his hand to yours. He carried it for you, always. If you'd asked you'd know he carried an extra pack of nuts and hand cream too. 

He'd been doing so secretly since your first dates years ago. 

Of course the supplies were different but the sentiment the same.

You blushed, a bright smile coming to your face. “You are so adorable.”

Robby shook off the word like it was splash of cold water. “Yeah, don't let onto anyone, okay? Got a cold exterior to keep up.”

“Oh- of course.”

He could have stood there and watched you all day but he already felt Dana's gaze, un-wavering. He squeezed your shoulders and pressed a kiss on your forehead before slipping away with a quiet promise to himself that he'd get his hands on you later.

“You don't look so well, you know,” said Dana once the coast was clear of Robby. 

“Don't you start,” you said. “I've had enough of this the last couple days from Robby.”

“Oh yeah, you got something?” Dana's hand was gentle on your back. If you weren't careful she'd push you onto a bed, have you in a gown with a chart written up herself. She'd mother you; smother you in her care even if she wasn't a doctor. Even if you were the attending around the place. 

You shook your head and flashed her a un-convincing smile. 

You were sure it was a bug, or burn out.

You'd caught burn out like some do colds or flus. As the second attending it was your job- with Robby's- to make sure everyone was taught, that patients were satisfied (you found you were doing that part for your husband as well) and you were saving as many lives as you could. 

The careful art of delegation and avoidance was lost on you. You threw yourself into traumas like you were still a med student with something to prove.

“Okay, if you say so,” said Dana with a purse of her lips. 

“I do say so.”

“If you need anything.”

“Am I married to you or Robinavitch?” you teased, tugging on gloves and readying yourself for a room of hustle. 

Dana chuckled, backing away slowly to her station. “You should be so lucky, Robinavitch.”

Using the weight of your back you pushed into trauma two. 

“Okay, kids- what have we got?”

“Fetal heart rate one-two-eight.”

Whitaker was at your side in an instant, handing you the chart. “Woman in her late twenties, came in complaining of cramping and migraines, twenty-nine weeks along.”

“BP is one-seventy, over one-nineteen.”

The woman was on her side, a whole score of nurses and doctors around her. It was always double the team for pregnant ladies. When there were two patients to care for in a package of one.

“Six grams of magnesium going in.”

You floated around the room, Whitaker following you like some guard dog. You took in everything going on, reading stats and taking in numbers everyone gave to you. “Okay, ma'am, I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robin. It seems you have a medical condition called preeclamsia.”

The woman's eyes were teary and dark as they looked up to you in fear. “Wh-what?”

“Preeclampsia. Now that we know what it is we can help you.”

“But it was- it was just a headache,” she cried, hand cradling her stomach on instinct. “Is my baby going to be okay?”

“We are doing everything to make sure you and the baby do just fine,” you assured her, speaking a language you'd become fluent in. Diagnosis and comfort. Sometimes, when the job got tough, you wondered if you even really believed the words you were saying. They just floated from your tongue typically. 

“The thing is with your condition we have to take you up to OB and deliver this baby,” you told her. 

“OB's been paged,” Santos informed you. 

“But it's too early,” the woman sobbed, clutching at her rounded stomach like she could keep the baby there. 

“I know but the baby's pulse is strong which is good,” you told her. “And if we want to keep the ball rolling in the right direction we have to got to get to it now, okay?”

“Doctor Robin,” said Whitaker. “Labs are back in.”

“Read them to me.” You were still holding the lady's hand over her stomach, trying to comfort her. 

“Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFT's are... woah-”

“Don't hold out on us Huckleberry, what's going on?” asked Santos. 

“They're high- real high-”

“Which can mean?” you ask out to the room, remembering the hundreds of times Gloria reminded you off your status as a 'teaching hospital,'. 

“HELLP syndrome,” said Denis. 

“Point to you.”

Under your hand the patient began to tremble. A quick glance at the monitor showed her blood pressure rising. Panic, most likely, something else it could have been entirely. 

“Hey, boy or a girl?” you asked, watching her eyes flicker. “Do you know what you're having?”

She blinked slow. “Boy.”

“Any name ideas?”

Her mouth had opened to say something but instead of a name vomit spewed, rolling down the gurney and splashing your scrubs- the one time you didn't put on a gown. 

“Oh shit- she's seizing!”

Everyone and you reacted quickly in holding her, trying to calm her shakes. 

It had never happened before, you'd never had so many senses tuning it an once but the smell of her breakfast wafted up to your nose. An un-familiar roll in your stomach curdled and you pursed your lips shut, turning away and burying your nose into the still fresh part of your scrubs. 

“Fifteen litres on by mask!” Whitaker yelled. “Intubation?”

He was looking to you. 

You shook your head, unable to speak with half your focus going on calming the insides of your stomach.

“With all the seizing we can't get a read on the baby's status,” said Santos. 

Fuck- you'd have to say something. You couldn't leave a fresh doctor and student into clampsia blind. “Ultrasound,” you breathed out, still unable to face where the sick started to soak into your scrubs. “Check on baby!” 

If Santos and Whitaker thought it was strange they said nothing, following you orders and relaying what they found. 

“Doctor Robin- do we intubate?”

Another set of hands came up to help steady her and you could back away. 

Even your shoes hadn't been spared the mercy of the vomit. 

“Not yet, push keppra, four grams.”

Grabbing clothes cutters you quickly sliced at your scrub top, thankful you were wearing something long sleeved and covering more of you then a simple vest. 

With the top in shreds you could finally breath but your stomach didn't get the memo.

“Pulse Ox eighty-eight!”

Groaning, you pulled the tray out for intubation, handing it to Santos. 

She glanced at you. “Hey, you look a bit-”

“- don't say sick or I'll throw up on you,” you warned, following her around like she was your new human shield. You wondered if she'd be flattered or pissed if you admitted she was. “Push probofal.”

“Pushing.”

Eventually the seizing stopped with everything you pushed to get her stable and you moved quick. It was like putting everything else on aeroplane mode, shutting off your own systems to get hers stable.

“Intubate, get an EEG to check her brain levels. She's paralysed now but her brain could still be seizing.”

You slipped in sick, grabbing yourself on the nearest doctor and thanking them. You stayed for the intubation only then knew you couldn't hack it anymore. 

You fled the room, bumping into Samira on your way out. 

Dana jolted up. “Hey, what're you-”

“-get Robby in trauma one.”

You found the nearest bathroom, locked it and threw up everything. You hugged the toilet like it was your anchor, your body curling into the movements. Time escaped you, it could have been minutes it could have been hours but finally you fell back and flushed, wiping away everything. 

You were young, you weren't as old as your husband. You'd had less experience in traumas all together, however you were a good doctor, capable enough to be a fellow attending. 

Several substances had been chucked over you in your time. Blood, vomit, piss- some you didn't even know the name off. 

Why had today been any different?

Clearing yourself up: re-tying your hair, washing out your mouth and applying Chapstick, cleaning your shoes and wiping tears from under your eyes, you blamed it on the bagels you'd had that morning. 

It was the only logical explanation.

Leaving the bathroom you felt momentary guilt and fleeing but spotted Robby already taking your place in the trauma. 

“Hey, hun,” Dana was at your side quick, gentle and peering at you closely. “What was that about? You doin alright?”

“Yeah,” you hummed. 

“You throw up? You sick?”

“No, I-” you thought of every other time you'd lied to Dana and how it never went well. “Yes but it's probably just food poisoning. Don't tell Robby.”

If Robby knew you were sick- after already having been worried this morning- you'd be driven home in twenty minutes flat. 

“Robby always finds out,” said Dana. 

You ignored her and pushed open the door to the lounge. She didn't follow and you were left with spare seconds to yourself. 

Your hands shook slightly as you fetched a glass to fill with water. To cool yourself down you ran your hands under, splashing the back of your neck with some. You gargled water and spit it back, ready to drain the glass and wet your sudden parched mouth when Langdon appeared in the door. 

“Hey, I've got a head lac I need you to take a look at.”

Because you were an attending. Because of the kind of person you are you put down the glass and followed him.

“She just ran out?”

There was the all too familiar buzz of the sanitiser dispenser as Robby helped himself to a generous blob before rubbing it into his hands. A beat behind, Denis did the same, following in his footsteps- literally. 

“Er-yeah,” he said, working fast to absorb every bit of hand sanitiser. “She ordered the EEG and bolted.”

Robby nodded, taking it all in clinically. “You said she looked pale?”

“Yeah but, she had just been thrown up on.” 

Being thrown up on wasn't a pleasant experience but he hadn't known you to run from bodily fluids. 

“Where is she now?” Robby asked, as if Denis was the soul person to look out for you. Well, Robby trusted Denis, a gift he didn't bestow on many so he did expect Denis to keep an eye on you at all times. 

“She went to the bathroom but I don't know now.”

Robby checked the bathrooms, finding you void of those spaces. He checked the lounge where nothing but a deserted glass of water sat.

He was almost panicking when he saw the back of you and Frank in a room. 

He paused. 

You were sat next to a young girl, holding her hand. Although he couldn't hear you he imagined the softness of your voice as it always became when dealing with a pedes case. You'd always joked that if the ED wasn't so in need of two attendings at a time you'd have left his ass for pedes upstairs at once. 

Robby didn't think so. For one, you'd miss his face, for the second thing- you liked bouncing from one emergency to another, switching off and relying only on your skills. 

You hadn't been bouncing around as quick as usual the last couple days. He realised it only in that moment.

Frank was standing with his arms folded over his chest, pitching in every now and then and also getting the girl to smile. 

He didn't want to go in, break the concentration and trust you'd formed with the small child. He'd find you later. 

Whatever was going on, the two of you clearly had it handled. 

Your dreams came to you in fades. 

There was first an annoyingly weird dream about a animal circus finding it's home in the Pitt. They said work followed you home, but it even followed you into dreams which seemed just un-fair. Then there was a stork on an elephants back. How would an elephant even get in to the place?

They turned to some much more enjoyable memories that had your body warming un-consciously. 

Robby's weight pressed down into yours on the couch in your living room. You'd begged him to put everything on you, to not hold himself up and with-hold his moans. 

And because you'd asked, he did. 

Robby wasn't a light guy and you liked him like that. The weight of him crushing you, his spit swapped with yours, sweat of his body being shared and the fingerprints you could feel at your hips. 

“Oh fuck sweetheart, oh fuck!” he'd groaned out loud. 

You felt parts of him deep in you you didn't know you could feel and still you wanted more. Your locked your ankles around his backside, keeping him into you in short and sweet thrusts. 

“Oh, you like that? Jesus Christ,” he grunted into your neck, unable to hold himself up even if he wanted to. “So greedy. Fuckin' so greedy!”

“Please, Robby, please!”

Steady hands were sudden at your shoulders and a body pressed up to yours, decidedly unlike how one did in the dream. 

“Go home,” said Robby. 

You picked yourself up from where you'd dozed off, your head in your arms folded over on the counter. In front of you, the computer was blank. “Hm?”

Robby's eyes bored into yours. “Go home, you're sick.”

“It's only twelve. I'm not sick- I'm fine,” you said, waving off his hand as it came up to test your temperature in the very medical practise of hand on forehead. 

Robby shook his head. “You were dozing this morning, you're asleep now, you threw up-”

“Dana, I told her not to say anything!” You cursed under your breath. 

“Not Dana, Whitaker,” said Robby, looking at you with brows draw in, somewhere between anger (or as angry as he could get at you) and concern. “Did you tell Dana not to tell me?”

“Because you worry.” You used your secret trick of overwhelming affection to try to starve off Robby. Your hands were clammy as they held his cheeks, fingertips grazing over his beard just how he liked. He was kneeling at your side, melting into your touch. “I'm fine.”

For extra measures you pressed a kiss to his forehead and walked away. 

There was a split second of head spinning blur. The sort that had you reaching out to balance yourself. It lasted maybe two seconds but enough to worry you. 

If you hadn't taken such care in tending to Robby's own distraction he'd have clocked it and dragged you home himself. 

You maybe weren't so fine. It wasn't every day you felt as tired as you did now, and however good the night before had been Robby had given you more. Plenty. You'd surpassed twenty-fours working in the ED with no sleep so nothing could phase you. 

But being phased you were. 

The lack of sleep.... the throwing up... maybe you were coming down with something. 

You'd thrown up last week too, so it couldn't be food poisoning like you were trying to convince yourself it was. 

Robby hurried after you, the jingle of his keys and ID card and such jangling. “I'm keeping my eyes on you.”

“Sexy.”

In trauma one the two of you worked together with a score of doctors and nurses. Mrs Albany- the pregnant lady with clampsia- demanded attention. Perhaps it was a waste of two attendings working on the same patient. 

The emergency c-section you had to perform made the one patient two and as Robby worked to keep the mother alive you worked on the child, stimulating the baby boy till he breathed, wiping off the fluids and bloods and sighing when he cried out. 

Under the gown and mask you could see Robby's own dimples at you as you both saved lives. 

But the tang of iron from the uterus and child filled your nostrils and upset you close enough to tears. You were glad Esme had cleaned up the sick from early and equally as glad you had the chance to throw up your breakfast so you couldn't do it again. 

“Holy shit!” Santos celebrated, yanking off her gown and gloves next to you as you did the same, “That was crazy!”

The baby was pushed by you, heading up to the NICU, the mother following, a pulse low but steady, heading up to the OR.

You ducked away from Robby as he followed the pair out. You took Santos with you, a pushing hand on her back. “Yeah, it was- listen I've got a patient that needs blood results quick, you think if I get it you can rush it up to labs, on an ASAP basis.”

Santos frowned. You knew what she was thinking before she even had to say it. It was a boring job, her skills were better off etc. 

“Please?” you asked. 

It took a roll of her eyes but she agreed to. 

Five minutes later you had a vial of your own blood handed to her. 

An hour later Santos found you, Ipad in hand. 

“Hey, got the results for your patient,” she said. “Where are they? What room? I couldn't see them on the board?”

Dana would have had something to say about taking your own blood and getting it to labs without telling anyone. Robby too. As attending you should have been chastising yourself but there was no time for that. No need, either. 

Doctors made the worst sort of patients, especially when they felt they didn't need to be one. 

“Er, she left, discharged herself,” you lied quickly, trying to get a gage on the results that were cradled in your arm.

“Bummer. I wanted to give her good news. Or bad.”

“What?”

“She's pregnant.”

You stopped in you tracks. 

It took Trinity at least four more paces before she realised you had. 

The blood works showed just that. High HCG levels, you red blood cell count was high. Along with the nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells it made sense. 

You were pregnant. 

Inside the stomach that had been churning all day sat a life fully depending on you to take care of it. Suddenly none of your med school training mattered. Nothing you'd ever down before mattered. Looking after patients was one thing. You didn't have to go home with them, check they drank enough or ate enough, didn't have to check in with their boss they were taking it easy. 

You struggled to look after yourself. 

Throw a baby in the mix and you were doomed. 

Chuck in Robby and you were-

Robby. 

Jesus Fuck. You'd never spoken about kids. You'd only been married a year and were still in what some considered the 'honeymoon' phase.

“Everything okay?” asked Santos. “Did I miss something in the results?”

You cleared your throat. “No. No, that all... looks good. I'm just gonna take a small break. Quick one. Thanks.” 

“Hey, Robby!” Denis called as he walked out from the ambulance bay. “Congratulations!” 

“Thanks, Whitaker.”

It took Robby seconds to pause and think. What was he being congratulated for? The fact he went outside for some air? It wasn't impressive. Was it the quick life saving procedures they'd made on mother and son that sent them both upstairs alive? That was over an hour ago and Denis had been in the room. 

Robby back tracked to Whitaker. “What am I being congratulated on, exactly?” he asked. 

Whitaker looked at him like he was crazy. “The good news.”

Good news? The last good news he had was marrying you a year ago, and Whitaker had been at the damn wedding crying more than his own grandmother. 

Robby shook his head. 

“The good news, you'll be a great dad.”

Robby chocked on his breath, leaning on the counter. “Wh-what?” he chuckled in a breath. 

“You're pregnant? I mean, not you, obviously, I-I know how it works. But you're having a baby, that's-that's what they say and I just wanted to say well done. Or not well done! No, that came out wrong, jus-”

Robby had let him stumble on his words as he tried to figure out what he was saying. The baby? What baby? “Denis, what are you talking about?”

He looked around quickly for you but couldn't see you. 

“Oh my god, you didn't know, you didn't know did you?” Whitaker's face paled, his entire body sinking. “Santos told me, she told me not to tell anyone but I-I figured I could tell you! I guessed- oh god, did I just tell you your wife is pregnant?”

His wife...

Pregnant...

And Robby was finding out from Huckleberry!

Robby took a step around the counter and Denis stumbled back into his chair. “Are you telling me she's...”

Whitaker nodded when the words failed him. 

Robby thought back to the sickness you thought he'd missed last week, the way you fell asleep at the computer earlier and the general exhaustion. He tried to think back to what night could have been 'the one' but somewhere along the line you'd both stopped being careful. Condoms were abandoned in draws and your pack of contraceptive pills were still full.

“Doctor- Doctor Robby? Do you need to sit down?” Denis asked. 

Robby waved him off and gave himself one minute to compose himself. He knew panic, it was an old friend he'd lost contact with over the years, yet it returned to him then. 

“Where is she now?” he asked. 

“Oh, I don't- I don't-”

“Huckleberry!” he tried not to expose his fondness of the nickname Santos had given him but it slipped out in the most desperate of times. 

Denis gulped, knowing this. “Exam room three.”

Robby nodded and made a be-line, Casey was asking him a question as he passed but he held up a hand, ignoring her. 

Santos stepped out the room, closing the door and stopping when Robby almost collided with her. “You can't go in there.”

Robby inhaled a deep breath. It was one thing having Whitaker be the one to tell him you were pregnant. It was another to have Santos blocking him from seeing you. “Doctor Santos if you don't let me through you will miss every trauma that comes through those doors.”

Luckily, he knew how to work Santos. 

Her arms budged over her chest. “For how long?”

Whatever you had promised her to keep him out must have been just as grand a prize. “Till I see fit now let me in.”

It was like a western stand off for longer than Robby would have liked. Every second he spent out of your room was longer you were spending alone. 

Eventually, Trinity sighed and gave up. “Okay, fine, whatever, but she promised me first dibs at a REBOA for doing this. I expect that to still stand.”

Robby pushed through the room and snapped back the curtains finding you at the edge of a bed, the wand of an ultrasound hidden under your top and the grey scale picture of a baby on the monitor. 

To your credit you didn't flinch or move as he stood there.

“Lets be real this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing.”

In five minutes Robby had wiped down your stomach of the gel, had helped pull your top down and sat with you on the edge of the patient bed, the curtain back to being pulled over and hiding the two of you from traumas and agitated patients and doctors alike. 

“How long have you known?” asked Robby. 

There was no anger, no mean undertones. It was frightening rather blank, the way he spoke. You'd always prided yourself on knowing how to tell when he was in a good mood or bad from the smallest of tics he had. 

He'd trained them out of himself apparently. 

Yet- he'd given you his hand and you'd pulled it into your lap, holding it and trailing your own fingers over his. 

“The time's now-” you peeked over him at the clock over the door. “- about an hour and thirteen minutes.”

He shook his head, scoffing out a smile that pronounced his wrinkles. “Why didn't you come to me?”

You sighed, shrugging your shoulders. “I thought I was just sick, you know? So I thought I'd get some bloods and see.”

“Did you do the bloods yourself?”

You looked at him and that was telling enough. With the hand that wasn't with yours he rubbed at his temple in aggravation. So far there'd been little to no talk about the baby growing in your stomach but more concern about how you'd gone to finding out. 

“You should've got me,” he said. 

“Well if I thought I was pregnant I probably would have.” You tried to joke but it fell flat. 

“Probably?” he repeated quietly. 

Silence went by with only the ticking of the clock as company. 

You held onto his hand, readying yourself for the question yet to be asked. “Are you mad at me?”

Robby shook his head but didn't look at you.

“Annnnd are you mad at...” you couldn't say baby yet. Didn't know if giving the clump of cells in your stomach a name would scare him off. 

With the hand in your lap his fingers entwined with yours and clutched tight. 

“I know we never talked about kids and this wasn't planned in the slightest,” you said even if you knew Robby had stopped pulling out months ago, favouring the way you felt when your walls swallowed him up. “You can be angry.”

“You keep asking if I'm angry, do you want me to be?” he asked, finally a touch of emotion in his voice as it rose an octave. “Are you mad?”

That was the question. It wasn't planned, but it wasn't unwanted. You couldn't say that seeing the way mothers caressed their stomachs when they came in with spotting or concerns didn't have you thinking of your own child one day. That talking to that little girl with the head lac earlier with Frank didn't cause a pang of longing in your heart. 

You'd never tried to pretend you didn't want everything with Robby. Even if you've never discussed what everything was to each other. 

“When I was in med school I thought I'd have it all worked out long before now,” said Robby. “Marriage and kids. Maybe on my second marriage by now.”

You dug your elbow into his ribs, rewarded with a quick, breathless laugh. 

His eyes creased as his face scrunched up. “Didn't work out. Guess I... gave up thinking it could.”

“Then you met me, right?”

Robby looked at you. His eyes were like glass as he looked you over, his lips titled, cheeks red under his beard. He looked- if you didn't mind saying so- like a man mesmerised. He nodded. 

“I thought you didn't want kids,” you said. 

“Do you?” he asked, eyes boring into yours. 

“Do you?” you threw back to him. 

He squeezed your hand and gave you a look. 

“I think I do,” you admitted, quietly, as if you could take it back if it displeased him. “I don't know if I'll be good at it. I hardly have time to look after myself, let alone a baby. And I don't want to be one of those people that gives up work for kids cause I love my job but... I think I could love a kid, too.”

Robby nodded along with what you were saying, a smile brightening everything you thought looked dark in him.

“Do you want kids?” you asked. 

“Oh, kids?” he teased. “You're so sure its twins already?”

You rolled your eyes as he nudged his shoulder with yours, rocking the both of your bodies. 

“I want everything with you, I said so much in my vows, didn't I? You thought I was lying, Doctor Robin?”

You couldn't help but smile at the nickname he gave you and was proud to call you. After all, calling out for two Robinavitch's in an emergency proved difficult quickly. “I don't believe your vows included, I want to fuck you so hard and deep you get pregnant within the first year of marriage.' ”

“Dirty mouth, cussing like that,” said Robby, his eyes drifting down your lips as he bit down on his own. “Have to sort that out before the baby gets here.”

“Lucky we have eight months to train it out of me.”

Robby's nose had just brushed yours before he was pulling back, studying you again. His gaze drifted to your stomach, wondering if the manifestation of your nights had started to show. “You're a month along, already?”

You clocked your head side to side. “Give or take a week or two.”

“Eight months it is.”

Robby kissed you, licking into your mouth and breathing you in with deep breaths. His large hands held your cheeks and kept you in, all but drowning you in lips and touch and love. He tilted his head aside, kissing you deeper. 

At once the doors banged open and arguing voices drifted in. 

Robby pulled back with his head lowered in disappointment while you licked the taste of him off your lips. “I swear to god, these kids-” he grumbled as Denis and Trinity stumbled in. 

“Seems like you got the dad thing down already,” you said, hand rubbing up and down in his back. 

The intruders had a hoard of things in arms. Denis was carrying a large bear in hand that almost drowned him as he struggled to hold him. The bear was holding a blue heart sewen into its paws while Trinity was struggling in pulling the pink balloons in. 

It seemed they'd already made bets on what baby they wanted you to have.

“We er, wanted to get you these,” said Denis. “Sorry for ruining the surprise.”

“I'm not sorry, I didn't do anything,” said Santos with a scoff. 

“You told me,” pointed out Whitaker. 

“Yeah and I told you not to tell anyone, fuckleberry then you tell the dad!”

“I thought he knew!”

“I told you in confidence!”

“You were laughing while you were telling me! That wasn't every confident!”

“Oh my god, it's a figure of speech!”

You laughed at the two of them, hiding your face in Robby's scrubs as he leant his head back toward you. 

“You think they'd notice if we started trying for baby number two now?”

[drhobby]

Ommggg your ex wife series so good literal chef’s kiss I check for updates daily but I’m begging for our girl to get her lick back let her fuck someone else (sharpe!!!) and give that old man a taste of his own medicine give us that toxic angst pls the people are begging for it

thank you so much!!! I love reading your reactions and comments, it truly makes me smile everytime!!

I am working on it! It might be a little longer, not just 1k words. I have written two pieces from Robby's pov and I think it might work well for this piece as well, but please do tell me, would you rather it be from robby's pov or reader's?

choose one for the jealousy chapter

robby's pov

reader's pov

Remaining time: 7 hours 48 minutes

[quicksilver21]

A Year, Anyways: Chapter 9

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: 2k

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, they’re really bad at communicating, lot of swearing

(Masterlist) (Previous) (Next)

The heart monitor beeped a soft steady rhythm as Mason’s chest rose and fell in his sleep. Babies bounce back fast, you knew that, but it was crazy to see it in your own child. Mason was tough. An hour ago, maybe, he had been cooing at you while playing with Robby’s finger. He was fine, you knew that, still you hadn’t left his side since the allergy attack.

Robby sat in the chair on the other side of the small hospital crib. His mouth worked like he was turning something over in his head.

He probably was.

It didn’t really matter.

You didn’t have enough energy left to care.

Your back aches from the way you had been slumped over the side of the crib, watching how Mason’s nose twitched in his sleep.

Still, you have to remind yourself that the doctors said he was fine. The monitors say he is fine. Robby keeps telling you he is fine.

It’s all fine.

So fine, your eyes start to drift shut from your awkward position. You’ll have a crick in your back in the morning.

Worth it.

“That scared the shit out of me,” Robby's voice comes out soft and a little broken. Too honest for the small room in the pediatric ward.

“Me too.” You mutter as your eyes shut and breathing starts to slow.

“No, you know what scared me?” That peaks your interest enough for you to open your eyes.

“Mason not being able to breathe?”

“That, yes,” he runs a hand over his exhausted faced. “But you froze. I’ve seen you in countless emergency situations. You’ve never done that.”

You open your mouth to explain yourself, but no words come out. It’s true, you froze. You froze when you needed to be a doctor.

“No,” he says suddenly, dragging you from your spiraling. “Don’t get lost in your head. I’m not talking like I’m your boss. I’m talking like… whatever the fuck we are.”

Whatever the fuck we are.

Truer words had never been spoken.

“He was having an allergic reaction.” You softly, taking the time to stretch your joints out. Maybe it was to seem in control, you didn’t feel in control. It sure as hell looked like exhaustion.

“They asked about his weight,” he continues, searching the air for the words like they might magically appear there. “You couldn’t answer. And you looked at me like you thought I could.”

You shake your head, trying to back yourself up into that corner in your head where you could be safe. You were tired. Really tired.

“Anyone would have panicked.” You say dryly. Slumping in the spare chair, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt. People panicked in those situations, still it didn’t feel good.

“You’re right, but I’ve never seen you panic.”

You watch Mason again. The hospital onesie seemed awfully uncomfortable. You knew they were soft, but it didn’t smell like home. The nurses had told you hours ago to stop fussing. The best thing you could do was rest apparently.

“I’m his mother. I was supposed to know.” It doesn’t fix the buzzing in your head or the pressure in your chest. But, you were too worn out to come up with something better to fit in your box.

“No.”

You glance over. He was watching Mason too. His eyebrows pinched together in that way you remember them doing when he was trying to solve the problems of the world.

“You weren’t supposed to know.” He stands up slowly, leaning over the crib to adjust a wire that didn’t need adjusting. “You were supposed to be his mom. You did that.”

Al laugh escaped before you can stop it.

Not because it was funny.

Because it sounded so simple when he said it.

Just be his mom.

You were never just his mom. The past year of your life couldn’t be summed up into a simple job description. It was a series of impossible choices made by a woman running on three hours of sleep and blind panic.

“That’s easy to say now.”

His eyes float over to meet yours. You could see him trying to make sense of you.

“What does that mean?”

You stare at Mason’s tiny hand curled in the hospital sheets.

God, you don’t have the energy for this.

For a moment, you think about telling him nevermind. But you’re too tired to do damage control.

“I didn’t have anyone else,” you say before your brain could stop it.

Robby opens his mouth.

“Those first months,” you continue, staring at the floor between your shoes. “I didn’t have anyone else.”

You’d regret it later. Sure. Blame it on the heaviness in your limbs.

“I filled out every form myself,” you continue. “Every sleepless night, every doctor's appointment, every decision was my call.”

“I know,” he says, sucking in a breath to continue. Your finger shoots up between you before he can speak.

“Don’t,” you say quietly. “You know what happened. You don’t know what it was like.”

He takes your words in as he settles back into his chair. Truthfully, he didn’t know how to handle this version of you. You weren’t screaming and you weren’t running. You just… spoke. Honestly.

“You’re right. I don’t know what it was like.” He bows his head, “But I’m here now.”

“Every time I turn around, you’re there.” Your eyes snap to him, taking in every breath and movement in his face. You needed him to hear this. You don’t know why you do, but you do. It didn’t have to make sense. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

The air in the room felt heavy, not in a panicking way. In a way that you hadn’t felt in many months. You were sleep deprived, starving, and emotionally worn out.

“You know what I remember about his birth?” You start softly. Robby looks at you, really looks.

“Paperwork.”

It was simple. A simple thing to remember in the grand scheme of a life altering event.

“Everyone talks about the big things.” You shake your head, gnawing at your lip. “I remember paperwork. The insurance forms, emergency contacts, the pediatrician forms…” your voice trails off as the memories you had pushed away for so long flood back in.

“The nurse handed me the birth certificate paperwork and asked me who the father was…”

Your voice catches.

Funny.

You could remember what you ate for breakfast that morning. Couldn’t remember the names of half the nurses who floated through your room that night. Couldn’t remember Mason’s first cry. But you remembered that.

That little blank line.

The cheap hospital pen.

The pitying look in the nurse’s eye when you paused.

“I didn’t know what to write.”

Your eyes, misty and red-rimmed finally lift to his.

“You know what I ended up doing?” Your breath shakes from the weight of the memory.

Robby doesn’t answer.

“I sat there for twenty minutes staring at that line.” Your laugh comes out hollow and broken.

“Twenty minutes. Because I kept thinking if I wrote your name down, I was choosing for you.” A tear traced down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away.

“And if I left it blank I was choosing for Mason.”

You swallow hard. “Nobody talks about sitting in a hospital making choices that don’t belong to you.”

You try to steady your shaking hands, “Do you know how badly I wanted someone else to tell me what to do?”

He doesn’t move. Just sits in his hospital chair like a statue. To ashamed to meet your eye.

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Just once.”

The words hang there for a second.

Then the exhaustion finally wins.

“Screw you for putting me through that.” It’s pried somewhere deep in your soul. The reason you had been avoiding the whole time.

The silence seems to choke the air out of the room. For many minutes, there doesn’t seem to be any ambient noise. Just the sound of bated breath and facts.

Robby’s gaze falls to his hands. He rubs his palms together once. Then again.

He can’t fix that for you.

He knows that.

He can’t undo any of it.

It’s a year he can’t take back.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. There isn’t some joke he can make. There isn’t some carefully chosen thing he can say to make everything hurt less.

There’s just him.

“Jesus…” he sucks in a breath. “I don't know what to say to that.”

“Yeah, no one does.”

His eyes drift over to Mason. His son. The son who he loved dearly. Then to the woman across from him who he would move mountains for if she asked. He couldn’t move this one.

He tries to picture you there alone in that hospital room.

The image makes something painful twist in his chest.

“What did you put?” The question comes out quiet.

You wipe your eyes with the edge of your sleeve. “I left it blank for three days. Then I wrote your name.”

His eyes shut. Just for a second.

“You wrote my name.” It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.

Even at your angriest. Even when you felt the most abandoned. Even when you were completely alone.

You still chose him.

It’s an earth shattering revelation. For the past month, he’d been acting like he needed to earn his place here. But you’d given him a place from the start. Even angry. Even alone. You’d written his name.

“Why?”

“Because I was angry, not stupid.” You say softly.

He lets out a laugh. That was so you to say.

“Do you know what kills me?” He starts softly.

“What?”

“You keep talking like I wasn’t there… and I wasn’t. But, somehow, you’ve convinced yourself I would’ve chosen not to be.”

“Hell,” he sucks in a breath. “I would’ve thought that too.”

He looks down at his hands. His dry cracked hands from washing them too much.

“But God, I wish you’d stop looking at me like I looked at him and walked away.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“You know what the worst part is? If things had been different… if I hadn’t left…” his voice cracks. “I don’t know if I would have been the man you were describing. Fuck, I don’t know if I’d be the man I’m trying to be now.”

It’s ugly.

Honest.

And not the answer you expected.

You’d spent so much time being angry at the version of him that left that you never stopped to consider he might be angry at that version too.

“I don’t know.” You admit quietly, with a shake of your head. “But you’re everywhere, Michael.”

You try to select your words carefully.

“You show up. You know his bedtime. You know the bottles he likes.” Your voice is exhausted and a little forced. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

His eyes meet yours, pleading and raw. For once he wasn’t apologizing. He was just here.

“You don’t have to trust me tomorrow. Or next week.”

He looks to Mason like the four month old could give him some guidance.

“I just need you to stop acting like I’m temporary.”

You nod once, a small pivotal gesture.

“Yeah, probably should.”

The monitor continued their steady rhythm.

Nothing was truly fixed.

The hurt was still there, sitting between you.

Tomorrow would still be hard.

But, for the first time in a long time, the room didn’t feel as suffocating. The possibility of keeping him in your life felt real.

The thought lodged somewhere between your ribs.

Somehow, that was more frightening than the anger ever had been.

AN: I would like to point out how few italicized thoughts there are in this one…

Tags: @motelgloss @generation-zero @noisynightmarepoetry @youknowiloveyou-so @xoxabs88xox @princessofthalia @proudlyvastlake @jam3s-x @ozwriterchick @the-annoying-fan @realwhoreforfictionalmen @thesewordsareallihavetogive @whatupbuttercup2019 @lifetimeofadventue @1dhoe93 @v33mustdie @rkentzler9 @agentknowitall @thehockeynerd30 @staystrongsoa @ilocuras24 @liveeverydaylikepretzelday @lillly-ofthevalley @sushirollprincess @kittenlittle24 @xpeachyesx @killora1708 @ap1390 @optimistictacosaladcloud @danah-20 @msliz @adrestlyd @countryandsweetbabygirl @justjoanhere @lovehadlovelost @777bambi777 @fudge13 @amberpanda99 @shashasimba1996 @kishie8 @vicky066 @snovvv @imabapical @prettyflowerlily @stardream14 @pinguphd @southernshorty @noob-saibotx @louisbelongstome28 @violetdelrey007 @kay8907 @valentinevampp @mscreativity @unsaidjaelinrose @possiblyafangirl @hauntedduckdefendor @kissalready @nellabear @aleemendoza2425-blog @toxicwasteee @iiuliae

If you would like to be added to the tag list, just let me know —>Taglist

© quicksilver21 2026

[quicksilver21]

Taglist 2: @inkededucatednnerdy @pricastinating @screechingoversomethingprbly @sarahhxx03 @allthememezandsalt @3-smi @sparkyspiers @dancing-oceans @brisklysparklinggeode @sparkle2033

[drhobby]

Ahhh I’m obsessed with you robby & ex-wife…. The night call and vacancy have me kicking and giggling 🫶🏻🙌🏻🍴

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! I'm so glad you enjoy it as much as I do <3 I have the best time writing these. And just for you, here's a little sneak peek of another one i'm still working on. *bops nose*

"Where are you guys going?” Jack asked, leaning his forearms across the surface behind Robby’s monitor. Robby signaled you with a finger. “Just me. Friday night out with the girls,” you said with a smile. Jack’s mouth dropped open. “Just you?” “Yep.” “Well, looking like that, you aren’t paying for a single drink tonight. That’s for sure.” He flashed you his trademark smirk. You sighed. “Your mouth to God’s ears.” Robby scoffed, shaking his head in amusement. “Aren’t you going to do anything about that, man? That’s your wife.” “Ex,” Robby said, not looking up from his typing. “Oh, so you’re single?” Jack teased you. With his eyes still on the monitor, Robby merely raised a hand and flipped him the middle finger.

[jame7t]

tumblr is like an abandoned space station & you all are the thing in the vents

[jame7t]

not me though. im girl with tanktop

[da-pitt]

ROBBY BEING NOSY | THE PITT (2.07 + 2.09)

[drhobby]

the warning

dr robby x exwife!reader // you learn he's been flirting a little too much and put an end to it // listen: i know you want to see him jealous but we're getting there. i had three more of these written that i just want to post because they're funnnzies (this is a programmed post btw) word count: 1k warnings: robby is a jerk with capital J // i chose the picture for the vibes, no body descriptions whatsoever :) make sure to check the masterlist for more toxic content

“Michael Robinavitch.”

The way you pronounced his full name was a warning in and of itself, cold and heavy enough to slice through the ambient noise of the ER. You saw the exact second he heard you; his broad shoulders visibly flinched before he even turned around.

He stood from the rolling chair in the middle of the central hub, a stack of patient charts clutched in one hand.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me.” Second warning.

The effect was instantaneous. Everyone within a five-foot radius suddenly found an urgent reason to be elsewhere. Next to him, Donnie blew a sharp, low whistle. “Good luck, boss.” He tapped Robby’s shoulder with a sympathetic grin, moving away from the blast zone.

Robby dropped back into his chair with a heavy sigh, turning your way with creased brows and an expression that was entirely too innocent. “What did I do now?”

You marched straight into his space, stopping at the front of his chair and leaning your hip against the high edge of the nurses' station desk. Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, creating a physical barrier between you.

Around you, the ER kept moving in its usual frantic rhythm. Monitors beeped, a trauma page echoed overhead, and nurses and doctors walked a little slower as they passed the hub, trying—and failing miserably—to pretend they weren’t hanging on every word.

“I ask myself that every single day. What did Michael do now?” You were fuming. The heat of it was crawling up your neck, your heart thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird. “Is there a nurse shortage I haven’t heard about?”

He shrugged, leaning back and resting his interlaced fingers on his stomach, his brows creasing in practiced disinterest.

“Or why are you trying to get into our kids' teachers' pants?”

“What?” 

“Why the hell is Mila’s teacher asking me about the status of our marriage?” You spat the words, leaning down slightly into his space.

His eyes narrowed, a sudden sharpness cutting through his casual facade. “Is this a male or a female teacher?”

“Female, Michael. A very beautiful, very young female teacher.” Your voice might as well have been dripping with poison.

Robby’s lips twitched, a dangerous spark of amusement lighting up his eyes. “I—I don’t know? Maybe she wants to ask you out.” He teased, shifting his weight forward on the chair.

“I am not joking.” You swallowed hard, trying to force the rising panic and anger back down, desperate to regain some semblance of professionalism in the middle of your work place. “She asked me this morning if we were still married, because apparently, Mila’s dad has been aggressively flirting with her.”

Robby snapped upright, his boots hitting the linoleum floor with a loud thud as he stood. “I did not!”

“Listen, I don’t care who you sleep with, Robby, but keep your one-night stands away from our children.” The accusation tasted bitter. You turned sharply on your heel to walk away but his hand shot out. His fingers wrapped firmly around your elbow, stopping your tracks.

Your body jerked back into its previous position, but you didn't have time to recover your footing before he closed the distance. In a flash, he bracketed you against the desk, planting one heavy palm on the countertop on either side of your hips.

“Keep your voice down.” The order was delivered in a gravelly undertone meant for your ears alone.

Because of the sudden closeness and the sheer difference in your heights, you were forced to tilt your chin up, your eyes locking onto his. You could smell the sharp tang of hospital coffee and his familiar cologne.

He shrugged slightly, though his gaze didn't waver. “I might have teased her a little so she wouldn’t sign Mila a tardy.”

“Why was Mila late in the first place?” you counterattacked automatically, your hands coming up to press against his chest to keep him from crowding you further.

He leaned his face even closer, a shadow of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Because you know I never speed with the kids in the car.”

You shoved him. Your hands laid flat against the solid plane of his chest, pushing with enough force to make him back up just enough so his elbows fully extended. But he didn't lift his hands. You were still completely trapped within his little bicep jail, the warmth of his body radiating over yours.

“Don’t do that, okay? Mila doesn’t need help with her grades, and we certainly don’t need the discount.”

“Wouldn’t hurt either,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

“Michael, I mean it. How would you feel if I started flirting with their pediatrician?” You tried to keep your tone even and level, masking the absolute urge to rip his handsome face off.

Robby didn’t even blink. “I’d apply for the job.”

You scoffed. An honest-to-God, breathless scoff of disbelief. “Michael,” you whined, the anger melting into pure exasperation. “I’m trying to be serious here. Don’t do that. Please.”

The playful defiance finally softened, and a genuine, warm smile broke across his face. “I didn’t, okay? I swear.” His head leaned slightly sideways, watching your expression soften. “Come on, sweetheart, how much of a jerk do you think I am?”

When he saw the sharp, pointed way your eyebrows rose in response, he quickly cut in. “Don’t answer that.”

A reluctant smile mirrored his own on your lips. “You’ve been warned, Robinavitch.”

He finally lifted his hands from the counter behind you, taking a step back and setting you free. The sudden rush of the ER's air-conditioning felt freezing against your skin, and against your better judgment, you instantly missed the heavy warmth of his chest.

“Warning received, boss.” He sent you a slow, deliberate wink.

Straightening your scrub top, you turned and began walking out of the central hub, heading down the main corridor.

“No more flirting ever again, anywhere, I promise!” he called out, his voice laced with amusement.

You kept walking, not slowing your pace. “Play in your own league, Michael!” you shouted over your shoulder.

“My league divorced me!” he yelled back across the chaotic department.

You rolled your eyes, biting your inner cheek to keep from laughing out loud, and purposely avoided looking back so he wouldn’t catch the massive smile on your face.

[thomtrebond]

you've got a fucking hospital of people begging to swaddle you, man. you just gotta ask.

[buttermellow-niffler]

Dr Robby vs your ability to function

Every time Robby goes “ah ah ah” and redirects Whitaker like he’s personally in charge of him, I lose my mind a little bit. Anyway, I projected and made it worse. enjoy.

Warnings: hospital/ER setting, non-explicit touching, flirting in a workplace setting, power imbalance, teasing/light manipulation (affectionate, not harmful

This is a work of fanfiction based on The Pitt. I do not own The Pitt or any related characters or settings; all original material belongs to their respective creators.

{----------------------------------------------------------------------------}

By the third time Dr Robby redirected you with that infuriating little “ah-ah-ah,” you were forced to confront a deeply embarrassing truth.

You had a problem.

A very specific, very stupid, very inconvenient problem.

Because apparently, somewhere between starting your medical rotation and surviving the relentless chaos of the ER, your brain had decided that Dr Robby physically steering you around like an overworked, vaguely exasperated traffic controller was something to fixate on.

Not in a normal way, either.

No.

In a heart skipping, thoughts evaporating, face heating so fast you could probably be used as a warming device kind of way.

The first time it happened, you’d barely registered it.

A packed trauma bay, too many bodies moving at once, monitors beeping incessantly in the background.

You’d stepped exactly where you shouldn’t have, and suddenly there had been a warm hand on your shoulder and Dr. Robby’s calm voice at your side.

“Ah-ah. Not there.”

He’d turned you with easy efficiency, guiding you neatly out of a nurse’s path without even looking directly at you.

Entirely innocent.

Entirely professional.

And yet somehow your brain had taken that simple interaction, wrapped it in neon lights, and filed it away under important.

The second time had been worse.

“Other side.”

A brief touch between your shoulders.

Gone in seconds.

You had then proceeded to forget the medication you’d been specifically sent to retrieve.

By the third?

You knew this had become a serious personal issue.

“Doctor?”

You blinked.

A resident was staring at you.

Right.

Reality.

“Sorry.”

“Long shift?”

“Something like that.”

You avoided eye contact and kept moving.

What you failed to notice—initially—was that Dr Robby had started noticing too.

It happened during the busiest stretch of the shift.

The ER had descended into its usual controlled chaos; people moving quickly through corridors that suddenly felt too narrow, voices overlapping, overhead pages interrupting thoughts before they formed.

You were attempting to navigate around a crash cart while mentally reviewing patient notes when—

“Ah-ah-ah.”

Warm hands landed lightly on your shoulders.

Not rough. Not even firm.

Just enough pressure to turn you neatly out of someone’s path.

And your brain immediately blue-screened.

Again.

You froze for half a second too long.

Long enough that when you looked up, Dr Robby was already watching you.

Not confused.

Not concerned.

Interested.

And then you saw it.

That subtle shift in expression.

That tiny spark of amusement.

Oh no.

No, no, absolutely not.

He couldn’t possibly—

“Go assist with sutures in bay three,” he said smoothly.

Then, just before stepping away, his hand gave your shoulder the briefest squeeze.

“Try to stay with us.”

Oh, he knew.

You wanted the floor to open.

Instead, the universe chose cruelty.

Because once Dr Robby knew?

He became absolutely unbearable.

Suddenly, every correction involved touch.

Things that could have easily been communicated verbally somehow required physical intervention.

“Not that chart.”

A hand at your shoulder.

“You’re with me.”

A light guiding touch at your back.

“Other side.”

Fingers briefly curling around your upper arm.

Every single time, your thoughts dissolved into static.

It wasn’t fair.

He was a grown man. A doctor. A professional.

Surely he had better things to do than psychologically torture one medical student for sport.

And yet.

Halfway through shift, while you were reaching for something entirely correctly, a familiar voice sounded beside you.

“Ah-ah.”

You closed your eyes.

“No.”

A warm hand landed on your shoulder.

“Actually—”

“No,” you repeated, opening your eyes to glare at him. “I reject this.”

One of his eyebrows lifted.

“Reject what?”

“This.”

You gestured vaguely between the two of you.

“The unnecessary redirecting. The touching. The—”

“The touching?”

His expression was criminally neutral.

“Yes.”

“I physically direct people all the time.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

You hated how innocent he sounded.

“You know exactly what.”

“Do I?”

Oh, he was enjoying this.

That was the worst part.

You opened your mouth, immediately realised you had no dignified way to explain yourself, and shut it again.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Then—because clearly humiliation was the theme of your day—he stepped closer.

Not enough to be inappropriate.

Just enough that you noticed.

Both hands settled lightly on your shoulders.

Entirely professional.

Entirely devastating.

Your thoughts ceased functioning.

“There,” he said quietly, watching your expression with far too much satisfaction. “That.”

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Use your words.”

You stared at him.

Then, because honesty had violently abandoned you, managed a weak:

“Oh my God.”

That did it.

He actually smiled.

Not a polite little amused expression.

A real smile.

Warm. Brief. Devastating.

“Thought so.”

And then—because apparently destroying your nervous system wasn’t enough—he stepped back like nothing had happened.

“Come find me when you’re ready to admit it.”

Then walked away.

Just left you standing there.

Non-functional.

While a passing nurse took one look at your face and said—

“Oh, that’s embarrassing.”

[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

[drhobby]

the smirk

dr robby x ex!wife reader / this came to me after reading your request for a jealous robby and YES this isn’t the big reveal but I wrote this as I waited for my dentist appointment in HALF AN HOUR like a possessed woman. So, here it is. Robby’s pov I hope you enjoy. PS. Tom Sharpe is Tom Hiddleston. You’re welcome.

word count: 1.3 k

make sure to check the masterlist for more toxic behavior content

Robby has always noted the way your lips move upward when you’re with Langdon. You were best friends, for god’s sake; he was used to it. But there was the smirk, and then there was the laugh. When your head jerks back to let a cackle out and Langdon looks at you like you’ve invented medicine, Robby wants nothing but to punch that ER Ken in the face. He has never gotten used to it—not in six years of marriage, not in two years of divorce.

His arms cross over his chest, unprompted. He is supposed to be “supervising,” but he is far more focused on the way your lips move at every one of Langdon’s teases.

You were always a smiley little thing. He knows it; you smile at nearly everyone. Robby used to lose his mind over the way your mouth would twitch when Jack teased you, back when you were just dating. Your lips would quiver, your eyes would roll, and your hands would tangle in his arm with a whiny, “Robby, make him stop.” Back then, Robby couldn’t—and wouldn't—hide the grin on his face when Jack murmured, “You lucky bastard.”

But that’s different from his smirk. It was yours, really, but you only ever did it for him. Your lips would pull to the side, flashing just a bit of your teeth, your tongue tucked between them. Your cheeks would warm, and your eyes would shy away from his. In the early days, Robby used to lose himself wondering how else he could evoke that reaction.

“Page Neuro,” Langdon orders Javadi. She moves to the red phone.

Your eyes quickly travel to his. Robby meets the gaze with an edge of challenge, but finds nothing of the sort in return—only curiosity.

“How’s my girl?” the woman on the gurney asks.

Your face lightens in a way Robby is yet to fall out of love of. You move the ultrasound wand across the patient’s belly.

“She’s doing great. A little jumpy.” Your voice is light and melodic—the way you always talk to your patients, specially the ones who end ip in the ER. “When’s your next appointment, Monica?”

“In three weeks,” she answers, her voice drained.

“Let’s see you next week, alright?” You turn your head to smile at her, and Robby has to restrain his hands, digging them deep into the pockets of his jacket, to stop them from reaching out to cup your cheeks.

He used to fidget with his ring when he was nervous, but he’s lost that too. Sometimes he wears it on his middle finger, spinning it round and round with his thumb. But his therapist told him to stop, and if the price of getting you back is abandoning such a significant tie, he’ll pay it. Think of the greater good, Robinavitch.

He swallows hard. You are still joking with Langdon, your expression closer to a grin than his private smirk, but it’s enough to make bile creep up his throat.

“Langdon, go back to Triage. We’ve got this,” he hears himself say. He winces at how obvious he sounds. He expects you to narrow your eyes at him, but you don’t. He doesn’t miss, however, the way you poke your tongue out at Langdon, or the way Langdon playfully rolls his eyes back at you.

Frank looks at him with guilt-ridden eyes, but Robby simply tips his head toward the exit.

As Frank leaves, the doors open to reveal some guy from Neuro. Sharpe, if he remembers correctly.

“Hey man,” Sharpe greets, bumping fists. “Ladies.”

Robby has to contain a snort.

“What do we have here?” Sharpe’s tone is light, bubbly, and far too polished for a place like this.

Javadi presents the case, her eyes wide as she looks at Sharpe like he’s a movie star. He could be, Robby guesses. His blonde, curly hair is perfectly combed, he wears suits to the ER, and he carries himself with the confidence of a royal.

Only then does Robby realize how close he is to you. Sharpe’s forearm is grazing yours. Well, his suit is grazing your scrubs. You hand him the ultrasound wand and he maneuvers the machine from the patient’s belly to her neck.

“Do you want us to call someone, Monica?” you ask, stepping closer. Whether it’s your movement or Robby’s killer stare, Sharpe shifts away from you to examine the patient. “Baby daddy, maybe?”

“Oh, jeez, no,” the woman laughs, and you join in. “He’s more trouble than help!”

You offer a genuine smile and send a teasing look in Robby’s direction. “I can’t say I relate to that.”

The way your lips curve, he knows you do relate. He can’t help but offer a ghost of a smile back—his "ER smile," as you used to call it.

“Are you a mom?” Monica asks you.

You nod, a soft light in your eyes. “Two little gremlins.”

“Very cute ones, I must say,” Sharpe says casually, moving the ultrasound over her neck.

“You’re the dad?”

The question isn’t ill-intentioned, but Robby still feels a primal urge to grunt. He settles for rolling his eyes.

“No, no!” Sharpe laughs, that lame bubbly sound. “I’ve just seen them on Instagram.”

Robby expects you to look at him, to say something like, “The ox in the corner of the room is the father of my children, I don't know how that happened either.” But you don’t. You simply grin at Sharpe’s awkwardness.

“Oh, sorry,” Monica murmurs, looking ashamed.

“Don’t worry,” Sharpe reassures her. “Nice of you to think I’d be lucky enough to get this lady right here.”

Robby scoffs, earning a sharp glare from you. Lucky. Sharpe isn’t lucky. Robby was lucky once, and he would be lucky again.

“Doctor Robby, I’m going to need your help,” Sharpe calls out, all professional polish.

Robby nods and steps up to the opposite side of the gurney.

“Yours too,” Sharpe adds, addressing you by your first name.

Robby freezes, waiting to see your eyes roll. He remembers how you’d complain about women doctors being addressed by their first names while their male peers were always ‘Doctor Last Name.’ He remembers you grousing about it while you were undressing, the shower running, throwing your jeans in the bin—you’d be mid-rant, and he’d be too distracted by the way your shirt came off to hear a word. Something, something, normalized misogyny.

But you don’t roll your eyes at Sharpe. Instead, you look at Robby with a flicker of genuine fear. And he hates himself for ever allowing such feelings to bloom inside you.

“I’m going to pull her neck and I need you two to hold her shoulders,” Sharpe explains. “Can you do that?” he asks you specifically.

You nod, hesitant. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough, but why not.”

Robby knows you’re strong—he’s seen you carry both children at once, one on each arm. He’s been the man behind the doors you slammed shut and the one you dragged to bed. But since all his examples sound borderline harassing, he settles for, “Come on, Pilates prepared you for this.”

You laugh, Monica laughs, and Sharpe cracks a smile. They get into position, and the crack of the adjustment is unmistakable.

Monica lets out a long, shuddering breath. “I can feel my legs again!”

You smile at her, squeezing her hand. “See you next week upstairs, alright?”

Then you turn to the room, look at him, then at Sharpe, and move to leave with a dismissive flick of your wrist.

“That Pilates, uh?” Sharpe teases to your back. “I must join the cult.”

You turn back with a sigh. “You need an invitation from a member.”

“Would you do me the honor?”

Robby sees it in slow motion: the way your brow creases, and you tap your chin with one finger.

“I’ll think about it.”

And as you turn away and leave, Robby realizes his worst nightmare came true: you’re giving Sharpe his smirk.

[robbyxabbot]

I thought of a part two to your post earlier today about fem reader and Robby always fighting

You go downstairs to try to reconcile and tell Robby you love him back, you reach last few stairs and you hear muffled sounds. As you approach Robby you realize he is actively melting down, hysterical crying (not like dramatic but sad). You are in awe because the only times you had seen him shed tears was your wedding day and when Adamson died. I will let you take the rest…

Love you 😘

Hi! Thanks I was gonna write a part two anyways but you came up with a way better idea!

A/N: this is based off my own experience on forgiveness, arguments and talking about mental health with my own spouse.

Forgiveness

Part 1

Michael Robinavitch x wife!reader

Warnings: None??? Bad grammer.

Marriage is meant to keep people together, not just when things are good, but particularly when they are not. That’s why we take marriage vows, not wishes. – Ngina Otiende

The guilt ate you up inside, tossing and turning in bed, the hopes that he would come back up stairs. He told you he loved you and you ignored him, you didn't say it back just laid there with your back facing him, air heavy with tension and the anger you both held.

The clock on your bed side table read 3:30am, you hadn’t slept a single moment, you never slept well if he wasn't next to you, sleeping next to someone for the last ten years will do that to you. Finally the distance got to you. Slowly sliding out of the bed making your way out of your room and down the hallway, slowly stepping down the stairs carefully not to make a sound just in case he was asleep or worse awake, you made it to the last couple stairs when you heard noises, noises you only heard Robby make twice in your whole ten years of marriage, once when you married and when Adamson died, he was crying, actually in was sobbing, you making your way down the rest of the steps where you're met with your husband's back facing you he's hunched over on the couch face buried in his hands.

You watched him for a moment, unsure if you should go to him or just walked right back up those stairs. He's been so different lately you felt like you were walking on eggshells around him, hell the whole emergency department felt that way.

Your feet were moving before you really were sure of what to do. You sat down next to him wrapping your arms around his shoulders, it was a moment before he left his face, his body turning to face you wrapping his arms around your middle, you both leaned back against the couch, nothing was said for a while, just the occasional sounds of Robby's sniffles.

“I don't when the last time was that I didn't sleep next to you.” You mumble into his chest. Robby doesn’t say anything, he just tightens his hold around you, pressing a kiss on your head. You've been married for so long, your apologies come out more as actions than words.

“I'm not seeing Jack…” Your voice is quiet, hoping not to set him off again.

“He's just worried about you like I am.”

You feel him let out a sigh, sitting up a little.

“I really don't want to talk about my feelings.” He tells you the same thing every time and you always let it go.

“Well you need to talk to someone about them.”

“I will” That's not convincing.

“Michael…”

“I promise…and I am sorry about earlier this morning about Al-Hashimi.” He was a flirt. You knew this. You move your head up to look at him.

“You better tell her you're married before I do.”

Neither of you moved, both drifting off on the couch in each other's arms, always sleeping better when you're near one another.

[drhobby]

would you consider writing for abbot? :3

maybe idk as a woman from the global south i find it hard to thirst over the us military... but i can try. what do u have in mind? <3

[robbyxabbot]

Hi love your writing can we have 'Robby' x fem having arguments and then she is jealous of Dr. Al-Hashemi

Hi! Sorry this took so long, I have lots of requests to get through but thank you all for sending them in!

Warnings: Cursing, implied Infidelity? Grammer mistakes

A/N: No hate to Dr Al-Hashimi besides her AI i love her, in this since she is new she is not aware that Dr. Robby is married.

A wise person once said ‘A good marriage is the union of two good forgivers’ Robby and you were not that you two held grudges like you wouldn't believe. Ten years of marriage and it's only gotten worse lately, sometimes you thought Robby might be doing overtime just to avoid you. The fights weren't even about serious things, it was Robby leaving his shoes out and you tripping over them after asking him to put them away three times, or when you try to get him to talk about his feelings, Adamson, or even Langdon for that matter, one little comment about either of them set him off.

Your most recent fight started this morning, Robby had peaked over your shoulder when you were looking at your phone and noticed some messages you had received from Jack, to you they seemed completely innocent but to Robby not so much.

“He's clearly trying to get into your pants!”

“He's your best friend. Why on earth would he do that?”

Robby left for work that morning, no goodbye, no offer to take you to work. So you didn't see him again until you showed up to the ED.

-

You were just close enough to hear the end of the conversation between Robby and Baran.

“I'll buy you a drink with my winnings.” She offered before walking away.

You watched Robby's reaction, it was almost a smile, he watched her walk away, he hadn't said anything, no ‘I'm sorry I'm married’ or ‘I don't think my wife would appreciate that’

He hadn't noticed you yet but that changed when you gave him a good smack on the back of his shoulder.

“Are you kidding me?” Your tone is sharp, almost angry.

Robby seems almost startled by your sudden presence.

“You can flirt with Jack but I can't smile when a woman flirts with me?”

“I don't flirt with Jack. I cannot believe you are still on about that. He's your friend I would never.” You defend yourself but your confidence is lost, Robby and you had been fighting so much lately that you had given Jack more of your attention than you should have.

Robby was ready to raise his voice when he remembered he was at work. Almost all your nights ended like this. This was the first fight you've started at work.

“We'll talk about it later.” His voice is usually quiet.

“How about instead we just jump to the end of the argument where you sleep on the couch. And I ignore you for eight hours straight.” You said it louder than you had meant to but it didn't matter, not right now.

You left the hospital before Robby did that shift, once you were home you found the extra blankets from the closet and tossed them onto the couch along with Robby's pillow from his side of the bed. You wondered for a moment if this made you look like a child throwing a fit but you pushed that thought from your mind before making your way up stairs to shower.

When Robby got home he found a mess of blankets on the couch and all the lights off in the home you shared, he let out a sigh dropping his backpack to the ground by the front door, slipping off his shoes so he could slowly make his way upstairs.

He slowly pushed open the bedroom peaking his head inside to make out your form in the bed in the dark room, he can tell you're tense, that you're not really sleeping.

“Are we really still doing this?” His voice isn't angry or even upset just exhausted maybe even sad.

You didn't answer, back still turned away from him. Robby stood there a good while hoping you'd change your mind but you never did.

“I love you.” Is all he said before closing the door and making way back downstairs and to the couch.

[drhobby]

nightcall

michael robinavitch x exwife!reader // you call him in the middle of the night and an awkward confession slips out of you // fluffy & domestic word count: 1.2 k make sure to check the masterlist for more toxic behavior content i have like a thousand of these little stories written!!! i have unlimited inspiration around me lmao

You stared at your phone uncertain of what to do. It was a humid Saturday night. You had seen in your shared calendar that Robby had blocked the night with a “Dinner”. He could be with friends, on a date or even something far more intimate. But you had promised each other you would put your children first every single time. And as you looked at your son’s wide eyes you guessed this would be one of those times.

The phone barely finished its first ring before Robby answered. His voice was impatient. “What’s up?”

You heard some distant music in the background.

You pressed the device harder against your ear, your breath hitching. “Robby,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the violent thumping of your heart. “I’m sorry to wake yo—”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he breathed out.

You glanced at the clock. 11:50 PM. You knew he wasn’t sleeping, but at least he didn’t sound agitated. “Okay,” you whispered, swallowing hard against the lump of terror in your throat. “Okay.”

“Is everything alright?” he pressed, the static on the line sharpening his concern.

“Are you busy?”

“What’s going on?” His voice dropped an octave, no longer just concerned, but commanding.

“Don’t freak out.”

He said your name like a warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching your daughter tighter against your chest; she was shivering despite the humid air. “There was an… issue a few houses away from ours.”

“What kind of issue?”

You took a shaky breath, your gaze darting to the bathroom door, then down to your son, Isaac. He was perched on the edge of the tub, his small frame rigid, eyes blown wide with an intensity that made your skin crawl. “An intruder. And—”

“Intruder?!” The word exploded into your ear, loud enough that you had to pull the phone away from your face.

“But the owners,” you rushed to explain, frantic to keep his volume down, “the owners—they, ummm, shot him.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re safe, Robby. I promise.”

“Where are you?” He repeated the question, his voice vibrating.

“In the master’s bathroom.”

You heard him scoff—a dry, humorless sound. “The three of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Has the police arrived yet?”

“I think so. I called 911 ten minutes ago. They said they were on their way.” You let out a jagged sigh, your hand trembling as you smoothed your daughter’s hair. “I can’t tell because I don’t want to get close to the windows. We’re okay. I just… I didn’t want you finding out about this on the news or something.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment; in the background you could hear sirens growing closer.

“Yeah, no,” he said, his voice softening, though the intensity remained. “Thank you.”

“And,” you cleared your throat, glancing at Isaac, who was currently clutching his little baseball bat like a weapon. “Isaac doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He says he’s the man of the house and has to stay alert.”

Robby went quiet for a long thirty seconds.

You wanted to choose your words carefully, you didn’t want your son to think he wasn’t his father’s priority. So you settled for a breathy: “I can go to my parents’”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Robby said quickly. “Can I get the check, please?” You heard him ask in the background.

The connection filled with the frantic sounds of movement: the jingle of keys, an exchange of words, a woman insisting that he stayed, and Robby’s insistence that he couldn’t.

“Michael?” You asked, uncertain if you should still be listening.

When he finally spoke, his voice was absolute.

“I’ll be there in five.”

By the time Robby arrived, you had finally coaxed Isaac out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom. Your daughter was curled against your chest, her small breaths hitching occasionally in her sleep, but Isaac remained upright on the edge of the bed. The image of a five year old in dinosaur pajamas scanning the shadows of the room to defend you was cute. But also, worrying.

Robby appeared in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the hallway light.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered.

Isaac’s posture broke instantly. “Dad!” He scrambled off the mattress and threw himself at Robby. “You came.”

Robby caught him easily, anchoring him against his chest as he walked into the room. The floorboards groaned slightly under his weight. “Of course,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register that Isaac seemed to need. “I’ll always be there when you need me, okay?” He pressed a firm, reassuring kiss into the boy’s dark hair before looking toward the bed. “How are my girls doing?”

You were too drained, too wrapped in the heavy, humid fog of adrenaline-crash to correct him on the possessive adjective. You simply tapped the empty space on the mattress, a wordless, tired plea. “Come here.”

Robby moved quickly, settling onto the bed with Isaac still tucked securely in his arms. He reached out with his free hand, his knuckles grazing the flushed, velvet skin of your daughter’s cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “How are you?” he murmured.

You could smell his fancy cologne, the leather of his jacket and a sniff of wine on him. And you found yourself gravitating towards it.

“Better,” you breathed, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. “Just… exhausted.”

“Get some sleep,” he whispered, shifting as if to stand. “I’ll take him into his room so you have space.”

Your hand shot out, your fingers clamping firmly around his wrist. The contact was impulsive, desperate. “Stay, please.” You felt a flush of self-consciousness as the words hung in the air, so you softened them, adding, “I don’t want him far from me tonight.”

Isaac’s breathing had already leveled out, the rhythm of his father’s steady heartbeat acting like a tether that finally allowed him to drift off.

Robby didn’t pull away. He turned your hand over, pressing a slow, chaste kiss against your palm before settling back against the pillows. “Of course,” he promised.

Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of a police cruiser rolling slowly down the street outside. You felt the pull of sleep, heavy and inevitable, but the lingering curiosity of the phone call pricked at the back of your mind.

“Did I interrupt something?” you mumbled, your eyelids fluttering.

Robby went still. You felt his chest rise and fall in a sharp, jagged motion. “I…” He swallowed hard, a sound that seemed loud in the quiet room. “I had a date tonight. With Noelle.”

“Aahh.” You slowly moved your hand to cradle your daughter’s hair, your thumb tracing the curve of her temple. “Again? Must be getting serious.” Your eyes were already drifting shut, the darkness behind your lids feeling safer than the world outside.

“Well,” Robby said, his voice tight, stripped of its earlier warmth. “She wasn’t very happy about me leaving in the middle of it, so I don’t think so.”

Your brows creased. “She was upset because your son needed you?”

He scoffed lightly. “She rather thinks that I still love you, and that I take any chance to spend time with you.” His voice was rough, warm and dozy.

“Mmmhmm.” You tried to hide the satisfaction and failed terribly. Reaching out for his hand, you tangled your fingers together. “Well I still love you too, Misha.”

The confession slipped out unconsciously. Before you could hear his reaction, the weight of the night finally pulled you under, and sleep claimed you completely.

[quicksilver21]

[inkededucatednnerdy]

Girl

[drhobby]

nightcall

michael robinavitch x exwife!reader // you call him in the middle of the night and an awkward confession slips out of you // fluffy & domestic word count: 1.2 k make sure to check the masterlist for more toxic behavior content i have like a thousand of these little stories written!!! i have unlimited inspiration around me lmao

You stared at your phone uncertain of what to do. It was a humid Saturday night. You had seen in your shared calendar that Robby had blocked the night with a “Dinner”. He could be with friends, on a date or even something far more intimate. But you had promised each other you would put your children first every single time. And as you looked at your son’s wide eyes you guessed this would be one of those times.

The phone barely finished its first ring before Robby answered. His voice was impatient. “What’s up?”

You heard some distant music in the background.

You pressed the device harder against your ear, your breath hitching. “Robby,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the violent thumping of your heart. “I’m sorry to wake yo—”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he breathed out.

You glanced at the clock. 11:50 PM. You knew he wasn’t sleeping, but at least he didn’t sound agitated. “Okay,” you whispered, swallowing hard against the lump of terror in your throat. “Okay.”

“Is everything alright?” he pressed, the static on the line sharpening his concern.

“Are you busy?”

“What’s going on?” His voice dropped an octave, no longer just concerned, but commanding.

“Don’t freak out.”

He said your name like a warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching your daughter tighter against your chest; she was shivering despite the humid air. “There was an… issue a few houses away from ours.”

“What kind of issue?”

You took a shaky breath, your gaze darting to the bathroom door, then down to your son, Isaac. He was perched on the edge of the tub, his small frame rigid, eyes blown wide with an intensity that made your skin crawl. “An intruder. And—”

“Intruder?!” The word exploded into your ear, loud enough that you had to pull the phone away from your face.

“But the owners,” you rushed to explain, frantic to keep his volume down, “the owners—they, ummm, shot him.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re safe, Robby. I promise.”

“Where are you?” He repeated the question, his voice vibrating.

“In the master’s bathroom.”

You heard him scoff—a dry, humorless sound. “The three of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Has the police arrived yet?”

“I think so. I called 911 ten minutes ago. They said they were on their way.” You let out a jagged sigh, your hand trembling as you smoothed your daughter’s hair. “I can’t tell because I don’t want to get close to the windows. We’re okay. I just… I didn’t want you finding out about this on the news or something.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment; in the background you could hear sirens growing closer.

“Yeah, no,” he said, his voice softening, though the intensity remained. “Thank you.”

“And,” you cleared your throat, glancing at Isaac, who was currently clutching his little baseball bat like a weapon. “Isaac doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He says he’s the man of the house and has to stay alert.”

Robby went quiet for a long thirty seconds.

You wanted to choose your words carefully, you didn’t want your son to think he wasn’t his father’s priority. So you settled for a breathy: “I can go to my parents’”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Robby said quickly. “Can I get the check, please?” You heard him ask in the background.

The connection filled with the frantic sounds of movement: the jingle of keys, an exchange of words, a woman insisting that he stayed, and Robby’s insistence that he couldn’t.

“Michael?” You asked, uncertain if you should still be listening.

When he finally spoke, his voice was absolute.

“I’ll be there in five.”

By the time Robby arrived, you had finally coaxed Isaac out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom. Your daughter was curled against your chest, her small breaths hitching occasionally in her sleep, but Isaac remained upright on the edge of the bed. The image of a five year old in dinosaur pajamas scanning the shadows of the room to defend you was cute. But also, worrying.

Robby appeared in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the hallway light.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered.

Isaac’s posture broke instantly. “Dad!” He scrambled off the mattress and threw himself at Robby. “You came.”

Robby caught him easily, anchoring him against his chest as he walked into the room. The floorboards groaned slightly under his weight. “Of course,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register that Isaac seemed to need. “I’ll always be there when you need me, okay?” He pressed a firm, reassuring kiss into the boy’s dark hair before looking toward the bed. “How are my girls doing?”

You were too drained, too wrapped in the heavy, humid fog of adrenaline-crash to correct him on the possessive adjective. You simply tapped the empty space on the mattress, a wordless, tired plea. “Come here.”

Robby moved quickly, settling onto the bed with Isaac still tucked securely in his arms. He reached out with his free hand, his knuckles grazing the flushed, velvet skin of your daughter’s cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “How are you?” he murmured.

You could smell his fancy cologne, the leather of his jacket and a sniff of wine on him. And you found yourself gravitating towards it.

“Better,” you breathed, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. “Just… exhausted.”

“Get some sleep,” he whispered, shifting as if to stand. “I’ll take him into his room so you have space.”

Your hand shot out, your fingers clamping firmly around his wrist. The contact was impulsive, desperate. “Stay, please.” You felt a flush of self-consciousness as the words hung in the air, so you softened them, adding, “I don’t want him far from me tonight.”

Isaac’s breathing had already leveled out, the rhythm of his father’s steady heartbeat acting like a tether that finally allowed him to drift off.

Robby didn’t pull away. He turned your hand over, pressing a slow, chaste kiss against your palm before settling back against the pillows. “Of course,” he promised.

Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of a police cruiser rolling slowly down the street outside. You felt the pull of sleep, heavy and inevitable, but the lingering curiosity of the phone call pricked at the back of your mind.

“Did I interrupt something?” you mumbled, your eyelids fluttering.

Robby went still. You felt his chest rise and fall in a sharp, jagged motion. “I…” He swallowed hard, a sound that seemed loud in the quiet room. “I had a date tonight. With Noelle.”

“Aahh.” You slowly moved your hand to cradle your daughter’s hair, your thumb tracing the curve of her temple. “Again? Must be getting serious.” Your eyes were already drifting shut, the darkness behind your lids feeling safer than the world outside.

“Well,” Robby said, his voice tight, stripped of its earlier warmth. “She wasn’t very happy about me leaving in the middle of it, so I don’t think so.”

Your brows creased. “She was upset because your son needed you?”

He scoffed lightly. “She rather thinks that I still love you, and that I take any chance to spend time with you.” His voice was rough, warm and dozy.

“Mmmhmm.” You tried to hide the satisfaction and failed terribly. Reaching out for his hand, you tangled your fingers together. “Well I still love you too, Misha.”

The confession slipped out unconsciously. Before you could hear his reaction, the weight of the night finally pulled you under, and sleep claimed you completely.

[quicksilver21]