the way some of these fics are written? yall gotta take a long look in the mirror. infantalisation of capable women, nurses and residents, while they work at the hospital. it’s not only not funny, but also degrading. they don’t need to be babied, they’re more than capable of handling themselves. about time we start treating adults like adults in adult spaces. thank you.
Lol yes it actually is diminishing abuse that happens in real life. Youre saying role-playing and nicknames in a work of fiction = pedophilia. It is not reality.
the way some of these fics are written? yall gotta take a long look in the mirror. infantalisation of capable women, nurses and residents, while they work at the hospital. it’s not only not funny, but also degrading. they don’t need to be babied, they’re more than capable of handling themselves. about time we start treating adults like adults in adult spaces. thank you.
Robby has never been a fan of birthdays. This year, loneliness drives him to download Tinder on an impulse, only to come across the last person he expected to find there: his favorite resident.
warning/tags: minors DNI, p0rn with little plot, masturbating, sexting, pet names (sweetheart and good girl) robby loves talking you through it, unprotected piv, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, body hair, fingering, creampie, handjob, kinda softdom!robby, age gap (I imagined reader being in her 20s or 30s but could be in her 40s too, tried to keep it broad)
For those of you who read it the first or second time I uploaded it: during the days the fic was down, I expanded some scenes, added a bit more dialogue, and made it a little kinkier along the way. You might want to read it again for some extra content
He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.
Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.
But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.
He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.
So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.
He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe.
Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.
He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?
As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?
He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”
He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought.
Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.
But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now.
At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.
He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.
Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”
Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.
He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.
It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.
He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.
The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body.
Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.
But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation.
It’s a Match!
On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.
You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.
How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”
Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.
Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.
You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away.
How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.
You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.
You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.
His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.
His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically.
You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before.
It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”
It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”
Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.
Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.
Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:
It’s a Match!
Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.
“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.
He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think.
A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”
Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match.
Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.
It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.
His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.
Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.
You: hii :)
Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.
You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.
He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.
Another message came through a minute later.
You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha
Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.
Robby: hey
yeah, I saw it
listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident
sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird
He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work.
You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.
Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.
Robby: Sorry about the confusion
i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this.
You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.
but hey, we all have our moments i guess
Robby: i’m not the type
this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.
You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder
Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.
Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?
You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious
He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?
Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?
You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know, you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though
Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity
or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that
You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise
Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.
But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.
Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.
You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice
He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight
You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard
but still finding you here is a nice change :)
Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down
You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is
Robby: fair enough.
your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up
fifty four isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?
You: haha yeah well
i like older men
Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?
No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.
Robby: It’s okay to have preferences
everyone does.
You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better
He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.
Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.
Robby: makes sense
i usually go for women closer to my stage of life
we have more in common that way
You: do age gaps bother you?
Robby: in what way?
You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?
Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want
as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.
You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?
Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me
but usually around my age
He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.
He typed before he could second-guess himself.
Robby: how much older are we talking anyway?
the men you usually like i mean.
Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.
You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)
Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.
He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.
Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?
or is it mostly the older crowd?
You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.
Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.
You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)
Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.
He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.
Robby: Nothing to apologize for
honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected
You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance
Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either
there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you
You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest
Robby: Really? that can’t be right
you’re selling yourself short.
You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot
The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.
All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.
Robby: thanks i guess
you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl
The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.
You: good girl? 😏
Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird
just a figure of speech i suppose.
You: should i call you daddy then? ;)
Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.
The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.
You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol
Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.
Robby: Don’t worry about it
i know it was a joke, no harm done
You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke
He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.
Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.
You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight
Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep
early shift tomorrow and all
You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something
The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.
Robby: that would be very inappropriate
i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross
You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now
You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting.
Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that
we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow
You: nah i’m pretty sure i can
Robby: No.
You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.
He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying.
Robby: what do you mean?
You: sexting, duh
He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.
Robby: that’s basically the same thing.
You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.
Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.
This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.
But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.
Robby: what do you want me to say?
You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot
He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought
Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?
The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.
You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?
Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch.
Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed
You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(
He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.
You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do
You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.
Robby: i feel stupid doing this.
You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself
Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.
Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?
You: yessss that was so much better. keep going
If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.
Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?
You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver.
You: yes. they’re open
Robby: Perfect
i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could
run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are
As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.
You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.
Robby: that’s my girl
now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me
You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.
You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.
Robby: fuck i knew you would be
i want you to circle your clit for me now
Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need
i’d take my time, taste every inch of you
Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.
Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me
You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please
Robby: Good
now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep
curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake
i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening
When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles.
Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open
i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this
imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit
Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.
You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please
Robby: you were the one who told me to do this
You: i know i did. but it’s not enough
send me your address
He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.
Robby: what for?
you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?
You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.
Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.
Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride.
You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.
You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there
You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.
You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.
But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.
Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.
He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you.
Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”
Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach.
As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively.
The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress.
The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.
“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts.
From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.
The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.
The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.
Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.
You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”
His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.
“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”
You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”
You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.
“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub.
He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”
Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.
Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”
He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”
You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.
The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit.
His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth.
He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”
“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”
“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips.
Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed.
Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”
You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher.
Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher.
“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”
The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”
You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.
“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”
The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.
You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.
Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”
You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants.
“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”
Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust.
You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.
“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”
He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”
You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”
Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.
Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”
He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.
“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”
He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”
The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.
You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.
A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.
You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”
Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”
Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.
Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.
After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”
You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.
A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”
You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”
You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.
The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”
He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.
The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.
As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”
You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.
“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”
You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”
You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.
“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.
Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.
And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.
His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.
With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.
“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.
“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”
You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.
“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.
The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”
You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.
“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”
By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”
He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”
You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”
Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”
Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.
Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”
Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.
God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.
You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”
At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you.
The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.
“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”
You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”
“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”
With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.
You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.
There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”
He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”
The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.
“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”
He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”
You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.
A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.
If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it
Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.
I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.
Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷
"Just the Way It Is" - Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x Reader
Summary: When a new HR assistant director introduces a hospital-wide weight loss program, the last person you expect to be your ally is Park the Shark, an ortho jock you've never really gotten to know.
Tags: fat!reader (mentioned as being over 200 pounds but no other physical description given), pediatric emergency attending!reader, i made kingdon her residents and donnie her nurse bc why not they felt the most pediatrics-oriented to me, kingdon crumbs, pining brendon, protective brendon, slow burn, flirting, first date, SMUT, face sitting, piv (unprotected)
Content Warnings: both direct and indirect fatphobia, discussion of orthorexia, diet/intentional weight loss culture
Author's Note: this beast of a fic has been finished for @genevievedarcygranger as part of my birthday fundraiser, which will continue taking donations through july 31st; thank you so so much for your contribution!!
Word Count: 11.6k
You’re suspicious of the new HR assistant director the moment you meet her.
It’s not that she’s skinny. Not really. Obviously, in health care, you mainly work with thin people; the field is fatphobic as hell, even the doctors who are doing their best not to be. You have maybe two other plus-size coworkers you know, but none in the Pitt. People question your presence all the time in silent moments (and sometimes verbal ones). So it’s not that she’s skinny. But the green smoothie clutched in her manicured hand, the office siren aesthetic designed to show off her itty-bitty waist, the expensive blonde highlights, and the bleached smile raise alarm bells in your brain. And, let’s be honest: Her name is Candice, but she goes by Candi. It’s difficult for you to imagine a more ironic, biting choice than that.
Your initial suspicion turns to straight-up disdain – maybe even hate on your less charitable days – when she announces her very first hospital-wide initiative. She gathers all the attendings and charge nurses into the largest conference room at shift change and launches into a slide show. The very first slide, there’s a photo of a bashful, adorable fat girl, maybe twelve years old, wearing a sparkly pink dress as she holds hands with her dad.
“That was me right before my first father-daughter dance. You might not believe it looking at the woman standing before you today, but I was heavyset most of my life.” Candi goes on, “With a lot of hard work, I was able to lose the weight and keep it off. Now, working in HR, I know that a thinner workplace is a healthier one, which means lower insurance rates for everyone. To promote health and wellness for our staff, we’ll be ringing in the New Year with a Corporate Weight Loss Journey! We can all accomplish our New Year’s Goals together and get some benefits for our teams.”
You shrink in your seat. Objectively, you know that nobody’s staring at you, but it feels like it. In a room where almost everyone’s below 200 pounds, you’re naked and Candi’s just grown devil horns to shine a spotlight on your stretch marks and rolls.
While you yearn for a total building collapse, for the next half hour, she goes over the rules. “The hospital will offer complimentary fitness classes twice a week and a healthier slate of meal options in the cafeteria to encourage the program, but those perks are far from the best part. For every percent of weight lost, individuals will receive tiered rewards. And, if your entire department achieves 10% weight loss on average, there’s a big prize in store to reward everyone for their hard work.” Then she flips to a slide with lots of happy before-and-after photos where all the ‘before’ sides look a lot like you. With that magazine-ready smile, she announces, “Lastly, to incentivize our staff members who need it most, whoever loses the most total pounds will win an all-expense-paid three-day vacation to a US-based resort of their choosing! Isn’t that incredible?”
There’s a light smattering of claps, most of the attendings bored but prepared to accept whatever initiatives HR wants to foist upon them. You definitely notice a handful of more excited claps and whoops, though, and you work to quickly memorize who they come from as a shorthand ‘to avoid’ list.
Candi gives a stomach-turning false squeal and finishes, “Of course, we can’t make this program mandatory, but I’m personally asking all of you as our PTMC leaders to encourage your teams to participate. Any questions?”
Then someone else’s voice rises from the silence. No raised hand. Clear and strong, a man you don’t recognize in dark scrubs and a surgical cap barks out, “This is a terrible program and you should can the whole concept before it crashes and burns.”
Candi’s face falls for a second before it twists up into scorn. “Excuse me, Dr. Park?”
“Do you have any idea how damaging programs like this are to the actual wellness of your employees?” His steady voice barely conceals rage. You sit up straighter to look at him, surprised to see a buff tall guy on the same page as you. “Let’s start with the obvious: You have no idea how many staff members may have eating disorder histories or are currently struggling with body dysmorphia or the countless conditions that make weight loss impossible or damaging. That alone should be enough to stop this.”
She scoffs, “Like I said, nobody is required to participate.”
“That doesn’t change how you’re creating an outright dangerous environment for them,” he argues. No hesitation or wavering in his voice. “Then let’s talk about how hard it is for overweight patients – who make up the large majority of Americans, let’s keep in mind – to trust their doctors in the first place. They already put off care out of fear and receive worse care because of their doctors’ biases; how much worse do you think it’s gonna be if we have management reinforcing those biases? It’s disgusting and I’m not going to endorse it.”
“Dr. Park,” she replies, all soft and condescending, “just give it a chance. I promise we have the best intentions here.”
“Nope, absolutely not. My practice will not be participating,” he cuts back without any sympathy in his voice. Is that a wet patch in your panties? “In fact, I’m gonna personally buy them all prizes for not doing this and for using their brain power to provide the quality patient care they’re paid to focus on instead of wasting their time with vain competitions that value the hospital’s bottom line over the important work we actually do. Maybe we’ll finish with a pizza party.” Standing up and collecting his things, he concludes by telling her, “My subordinates’ bodies aren’t my business; their skills are. Let’s not pretend this is about anything other than lowering the hospital’s insurance costs so the board can maximize profits.”
Next to you, Robby mutters under his breath, “Classic Park.”
When Dr. Park storms out of the meeting, you’re too stunned to move, speak, or breathe.
A few minutes after the meeting ends, the elevator down with Robby and Abbot is the longest of your entire life. They’re your friends, yes, but there’s always been a level of distance between you. They’re the ER Cowboys, the big bad attendings who’ve worked together since the dark ages, and you’re the new attending who campaigned hard to start a pediatric sub-specialty unit in the ED. They both like you plenty, but you also run your own little world that orbits theirs, a bite-sized version neither of them has to mess with often.
You’re trying not to listen to their back-and-forth – Robby talking about his ‘beer gut,’ Jack mentioning his ‘dad bod’ – when Robby nudges you with his elbow and asks, “You gonna get your residents and nurses involved with this thing? I mean, it should be especially important to you, right? Childhood obesity rates rising and everything.”
“Which is something I’m not particularly concerned about working in emergency medicine,” you reply, voice shorter than you’d meant. “Last time I checked, being fat doesn’t make kids break their arms, smack their heads, or develop infections.”
His eyebrows go up, a little surprised at your hard pushback. You’re usually soft and sweet and chatty, exactly the doctor you want helping your baby get better, but he’s clearly hit a sore spot. “I guess that would be a hard no.”
As the elevator doors slide blessedly open, you tell him, “There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to spend any of them thinking about Frank Langdon’s BMI.”
Robby replies, “I think the point is focusing on our own.”
You can tell he doesn’t do it on purpose, but the way his eyes flick down to your hips tells you everything you need to know about what he’s thinking. Spending your life in this body, you can tell what people mean beneath what they’re saying. So you give a tight smile and say, “Well, I’m perfectly fine with mine the way it is. Hope you have fun hating yours.”
As you push past them and beeline toward the lockers so you can escape to your car as soon as possible, you hear Robby turn to Abbot and ask, “What the hell was that? Did I say something?”
Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “Brother, she’s the only bigger girl on our whole floor. Maybe try being more sensitive than an estranged father at custody trade-off next time.”
“Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“Because you’re bad with women,” Jack says with a clap to Robby’s shoulder. Just as you start to think he might be a safe space for you in all of this, he play-boxes Robby’s chest and says, “Anyway, night shift’s absolutely gonna crush day shift on this thing. Shen’s been asking me to show him the ropes at the gym for months and Ellis used to box. We can cut weight no problem.”
Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “You bastard.”
That night, you eat your dinner in front of your work computer. You give a few nervous parents messages in their portals, sign off on some resident charts, and sort through a few transfers and AMA notices. The whole time, though, your mind keeps drifting back to that doctor from the meeting, and soon enough you find yourself sorting through the hospital directory. Of course, the massive city hospital employs about fifteen Dr. Parks, three of which are attendings, and there are no pictures because the website is behind the times.
Which means you have to use the tools at your disposal.
Pretty soon after coming into the Pitt Jr. the next morning (as your department has come to be called), you take advantage of a lull in the flow to interrogate two of your residents. You find Mel and Langdon at the nurse’s station, making heart-eyes at each other, while they go over a chart. You come up to them like you’re about to commit espionage and ask under your breath, “Do you guys know a Dr. Park who works in the hospital? Big buff dude?”
“Park the Shark?” Frank takes a deep breath like even the thought is harrowing. “Yeah, of course we know him. Everyone in the ED does.”
Your brows wrinkle. “Why haven’t I met him? I’ve been here a year now.”
He scoffs and offers, “Because you’re insanely lucky?”
Mel, always generous, adds in Park’s defense, “It’s because you’re a pediatric specialist. Shark’s head of orthopedic surgery and he has his own private practice, so he’s picky about the cases he’ll take from the Pitt.”
“Thank god we have Robbins,” you say of the incredible pediatric surgeon who’s always coming down to the Pitt Jr. Then, pretending it’s more of a passing interest than a burning one, you press, “Sounds like you two aren’t crazy about him.”
“He’s a huge dick,” Langdon says at the same time Mel explains, “He can be kind of intense.”
They make the kind of conspiratorial eye contact that always makes you roll your eyes, tempted to tell them to just fuck it out of their systems already. “Details, people.”
Frank raises his hands innocently and defers to Mel, who sums it up, “He just…only cares about the medicine, I guess.”
You narrow your eyes at them. “And that’s a bad thing?
“She means that he very actively doesn’t care about anything else.” Frank clarifies, “Like, hates everything. And everyone. Especially emergency room doctors, because we can’t magically control what happens to a patient’s bones before they show up to the hospital.”
You nod slowly but ask, “Okay, so he’s an ortho jock, but what about, like, as a person?”
“I’m not sure he even is one,” Frank replies, his expression completely serious. “The only thing I know about him is that he can squat and bench 450.”
From behind him, revealing that he’s been listening, Donnie adds, “Don’t forget the 550 deadlift.”
Frank groans, “Right, how could I forget the 550 deadlift?”
At your confused look, Donnie explains, “Dr. Park took part in this powerlifting charity competition a couple of years ago.” He takes out his phone and rapidly pulls up a video. “The organization would match every pound lifted with $100 for the top three competitors. He got second – I guess the national record-holder lives in Pennsylvania – but he still donated $145,000 to Operation Rainbow. They do free orthopedic surgeries for kids in developing countries.”
“Jesus.” Trying to actually conceptualize lifting that amount of weight as Donnie scrubs through the competition video until Dr. Park’s on screen, you give Frank a pointed look. “Doesn’t sound like too bad of a guy to me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the attention he was swimming in after had nothing to do with it,” Frank replies, all cynical. “They put it on the hospital’s Twitter and it went kind of viral. That was a tough season for any of us guys trying to date coworkers.”
Mel nudges him on the shoulder. “You’re just as handsome as Dr. Park.”
“But I definitely can’t lift the girls I date over my head.”
She protests, “That’s not what girls want!”
Watching the video of Park’s deadlift on Donnie’s outstretched phone, sweat dripping down his chest and a driven expression on his face, you muse breathily, “It’s not not what girls want.” You lean in closer to the video and observe, “Wow, those are tiny shorts.”
Mel looks over your shoulder and her eyes widen. Almost mesmerized by Dr. Park’s pumped muscles, she agrees, “Not much left to the imagination.”
Frank snatches Donnie’s phone, pushes it back at him, and huffs while grabbing a chart, “Don’t we have work to do, people?”
Donnie snickers, “Jealous little spoil sport.”
It’s not long before the day picks back up, lots of feverish crying babies and vomiting kindergarteners and skatepark preteens with broken arms that need tending. Robbins comes down to set a few bones and schedule a couple surgeries. You fall into the flow of the work you love, comforting parents and supporting students. It’s all going fairly easily until Langdon mentions the weight loss challenge; he goes back and forth between your and Robby’s service, especially for teenage patients, so he catches wind of it first. And then he manages to get Donnie into the idea in a ‘get rid of our dad bods’ way, which has you suppressing groans, and then Donnie ropes in another nurse, and Frank ropes in Mel (who has absolutely no weight to lose) because he can rope her into anything, and then you have to be the bad guy.
All in all, by the time of your last break around three, you’re fed up. You just need to vent to someone who you know agrees with you. So you stomp into the elevator and punch the button that you know leads to orthopedics, trying not to let the storm swirling in your throat control you. At reception, you flash your badge and get waved back toward the offices, where you easily identify Dr. Park’s as the biggest one all the way toward the back with the near floor-to-ceiling window views over the city on one side.
When you knock on the door, you hear an annoyed-sounding, “Yeah?”
But you’re not a shrinking violet who’s turned off by the thought of being an inconvenience. You slip into his office and close the door behind you as he turns to face you. You’re talking before he even has a chance to: “Hi, Dr. Park, I know you don’t know who I am, but-”
“I know who you are,” he interrupts bluntly. You get the sense that he does that a lot. “You started that new pediatric wing in the emergency department. I hired Robbins to my team so you’d have a pediatric specialist to call for all your tiny bone breaks.”
Taken aback for a second, your lips part into a smile. “I figured the board was in charge of that.”
“Please, the hospital doesn’t have the cash to hire a double-board-certified surgeon on short notice,” he scoffs. “I run my private practice out of this suite. I hired her personally; she has hospital privileges just like I do. Pediatric orthopedic surgery’s way harder; I figured if the Pitt’s gonna be bringing in more kids, I’m not gonna have my surgical residents butchering their little bodies in the name of education.”
Leaning against the door, you laugh and tease, “You’re kind of a bleeding heart, Dr. Park. I never would’ve guessed.”
He looks up at you properly. His eyes rake over your body and he smirks. “Don’t rat me out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. What brings you all the way up to the penthouse?”
“It’s kind of embarrassing,” you start, dropping your eyes from his for the first time in the conversation, “but I just wanted to thank you for saying something during that stupid meeting yesterday. About the weight loss thing. It was nice hearing someone, um, not think my body is inherently bad. So. Yeah. Wanted to introduce myself officially and let you know it mattered to me.”
“That’s not embarrassing,” he replies with a furrowed brow. Like he really can’t fathom it. “You have the right to feel safe in the workplace just like anyone else does. Any administrative program that makes my coworkers, my nurses, or my students uncomfortable isn’t welcome in my department.”
“I wish that was the attitude in the Pitt,” you sigh, flopping down on the loveseat opposite his desk like you own the place. He definitely doesn’t hate the way you look all sprawled out or the way you unapologetically take up the space. You groan, “The other attendings are so committed to it that my students are asking if we can participate.”
“What’d you say?”
Expression tight and unforgiving, you reply stiffly, “That they’re welcome to work toward the individual prizes on their own time, but, as a department leader, I’m not going to encourage it.”
“Very tactful.”
You shrug and admit, “I may not have phrased it that well in context.”
Amused now, actually enjoying your company, Park presses, “What did it sound like in context?”
Giving him a conspiratorial little smile that he can’t deny is heart-poundingly cute, you tell him, “Something along the lines of ‘that prissy HR bitch can’t force me to starve myself to save the hospital money and you shouldn’t be sheep’ if I’m remembering correctly.” He barks out a laugh as you quickly cover it with, “Okay, okay, I know, but, in my defense, they covered the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge with these ‘motivational’ posters that make me wanna puke. How am I supposed to enjoy my sandwich with ‘weight loss starts in the kitchen!’ staring down at me? I’m here eating in my car like I did my senior year of high school when girls like Candi fucking Cassidy called me Piggysburgh. Not even that funny.”
“Come up here and eat with me, then,” he suggests with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t make your head spin from the easy, casual selflessness of the offer. “You can use the ortho lounge whenever you need a break, too. I’ll get you a badge for our floor. We’ve got bean bag chairs,” he says with waggling eyebrows like that’s the holy grail of accomplishments. “I always make sure the place is stocked with good snacks since our vending machine blows. Plus, we’ve got Roku. And foosball.”
You meet his smile with one of your own. “Sounds very luxurious.”
“It is. Private practice is magical.” After a beat of charged silence, Park looks you up and down again like you’re his dinner plans and says, “I take my lunches at one. Consider yourself invited.”
The next day, you slip away from the emergency room floor with your lunchbox and into the elevator toward ortho without a word, ditching the unspoken, usual routine of eating lunch alongside Robby and Abbot. It’s the time of day when the three of you have a sort of informal meeting about the different cases you’re dealing with, what needs to fill in the broader emergency department, which students need more support – and the results of the latest Pens game. You know perfectly well that they’ll immediately notice your absence, but, you figure, if they really want your time, they can actually schedule something instead of taking it for granted.
When you gently tap on Dr. Park’s door, you’re met with a sort-of-teasing-but-mostly-not bark, “That better be the cute Pitt Jr. doctor and not your ugly ass here again to ruin my lunch with another last-minute emergency, Peterson!”
You nudge the door open, bite your lower lip, and reply, “Cute Pitt Jr. doctor checking in.”
His eyes shoot up to his hairline and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Swallowing hard to conceal his embarrassment, he course corrects, “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Ah, hi. Hi, doctor. It’s good to see you again.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘doctor,” you laugh as he stands up and grabs his own lunchbox from one of the countless drawers behind his desk. “We can be on a first-name basis since you’re saving me from the hell of lunch with my coworkers.”
Park scoffs, reaching around you to open up his door. “I’m your coworker.”
“Yeah, but you’re cool.”
He chuckles, “I’m cool?”
“You don’t hate fat people,” you amend with a shrug. “That’s a good start for me.”
“Fair enough.” He shakes his head in annoyance at the reminder of what you’re having to deal with downstairs. Then he nods down a hall and says, “C’mon, I’ve got a spot where I like to eat.”
“It’s not the roof, is it?” Your nose wrinkles when you frown and Park catches himself memorizing it. “Jack and Robby are always trying to get me to hang out with them on the roof.”
Park cringes at the thought, leading you decidedly away from the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve had nightmares about being the poor bastard who has to put Robinavitch back together again if he ever actually jumps.”
You snicker even though you probably shouldn’t. “He won’t; it’d be too much of an inconvenience for everyone else.”
“Hey, whatever gets the job done.” He replies with a suspiciously knowing sort of sigh, “No bad reason to stay alive.” He opens up an ‘authorized personnel only’ door with his badge key. You step into a room with a warm skylight at the center of the ceiling, the sun raining down onto a small square garden beneath it, ringed by a few plush armchairs. It’s like a miniature oasis, the walls soundproof, the space insulated from the chaos of the hospital. Park explains, “They were supposed to turn this room into a whole zen meditation space thing for families waiting for their loved ones to get out of surgery, but I very kindly explained to the board that I had patients who needed care and couldn’t afford it, so that money should probably be used to start a surgical angel fund and, of course, they agreed with me.”
Sitting down in one of the inviting chairs, you give him a mischievous sideways glance. “I have a feeling it didn’t sound like that in context.”
“It may have sounded a bit more like ‘you greedy fuckers’ and ‘this disgusts me so much that I’ll move my practice to another hospital,’” he admits with a warm laugh as he opens up his lunchbox, which is an oversized borderline military thing with lots of organization. As he unpacks about a thousand containers, he glances at you doing the same and remarks, “Cute lunchbox.”
You show off the pastel bento-style compartments, arranged perfectly with fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, and a pesto pasta salad you’ve been yearning for all day. “Lunch is the only time of day I get off my feet for a solid half hour. I take it very seriously.”
“I can see that.”
You don’t miss his soft, affectionate smile as he takes in your matching containers and floral-patterned napkins. As you look at his own spread, similar in intentions but different in execution, you muse, “Looks like you’re the same way.”
“I try to be intentional when I eat,” he replies simply, pouring a homemade dressing on a colorful salad made from ingredients in his different small jars. You have to respect a man who maintains the structural integrity of a salad by mixing it at lunchtime instead of in advance.
“You must be a ‘food is fuel’ kind of guy,” you guess, gesturing to his general musculature, “given the whole ‘550 deadlift’ thing.”
He makes eye contact that strikes you as very cheeky and self-satisfied. Cute, even. “That old video still circling around downstairs?”
You nod and confirm, “They were pretty eager to have me ogle you.”
He waggles his eyebrows; you wonder if any of your coworkers have ever seen him so playful or if you’re already special to him for some reason. “Like what you saw?”
Rolling your eyes, you point your fork at him. “Don’t fish for compliments when you know you’re hot; it’s unbecoming.”
Only half-jokingly flexing his biceps for you, he snickers, “Clearly I didn’t have to fish very much.”
You reach across and smack his arm, definitely not giving his muscles a squeeze on the way. He just laughs and shakes his head and goes back to eating. The two of you are comfortable and quiet for a few minutes as you eat. Usually, you’re uncomfortable eating around others, expecting comments on your choices, whether ‘healthy’ or not. But Brendon puts you at ease, not even glancing at what you’re having as he eats.
After a few lunches together, you gather up the courage to ask what you’ve been wanting to since the HR meeting. “Why do you care so much about the weight loss campaign thing, anyway? You’re kind of, like, the exact beauty standard for men.”
“Am I?”
“We already covered fishing for compliments, remember?”
“Touché.” He laughs and shrugs and stabs into his food. “How much honesty do you want?”
“Enough to satiate my curiosity without making you uncomfortable.”
“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable to talk about it as long as you won’t be uncomfortable hearing it.”
Getting something of a sense of where this might be going, you nod and tell him slightly more seriously, “I won’t be. I wanna know, especially if you’re gonna be my regular lunch date.”
The word ‘date’ makes him straighten up and preen a bit. “Well, I think I’d like that.” So he takes a slow breath, debates his phrasing a minute, and ultimately barrels into it, talking fast in a way that seems maybe half nervous: “I had an eating disorder when I was younger. Orthorexia. Back then, it was diagnosed as OCD and ARFID. With the education I have now, I can recognize it for what it was.”
The honesty hits you hard. You know without it needing to be said that Park isn’t honest like this with most people. He’s decided, in the same way that you have, that the two of you are allies in some kind of way. The two people vocally against this stupid HR thing, yes, but something that matters more, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.
With you giving him space, no judgment, just presence, he goes on, following the train of thought and memory and letting you join him like it isn’t the big deal it is, “I was a scrawny kid. Wanted to bulk up some in med school to get girls – I know, I know – and then when I went for ortho, one of my mentors mentioned it was good to build extra strength. In this field, you need endurance, grip strength, upper body strength, core stability.” He chews on the thought alongside his lunch for a moment before clarifying, “But I went about it all wrong. Crash diets with brutal full-body gym days. Cutting out anything that ‘sounded’ bad – first it was fats, then carbs, then just about everything bodies actually need. I stopped caring about how my body functioned and got obsessed with how it looked to everyone else.”
His voice goes far away for the first time, fork wavering in the air, and you watch him carefully, waiting with held breath.
Finally, he sighs sharply, “My residency took two extra years because of it. I needed serious help. If the hospital I worked at had some program that incentivized that behavior? I’d probably be fucking dead. That’s not happening in my department.” Finally, his eyes lift up to yours. You’ve never realized just how blue they are, brilliant and light. “I’m sorry it’s happening in yours. You ever need me down there, just call.”
It takes you a minute to speak, so many emotions tangled up in your gut. You start with a simple, “thank you,” but then it quickly spirals out into, “for telling me about your history, trusting me, I guess and for standing up like that in the meeting, and for being so nice to me during all this when you don’t have to, for- for-”
“Hey, stop,” he stops you as your voice speeds up and shakes. He reaches over and gives your hand one quick, firm pulse with his own. The touch lingers. His thumb on your wrist. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. After a beat, he murmurs, “You deserve better than saying thank you for the bare minimum. Everyone does. I know that I get listened to here when most people don’t. If I don’t say something, nobody will.”
And, god, is that sexy.
You just nod kind of stupidly, trying not to get lost in his eyes like some lovestruck tween.
Thankfully, Brendon’s pager goes off, shocking you both out of the intense eye contact that’s begging to end in a kiss or a confession. He drops his gaze first and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the countless feelings that tumble around in his stomach whenever you look at him because Brendon Park does not get ‘crushes’ on coworkers.
After he closes up his lunch box, Brendon stands, touches your cheek with his thumb so casually it makes you want to scream, and offers, “Lunch is on me tomorrow, alright? Let’s grab something fun instead of moping around in the hospital.”
You’re still finding it a bit hard to breathe, but you manage to reply, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
And that’s how it goes for you and Brendon.
You eat lunch together.
You talk.
You don’t tell anyone in the Emergency Department.
It’s not like you’re hiding your friendship with him since there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, but he’s sort of your personal oasis. Your escape from the annoying, unendingly frustrating reality of posters that read things like ‘you can have results or excuses; not both!’ and ‘the body achieves what the mind believes,’ which feels particularly insulting given the emergency room of the whole thing. Every time you top off your coffee, you have to passively wonder if Mrs. Thomas in bed eight can eat, exercise, and think her way out of the pressure sores she’s getting from overnight understaffing or Hannah in the Pitt Jr. can stop making excuses to get the result of fixing her respiratory infection.
Hannah’s parents, of course, are the kind of people who very clearly buy into the ideologies now running rampant in your hospital. You can tell in the way her father looks at you like you’re not a doctor. It’s hard to explain. That look. But you know it well. First, the assumption that you’re a nurse; you’re used to that in your colorful scrubs and being a woman in general. There are worse things than being mistaken for the most competent segment of the hospital. But this is beyond that. It’s the obvious implication that you can’t know what you’re doing because you’re fat. That you must’ve made it through med school on something besides merit because your body is proof that you can’t take care of them.
He makes it patently clear when you suggest a course of treatment that he disagrees with. You’re the one with the education, the expertise, the fellowship, the brain, but he’s the one who gets to say, “Why should we listen to some ‘doctor’ who’s going to die of a heart attack before 40? This is fucking ridiculous.”
Keeping your voice tight and professional as your eyes and cheeks begin to burn, you manage to get out, “I’ll send in another doctor for a second opinion,” before turning around and busting out of the patient’s room. You rush a few steps forward, tap Mel on the shoulder because ‘skinny’ seems to be the necessary qualification, nod back toward the room, and then escape to your office while the tears fight for dominance. Thank god you’re an attending now; crying on shift was so much more annoying before you had a door to call your own. You don’t even know for sure what you’re doing until your fingers are already on your pager.
Exactly two minutes later – one walk down the hall and a slow elevator ride – there’s a knock. He doesn’t wait for your response. Slipping inside the door like it’s a secret, Brendon takes in your tears. You’re leaning against your desk with your arms crossed over your chest. With a soft anger in his voice, he asks quietly, “What happened?”
His voice snaps you out of it. It’s a losing battle to stop the tears, but you’re still swiping them away with your palms as you tell him, “I’m sorry; I know it’s- it’s so immature to page you during the workday for something personal when-”
Brendon’s shaking his head and closing the space between you in an instant. His arms wrap around you like they were always meant to fit there. And you finally lose it, blubbering out the whole story to him in sniffly, pathetic half-sentences. How much this whole contest is getting in your head and what your patient’s dad said and how it’s all swirling together into something ugly in your mind. Eventually you whimper into his broad chest, “Maybe I should just cave and play along. If I lost some weight, then everyone would-”
“Don’t do that,” he interrupts. Stern. Like it’s deathly serious to him. “Definitely don’t do that.”
You eye him carefully, eyes wide and shiny. The tears stop when you realize he’s looking at you with nothing but adoration on his features. “Why not?”
His cheeks go pink. You’ve never seen him blush before – not like this, not a deep, neon pink that’s blotchy on his neck above his collar. It’s almost cute, if that were a word Brendon Park was capable of embodying. Eyes trained firmly on what’s in front of him, he says, plain and simple, “Your body is perfect. Just the way it is.”
That makes your lips stop wobbling, instead curling up at the corners. You let loose a tiny, sweet giggle, press your hand to the center of his chest, and tease, “Are you hitting on me in my time of need?”
“Stating a fact,” he clarifies with a hard swallow. Unable to meet your eyes because of just how caught he feels, he goes on, “Don’t let this shit get in your head. It’s not worth it. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’re gorgeous; that big sexy brain of yours doesn’t have room for that garbage.”
You bury your forehead against his shoulder and laugh, “My big sexy brain, huh?”
“Damn straight.” He pulls away from you – reluctant – and sighs, “I should get back upstairs; I’ve got to scrub in ten.”
“Sorry again for-”
“No. Don’t apologize. I, ah, I like being there for you. Glad you caught me when I had a minute.”
“Then thanks.”
“Any time.” He does that thing where he cups your cheek again. It takes everything in you not to nuzzle into his palm. “I mean that.”
“I can tell.”
As Brendon leaves your office, you take a minute to catch your breath behind the door, knowing you need to refocus yourself.
That’s when the rage kicks into his gut.
It’s no secret that Brendon has a bit of an anger problem. Not the kind that has him flying off the handle throwing punches, but enough that he’ll call a doctor a dumbass if they compromise a patient’s care or suggest something particularly asinine. Enough that he can’t stop himself from shoving into the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge, where Robby and Jack are both on break, laughing over coffee like they aren’t part of the reason you’re in your office crying when you should be saving kids from polio or whatever's wrong with them.
The moment Brendon’s in the lounge, all eyes turn to him. He’s out of place. Hulking and determined and mean. Without saying a word, he goes around the tables and rips down the first poster he sees related to weight loss or food off the wall, ripping and crumpling it in his hand. As Robby stands to intervene or at least ask anything, Park shakes his head hard and snarls, “Violation of hospital policy. Section 241. Content of materials posted in common areas must be professional and inoffensive.”
Robby scoffs, on the verge of laughing because of how ridiculous it seems to him, “I wouldn’t exactly consider a poster for an HR campaign inoffensive.”
“Then why was I offended by it, Mike?” He goes for the next poster and gives it an equally ruthless treatment, shredding it and trashing it. “Get all this shit down. Other side of the Pitt, too, the pediatric side. People are complaining”
Watching in shock as Brendon continues to tear down every piece of weight loss promotional content he can find, Robby warns, “Shark, you can’t just come down into my department and-”
Park whips around, pushes a balled-up poster into Robby’s chest, and interrupts, “File a complaint.”
Robby raises his eyebrows to the sky and watches Park stalk out of the lounge, continuing his reign of terror on the bulletin boards that line his way to the elevator. “Ooookay, then.”
Jack releases a harsh laugh. “Who pissed in his coffee this morning?”
When you walk past the lounge, still sniffly and puffy, Robby tilts his head to the side. “I have a feeling it’s about someone else.”
The next morning, you’re lingering near HR’s doors, taking your first break early because Donnie had sent you a text: looks like your boyfriend’s in trouble…
When you’d looked up, you saw Candi Cassidy dragging Brendon toward the administrative section of the hospital, having caught him right after the two of you shared your morning coffee and bitch session in your office. Trying and failing to be subtle, you glared in Donnie’s direction and then high-tailed it over to Human Resources, one hall’s length behind them so you wouldn’t get caught.
You can half-hear the argument behind the door. Candi’s throwing around staff intimidation, employee morale, non-compliance while Brendon’s tossing back hostile work environment, discrimination, bias. HR buzzwords fly back and forth. Voices are clipped and high. Tense. Brendon sounds firm and sure of himself, giving orders, and your brain can’t do anything useful because you’re just imagining what it would sound like to be on the receiving end of that tone in very different circumstances.
After a minute of total silence, Brendon barrels out of the door, clearly still pissed, and nearly knocks right into you. Before he can curse out whatever dumbass doctor got in his way, he realizes it’s you. And his entire being softens – his expression, his tense shoulders, his damn lungs. He lets out a long breath and mumbles, “Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
You nod toward the nearest empty corner, lower your voice, and ask him seriously, “Are you in trouble for your little fit in the ED yesterday? Everyone was gossiping about you all afternoon.”
He snorts like it really is a laughable thought. “No. She doesn’t have any power over me unless I really step in it. Taking down a couple posters isn’t going to do that.”
“So what was all the yelling for?”
Brendon shrugs and averts his eyes, not sure if you’re going to be upset with him or not. “She said I can’t make a scene in front of junior doctors over a new policy I don’t agree with. I said I’d be much happier to make a scene elsewhere if that’s better.”
A smirk flicks at the edge of your cheek; Brendon’s obsessed with the way your skin wrinkles ever so slightly next to your smile. “And how exactly did you phrase that, Shark?”
Almost bashful, he admits, “I threatened to pull my hospital privileges if she doesn’t nix the program. Said I’ll move my practice; UPMC’s been trying to poach me for a decade.”
All choked up out of nowhere, you whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs and searches your face. Like it’s an answer, he says, soft and sweet, “Well, you were crying yesterday.”
With your heart pounding out of your chest, you try on a half smile. “Technically that was because of a patient’s parent, not the weight loss competition.”
“It’s the whole fucking culture,” he sighs. When he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, it loosens some of his waves. You wonder how he looks without the product in, morning-tousled and sleepy-eyed. “Candi’s all ‘it is what it is’ about this whole thing, about the ‘side effect’ of making people feel like shit. She thinks it’s worth it. For the greater good. Whatever. My practice doesn’t bring in twenty fucking percent of this place’s annual surgical revenue for the hospital to treat its doctors and nurses like they’re just another expense to lower. Makes me fucking sick.”
Your head spins at the idea, running some quick numbers from the figures that get presented every quarter. “Jesus, your practice is worth that much?”
“220 million last year across all my surgeons,” he huffs as though it’s a footnote. Then he touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look at him. To focus on him. Your knees are weak under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s not the point. I want you to go on a date with me.”
“That’s the point?” You laugh. Honestly laugh. Placing your hand at the center of his chest, you chuckle, “You threatened to cost the hospital two hundred million dollars to get me to date you?”
“No, no, not- not like that,” he’s quick to assure. “I really do think this whole thing is bullshit. You know it matters to me, too. A lot. And I speak up. Always have. But you- Getting to know you has made it matter a lot more, okay? Don’t make me defend myself. Just go out with me.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I’m begging you.”
You let out a sharp laugh that you stifle with your hand, checking around to see if anybody’s noticed how stupid the two of you are, talking about all this out in the open. Sure that you have a moment of privacy, just to drive him crazy, you corner him and lower your gaze and press, “Tell me honestly: Do you have a fat fetish, Brendon?”
For some reason not taken aback by the question, he debates his answer for a minute, tilting his head slightly as he chews on the words. Ultimately, he decides to be honest: “I don’t think it’s a fetish to prefer big girls. And I don’t think fetishes are inherently a bad thing. I have plenty of fetishes.”
That makes your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
“Go out with me,” he presses, leaning in much closer than is work appropriate, “and I’ll tell you.”
A little breathless, you insist, “But you do usually pursue plus-size girls?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not necessarily.”
“I get that you’re suspicious – it makes total sense, seriously, I swear I get where you’re coming from – but it’s not any different than wanting a tall boyfriend or something, right?” It makes sense to you when Brendon reasons, “We all have our things we like about someone else’s looks when we get a crush. I think you’re hot as fuck, I’m attracted to your body, and you have a great personality in addition to that. Smarter than me by a mile, sensitive like I can never manage. You’re fucking perfect. I’d be an idiot not to ask you out when you check all my boxes.”
“Pause.” Actually, truly smiling now – flirtatious and adorable enough to make Brendon swoon at the view – you needle, “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”
“Yeah, I absolutely did,” he murmurs with cheeks rapidly turning pink. “And that’s mortifying for a guy like me, don’t you think? The kind of thing that at least earns a pity date?”
Dragging out your words, doing a terrible job at pretending you aren’t going to say yes, you lilt gently, all sweet and feminine, “Give me a really good reason and I’ll think about it.”
Brendon’s rich blue eyes absolutely sparkle when he realizes he’s got you. “I’ll give you two. First of all, there’s a special art exhibit downtown this month and a little birdie told me through the grapevine that you love museums.”
You curse under your breath. “Mel, you useless romantic.”
“Secondly,” he goes on, lowering his voice. He steps toward you so that you have to back up. Into the wall. Now it’s his turn to check if you’re alone. With one hand on either side of your head, he presses you against the sheetrock, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that has your resolve to play coy evaporating. “If I like fat girls, and I’ve mostly been with them, you know what that means?”
It’s nearly a gasp as you reply, “What?”
“It means I’ll know exactly how to worship you,” he murmurs. Right against your ear. Your toes curl in your sneakers. Toying with you by dragging his finger along the base of your neck, just a slow back and forth, he muses, “Doesn’t that sound nice? A guy who isn’t a coward about grabbing your stomach? A guy who knows he wants to wear your thighs like earmuffs? A guy strong enough to throw you around the way you’ve always craved?” Hands on your waist now, not overtly sexual but already overwhelming in the most delicious way, he purrs, “Gimme a chance, gorgeous, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Biting your lip and shaking your head because you have to get rid of the absolute ache to kiss his smirk right off him in order to practice medicine for the rest of the day, you ask, “When’s your next day off?”
“I have the whole weekend.”
Your eyes brighten up. “Me too.”
“How early do you wake up on Saturdays?”
“How early is your fancy art exhibit open?”
“Ten.”
“Pick me up at 9:30.”
“I could take you to breakfast first.”
“I refuse to go out with you first thing in the morning; I’ll look like a zombie.”
“Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re such a suck-up.” When your watch buzzes, signaling that your break’s over, you kiss his cheek softly and say, “9:30 on Saturday. Don’t be late.”
“Never have been; don’t plan on starting now.”
Getting ready for your date with Brendon is actually fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten ready for a date and felt uncomplicated excitement about it. No nerves about your body because you already know Brendon is beyond into it. So you slip into something that highlights every curve instead of disguising any of them, a maroon silky thing with a long lace hem to show off your legs, low square neck that frames out your cleavage, and straps just thick enough to cover your nude bra. The fabric is thin enough to show the delicate line of your thong in exactly the right lighting, which you’re sure Brendon will manage to find at some point during the day.
He rings your doorbell at 9:28. Doesn’t text to say he’s outside, doesn’t honk the horn for your attention. Walks all the way up to your porch to greet you like an adult. And when you open the door, his absolutely floored expression has you rocketing up to cloud nine on a dopamine rush. Brendon reaches out and touches your waist as he steps just inside the doorway. He revels in every inch of you. You become acutely aware that the two of you aren’t at the hospital anymore with the way his eyes are slow, greedy, savoring. He’s checked you out at PTMC before, for sure, but now he’s basically feeling you up with those baby blues as he whistles low, “Wow. Seriously, wow.”
You smack him on the chest as your cheeks heat up, not used to the obvious desire written all over him. When your hand hits the luxurious fabric, you actually notice his outfit instead of the way he’s devouring yours. In a camel-colored knit polo – you definitely don’t miss the subtle sheen of the Versace logo on the pocket in nearly the same color as the fabric – tucked into slightly high light tan slacks, all under a dark brown coat, he looks modern, stylish, and absolutely positively downright edible. His hair’s moussed instead of gelled, slightly wavy and fluffy, and he’s freshly shaved instead of late-night scruffy.
Dragging your hand down the center of his chest, you shake your head and smile. “Who knew the Shark had actual style?”
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers. With a too-charming smirk, he murmurs, “Don’t tell anybody, alright? Nobody would be scared of me at the hospital if they knew I’m the kind of guy who drops a grand on a shirt.”
Grabbing your purse and shrugging on your black leather jacket before stepping out the door after him, you reason, “You put in the time and effort to make the big bucks; you have every right to spend it however you want.”
“I’m glad you think that way,” he replies as he guides you half a block down to his parking spot, “because this is my car, and I’m really hoping you don’t think that makes me an asshole.”
“Yeah, it definitely makes you an asshole,” you breathe as you drag your finger along the freshly-shined blue GranCabrio. “This is one slutty car, Dr. Park.”
He laughs – loud and honest like he rarely can during work hours – and opens up the side door for you. “Does that mean you like it?”
“Definitely.” You grin as you slide onto the rich leather interior. “As soon as it’s warm enough, you have to put the top down and take me somewhere you can drive fast.”
“Yeah?” As he settles into the seat next to you, Brendon puts one hand firmly on your thigh as he pulls the car out into the Pittsburgh traffic. With his fingers driving you clinically insane just sitting there on your dress, he flashes you a hunky smile and teases, “Planning on keeping me around that long?”
“Maybe if you behave yourself today.”
“Oh, baby, I never behave myself when I’m off the clock.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Absolutely.”
The rest of the drive there is easy between you, and that same energy carries on as he whisks you through the museum’s entrance and straight inside. He’d already bought the tickets online and added them to his phone wallet, so you don’t even get a moment of feigning like you would’ve paid for yourself. Slick bastard. Brendon just makes every moment so easy to fall into. Not that you’d expected the date to be hard, but you’d figured there would be some kind of adjustment period going from lunches and coffee breaks to a full-on date out in the real world, no pagers or coworkers to separate you.
Instead, it’s not long before you’re instinctively threading your fingers with his and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit. You clearly know a hell of a lot more about art than he does – it’s obvious when every nod of his comes with his eyes drifting over your body – but he likes listening to you talk about literally anything you want to talk about. Just having your voice all to himself is enough to keep him over the moon among the stars.
When you reach the special exhibit – portraits by Viktor Lyapkalo – Brendon takes the time to slow down and read all the plaques and descriptions alongside listening to you talk. The way he engages with the new material makes you wonder if maybe he’s actually just been to this museum enough times that he’s got all the other areas committed to memory, preferring to treat you like the art.
“I love the way he paints women,” you sigh wistfully as you stand in front of a particularly lovely nude: Evening, from 2007. Brendon stands squarely behind you, arms casually around you. Admiring the work up close, you go on, “He notices all the things that make bodies beautiful. The light and shadow on the curves, refusing to make them smooth and pristine, like every single dimple is worth painting for the rest of time to see. They’re all so…lush. Succulent. Like you’d want to reach inside the scene and take a big bite and the juice would run down your chin like a summer plum.”
“You’re describing yourself there, gorgeous,” he murmurs in your ear from behind. Breath hot. Gravelly. Wanting. His hands roam over your waist and hips and stomach, way too slow and intimate for how profoundly in public you are. But you’ve never had a man so openly desire you like this, so you can’t help melting against his chest. Yearning for more. For half a second, he palms your ass, and then he nips your ear to say, “Never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.”
Before he can fluster you too much, get the upper hand so you’re melting into a puddle on the museum floor, you turn around and kiss him. He makes the cutest surprised sound at the base of his throat like he hadn’t expected you to match his energy. But then you tangle your fingers in his hair. You push up onto your toes. And then he comes to his senses and kisses you back. Hard. Commanding. Pieces of his control slipping away with every shared breath. His hands are on your waist and your lower back, desperate to touch more, and you can feel the restraint it’s taking him not to bend you over the bench in front of the art and ruin you.
When you accidentally moan into Brendon’s mouth, a security guard in the nearby archway clears his throat. You stifle a giggle and pull back from him. You’re about to apologize, but he’s faster. Brendon’s breath is hot against your ear as he croons, “Can I take you back to my place now or do I have to look at the rest of these paintings when all I can think about is seeing what’s under this dress?”
With a coy smile, you give him one more quick kiss and say, “Bring me back next weekend so I can finish reading everything and we can leave right now.”
His grin is wicked. “You have yourself a deal, doctor.”
You’re all over him the moment you’re in his bedroom, barely taking a second to absorb the expectedly organized and minimalist space, outfitted only with luxurious staples in cream and navy and no needless clutter. Your dress is somewhere on the staircase up to the second floor, discarded haphazardly as Brendon manhandled you through the space, strong enough to basically carry you any time you lose your footing in the dizzying intensity of his mouth on yours.
By the time you’ve pushed through the bedroom door, you’ve yanked off his (extremely soft) polo and gone for his belt next. As you move, you’re shoving him toward his bed with an eagerness that maybe borders on desperation. It’s been a long time and he’s hot as fuck; god forbid. Trying to suppress his grin as he pulls out of the kiss, Brendon orders, “Don’t rush me, baby. We have all the time in the world.”
Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you teasingly groan at him, “That wasn’t your attitude half an hour ago.”
He reasons, “Half an hour ago there were several miles between you and my bedroom.”
He steps – ever so casually – out of his slacks, revealing extremely form fitting gray boxer briefs, a drop of precum darkening the front, highlighting the delicious outline of his cock. Not letting you drool too much, those precise hands of his go to your bra clasp, unhooking it with the ease of, well, a surgeon. Enjoying the gentle hitch of your breath when his eyes devour you, he kisses over your pulse point just to feel it quicken beneath his attention. When he’s satisfied with the way your toes curl into the plush rug beneath your feet, he finally loops his thumbs beneath the hips of your underwear.
“But now I’ve got you all to myself-” Brendon slides your underwear down your legs, guides you out of them, and pushes you backwards “-in my bedroom-” your knees hit the bed and you fold underneath his weight, staring up at him as he cages you between his elbows “-at my mercy. No need to rush.”
You raise up an eyebrow and chase him for a kiss that he dodges just to drive you up the wall. Dragging your first finger along his bicep, his trap, his throat, his chest, you muse, “At your mercy, huh?”
He nods with a satisfied, painfully charming smirk. “That’s right.”
Your voice drips with lust. He’s never heard it darken like that and it’s definitely becoming a problem for his patience. “Gonna do whatever you want to me?”
“Yup, absolutely.”
You huff a bit and tut, “Well, you sure are just hovering over my naked body for someone with such big plans.”
He grins and shifts his weight back so he can properly look at you. “What did I just say about rushing?”
You sit up and kiss him hard just because you’re allowed to now. You feel his resolve weaken as you palm the borderline offensive ridge of his thick, hard cock. Your ego tingles a bit at the knowledge that, even if he’s putting on a show of waiting, you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you. “God forbid I want you to make good on all that feeling me up at the museum.”
“Fine, you wanna be in charge so bad?” All dramatic, Brendon flops onto his back next to you and taps his lips. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”
You snort out a less-than-sexy laugh, but he finds it just as cute as every other sound you make. “Jesus, Bren, did you seriously just say that?”
“I’m losing my ability to form coherent sentences just thinking about it, frankly,” he teases. You’ve never noticed how much he glows when he’s happy. Then he takes your hand and tugs you toward him, on your knees. “How about ‘come sit on my face right the fuck now’? That work better for you?”
Looking down at his eager expression, nervous and not wanting to disappoint, you bite your lip and admit, “I’ve never done that before.”
It’s a personal offense to him. He props himself up on his elbows as his lips part in true surprise. “Seriously?”
You shrug modestly. “Too nervous to hurt someone.”
“Then you’ve been with weak men,” he says, deathly serious. He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze and assures you, completely sincere, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s so fucking good for you. Give me two minutes of trust and I swear you’re gonna love it.”
Well, you figure, he’s never done you wrong with his promises before. So you swing one leg over his chest and hover suspiciously a few inches above his head. His mouth waters when he can finally see the hint of your pussy beyond your soft, inviting mons.
Keeping his voice so sweet and soothing, he adds, “If it doesn’t feel good or if you’re uncomfortable or anything, just tap me and get right off. You’re in charge.”.3.1
Still skeptical of the whole affair, you say, “I know you know already, okay? But, like, I’m not small, Brendon, I could seriously break your jaw or something if I slip out of place.”
Craning his neck to try to get to your pussy, he growls, impatient and starving, “Thankfully I know a few good maxillofacial surgeons.”
“Okay, but what if I-”
Brendon rolls his eyes and yanks you down by the hips so your cunt envelopes his mouth. You let out a yelp and grab his headboard to get your balance. Finally, his eyes roll shut with pleasure as your warm, thick thighs on the side of his head muffle any sounds but your pretty moans. He mutters, dreamy and rough, into your pussy, “That’s better.”
You can’t help giggling as you put your other hand in Brendon’s hair for support, grateful to be with someone who makes you feel so comfortable and safe even at the edge of your comfort zone. With Brendon reverently holding your hips, stroking your stretch marks with his thumbs, keeping you grounded on his precise tongue, it only takes you a minute to find the pressure and rhythm that feels comfortable, where you can get out of your head and trust Brendon and your own legs.
Then it finally starts to get good.
Brendon’s cock strains against his boxer briefs when you finally let out that first real, uninhibited moan he’s been craving as long as he’s known you. It’s a high-pitched, surprised thing that rings around his ears like a bell, the sound slightly dampened by your thighs just the way he wanted. He memorizes the exact motion he did with his tongue to work that sound out and repeats. Again. Again. Your breaths get faster. Shorter.
It takes real, actual concentration for Brendon to stop himself from creaming his shorts when he realizes you’re going to cum on his face. Your thighs start to tremble as you resist it at first, reluctant to lose control in such a vulnerable position. But then Brendon’s strong fingers dig into the plump fat off your ass – hard.
Possessive.
The sudden moment of eye-rolling-good pain drops you completely into your body, all doubts and insecurities abandoned, and you snap. Your fingernails dig into Brendon’s scalp as you grip his hair to stay in the moment. Pleasure skyrockets up your spine in lightning strikes. Timed with the pulses of your cunt, begging to be filled by him.
When it’s finished rolling through you, lungs heaving, you slowly flop off of Brendon and throw your forearm over your face to catch your breath. You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Sweat shines on your hairline and your legs still feel like jelly as Brendon turns onto his side to gaze at you with so much adoration it’s overwhelming.
Pupils blown wide and drunken on your body, Brendon sighs out happily, “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you taste.”
“Come here, then,” you giggle, so light and airy with delight that everything has become simple. You kiss him with a greedy tongue and let your own mild tartness linger on your tastebuds. When you pull back, he looks positively dumb. Eyes empty. Nothing but lust in his pretty blues. “Yeah, I do taste pretty good, huh? Bet your cock would like a taste.”
He shakes his head and laughs as he shifts onto his knees above you. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”
You spread your legs and bat your eyes and savor just how devoted he looks, like a puppy sitting pretty for its favorite treats. “What is?”
“Being so fucking sexy without even thinking about it,” he breathes, sounding a little shaky as he lines up the head of his cock with your orgasm-slick pussy. “Fuck.”
You roll your eyes even as your cheeks burn. “As if you don’t have the exact same gift.”
“No, I have to think about it a lot. I try. You’re just floating around being this damn goddess like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world.”
“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Bren, you’re already about to fuck me.”
He frowns a bit and stills, not thrusting into you just yet. “You know I’m not complimenting you just to butter you up, right?” At the split second of partial disbelief on your face, he shakes his head and leans down and kisses you hard. You’ve never seen his expression so stern. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. After that first time you showed up to my office, I couldn’t stop talking about you to everyone. It was like word vomit.”
“Now that makes me feel sexy.”
“Shut up; I’m not always good with the word stuff.” He wrinkles his brows to try to come up with the right words. “Every single time I see you, my brain stops working. Everything short circuits. Because I just- I can’t even imagine deserving to be in the same room as you, much less between these perfect goddamn legs.” He shifts upward again, hands rubbing up your thighs as he shakes his head wistfully. “Grabbing these gorgeous hips and getting to play with your amazing tits.” His hands follow his words, toying with your nipples until you’re gasping and grinning. “Looking into your beautiful eyes while I get to fuck you.”
As tears sting at your eyes, you turn your head and blink hard, whimpering out nothing but an innocent, “Brendon.”
“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he urges as he kisses you. Slowly, so slowly, as you look up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes his cock into you. When your lips part softly in pleasure at the way he fills you, Brendon murmurs against your pulse in between kisses to your skin? “There’s my girl. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”
And he does.
All the while holding you and groaning sweetness into your ears, your lips, your neck, Brendon fucks you like he’s been designed for your pleasure. He takes his time. He pays attention. When he thrusts just right, making you moan his name loud and unafraid as the head of his cock crooks against your g-spot, he keeps it exactly like that and tucks the sound away in a proud little part of his brain.
With how talkative you are, he’d expected you to be vocal in bed. But you’re just loud. And that’s plenty clear for him. So he does the talking, swearing and praising in equal measure. There’s no performative dirty talk from him, nothing that sounds like it’s straight out of a cheesy porno. It’s just you feel amazing, I’m so lucky I get to have you, fuck, this is perfect. You’re melting under him and you barely notice him snaking one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until you’re already on the verge of cumming again, him whispering, “there you go, that’s it” right up against your ear in a way that has your toes curling, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blade and his arm, your breaths teetering on the edge of gasps.
“That’s- When you’re gripping me like that, I can’t-” Brendon’s barely able to string words together as your second orgasm threatens, taken well and truly aback by how good you feel wrapped around him when you’ve completely let go of control and fear and shame. When you’re just his and he’s yours and it really can be just that simple. His balls are already tightening up when he manages to rasp out, “Can I-”
You’re nodding into his shoulder before the question’s even finished, shuddering out a shaky and honest, “Please. Let’s- Together, please.”
And you detonate. Both of you. Locked to one another. You can’t bear to close your eyes and risk missing a single moment of Brendon Park’s soft, rapturous expression when his cum spills inside of you. His borderline angelic blue eyes meet yours – meet them, like a handshake between long-lost friends, a meeting that turns to a clasped hug, reluctant to let go – and you’re filled with his heat and he’s founded by having you.
Brendon’s lips kiss the tender sweat from your forehead as he catches his breath. There’s a tiny, secret little smile that exists only for you on his rough features. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Struggling to stifle a smile that’s yearning to split you open, you nip a quick kiss onto his lips and half-giggle, “You’ve mentioned that.”
“And I’m gonna keep mentioning it,” he replies, warm and wonderful as winter cider, “as long as you’ll have me.”
is there anything more uncomfortable and frightening and sexually arousing than popes scene in 1.4 with the sex worker when he says “leave the heels on” and “i said turn around” and “say we can’t, andrew” and “say it like you love me” and is breathing all heavily agaha im so normal about him
Summary: Jack Abbot can be considered a victorious man despite the tragedies throughout his life, but after years of romantic disappointments, the doctor believed he was destined for loneliness. However, after a dinner at a friend's house, he's not so sure if he'll end up alone.
Warnings: unspecified age difference (reader between 30 and 35 years old and Jack between 45 and 50 years old), love at first sight, Jack is somewhat melancholic, mention of past losses, the reader is cheerful and fun. Flirting innuendo. Resigned female reader at birth, no use of Y/N (I use "you" a lot omg!), not revised T.T
wc: 6.5k
Author's note: It took me a while, but I'm back 😅 This fic is based on this request! It was so difficult to write because I've been very busy with work, so sorry if it's not as expected, I tried my best. Thanks for your order, it was made with love.
♡ Reminder: English is NOT my first language, sorry for any mistakes. I do NOT support the use of AI to assist writers :)
Stopping to think, no matter how much success you have in the world, somehow something will still be missing. Be it material or sentimental goods, in that darkest corner of the heart there will always be something missing to be complete, and in Jack Abbot's case, it was love.
Of course, he had known love in its essence years ago, but it had been torn from him suddenly and cruelly. Now with hair already gray in some areas and shoulders hunched from exhaustion, he was a widowed and lonely man. The successful man, exemplary and admired doctor believed vehemently that he would end his life alone.
After all, everything came down to a lonely road. You are born and cry alone, you grow up to face life's adversities, you build and conquer things only to, in the end, die alone. That was what the former military man believed.
After losing his late wife, at the height of both their youths, Jack gave up the hunt for his other half, believing he had buried love and joy along with his former companion. Focusing then only on saving as many lives as possible in the Pittsburgh emergency room, it was the minimum to fill the existing and throbbing void within his being.
He woke up in a regimented routine, prepared his strong coffee and occasional snacks to try to eat during shift breaks. Abbot did his utmost to keep himself active, going for a run around the block for at least forty minutes before getting ready for work, and even when tired he did not set these activities aside. Staying active and busy helped keep his mind centered, without deviations to dark paths and depressed thoughts.
Then after returning to his spacious and empty apartment, he dropped his keys, cell phone, and running glasses on the living room table without losing pace, heading to the bathroom to take a quick shower. Then preparing his materials for another long and exhausting shift and, as draining as it was, he loved his work and the rush that happened in the emergency room. He felt filled in the empty places within his core and that, for now, was enough.
The shift at The Pitt's emergency room was always something chaotic yet controlled, exactly as Jack liked it, as morbid as that may be. Two cardiorespiratory arrests, a motorcycle accident with an open fracture, a child with a severe asthma attack, and a confused elderly man who tried to assault the nursing staff.
When the pace finally slowed down around two in the morning, Jack felt the weight of the last few hours on his shoulders.
"Abbot, did you eat anything today?" the voice came from the makeshift break room at the back of the nursing station. Dr. Robinavitch, head of the emergency department and one of the few people Jack considered close, stared at him with that careful look he insisted on disguising with irony.
Jack wrinkled his nose, trying to remember. Breakfast. Yes. The snack he had brought in his backpack was still stored, untouched.
"I forgot" he admitted, with a low grunt but no remorse.
Robby shook his head, pushing a plate with a somewhat squashed sandwich toward the older man. "Eat before I order an intravenous for you. "
He was going to refuse, but his inconvenient stomach growled in protest. Jack sat down heavily on the chair, biting into the sandwich without much enthusiasm.
"Wow, you're wrecked" commented Frank Langdon, leaning against the door with a cup of coffee in his hand. "With all due respect, Sr."
"With all due respect, Langdon, mind your own business" Jack replied, without malice and without even looking up.
Nurse Dana Evans laughed while organizing some medical records. "Leave him, Frank. Today was rough for everyone. Mr. Abbott deserves to eat a sandwich in peace."
"Hoho, thank you, Dana." Jack gestured theatrically and raised his eyes for a second, almost smiling.
At that moment, the conversation shifted direction when Michael spoke again.
"By the way" Robby rested his elbow on the table, leaning toward him, "are you going to the dinner on Saturday?"
Jack frowned, pausing mid-bite. "What dinner?"
"The one I'm organizing at my place." He raised an eyebrow, his face soon becoming skeptical. "I sent an invitation by message, you didn't read it, did you?"
"I read it, but I didn't take it seriously."
Robby now looked incredulously at his seated friend, who took another generous bite of the sandwich. "Why wouldn't you take it seriously?"
"You hate cooking, Robinavitch, besides the last time you tried to make dinner, you nearly set the kitchen on fire."
Robby rolled his eyes, but a smile escaped. "There will be real food and no incidents, you distrustful man." The doctor crossed his arms without losing pace. "My sister is going to help and I'm going to invite the neighbor too, she's been alone lately and cooks better than anyone I know."
Langdon raised his cup as if making a toast. "The neighbor you're always talking about who brought pie last week?"
"What pie?" Abbot asked indignantly, but was completely ignored.
"The very same." Michael smiled, and something in his tone made Jack eye him for a second. "She's really nice, you'd like her, Abbot."
"Oh yeah?"
"She's single" the friend commented, standing up, as if he wanted nothing.
Jack rolled his eyes, chewing the last piece of the sandwich and wiping the crumbs. "I'm not looking for a relationship."
"No one said you're looking, it was just an invitation to dinner and not a wedding ceremony." Robinavitch stood up, already considering the matter closed. "Saturday, eight o'clock."
And he left before he could retort. Langdon shrugged, following behind with a wink. Dana just smiled, returning to work while Jack remained there for a few more minutes, the sandwich crumbs now sprinkled on the metal table. The reality was that the doctor didn't want to go, didn't want to leave the empty apartment, didn't want small talk, didn't want to pretend he was fine for strangers.
But Robby was stubborn and, deep down, was just trying to help. With a heavy sigh, he cleaned the table and his clothes, then returned to the shift.
Saturday was far away, maybe if he ignored it his friend would forget or maybe he would find a way to slip out.
Saturday had arrived before Jack had time to craft a convincing excuse. He had spent the entire week rehearsing refusals in his head, rehearsing phrases like "I had an emergency shift" or "I'm not feeling very well" but he knew none of them would work, after all, Robinavitch knew his work schedule better than he did himself. And, more than that, he knew his melancholic soul well enough to know when he was running away.
That's why, when the clock struck seven thirty that Saturday evening, Jack Abbott found himself in front of his bedroom closet, looking at his clothes as if they could decide his fate for him or simply make him disappear like in that Narnia movie.
He opted for something simple. A short-sleeved shirt in navy blue, leaving his arms exposed, not that he wanted to show off his form, it was comfortable and simple; the cotton pants in dark gray completed the whole look, messy gray hair and black-framed glasses on his nose. He was not a man of great vanities, at least not anymore, but he was aware that personal presentation still mattered in society.
Or at least that was what his late wife used to say, when she still took his hand to adjust the wrinkled fabric of his clothes before commitments.
The mirror reflected a man with expression lines deeply marked around the eyes and a generous amount of gray hairs at the temples and in the short, well-trimmed beard. The shoulders, once broad and held high with the military posture of his youth, now seemed permanently hunched by an invisible weight. Even so, there was something there in his imposing bearing, after all Jack Abbot was far from being a man who had aged poorly, far from it and he knew it. He knew the younger nurses called him, among embarrassed giggles, "mature handsomeness" and that the doctor dismissed it with a shameful grunt.
He picked up his wristwatch, apartment keys, and cell phone, hesitated for a moment before the door, and then left. The empty and dull apartment fell silent behind him.
Robinavitch's address belonged to a modern house in a quiet residential neighborhood of Pittsburgh, far enough from the hospital but close enough so that Jack could, for a few moments, escape to his friend's embrace when darker times assailed his mind. He parked near the curb and remained for a long minute inside the car, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the illuminated door of the house.
He could hear, even from where he was, the muffled buzz of conversations and the clinking of cutlery. People. People who were not patients or severe cases he had become accustomed to relating to in his regimented routine, there they were people who laughed and talked about things that didn't involve diagnoses or prognoses. People who lived, in a simple way.
Jack's fingers trembled on the ignition and he almost turned the car back on, but no, Robby would torment him for the rest of the year and he didn't want to be the widowed and boring guy.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of an entire decade, Abbot turned off the engine, unlocked the doors, and set his feet on the asphalt. The doorbell rang with a sound too shrill for his ears accustomed to silence. It took a few seconds for the door to open, revealing Michael Robinavitch in all his informal glory: a dark t-shirt, jean shorts, and a triumphant smile that said "I knew you would come" without needing words.
"Bro, you actually came" Michael said, opening the door wider.
"I was basically coerced" Jack replied with a shrug, the deep and monotonous voice he always used when trying to hide any trace of vulnerability.
"Coerce is a very strong word. I merely insisted in a... persistent way."
Jack rolled his eyes, but crossed the threshold. Michael's house was welcoming in a way that his own was not. There were photographs on the walls, books stacked in the corners, a smell of homemade food that came from the kitchen and enveloped every room like an invisible hug. There were people too, some known from the hospital, others Jack had never seen before. He greeted Frank with a nod, saw Santos in a corner drinking beer, and exchanged two or three words with Dana about the last shift, and then feeling a little overwhelmed, Abbot retreated to a corner near the living room window, where a tray with some appetizers was beautifully served.
It was then that the kitchen became the epicenter of something Jack couldn't name. The sound of a laugh, first, and not a polite or restrained laugh, but a genuine, full laugh, one of those that seem to come from a place so deep that they overflow through the eyes like tears of joy. Then, the clinking of utensils and the slamming of a cupboard door, then, as if the universe had decided to play one of the cruelest ironies of Abbot's existence, you emerged from the hallway that connected the kitchen to the living room carrying a steaming dish.
Jack Abbott forgot to breathe.
It wasn't something he consciously decided to do. His body simply acted on its own, freezing in place as if it had found a glitch in its own operating system. The wine glass remained suspended halfway to his lips. His eyes, that brownish-greenish mixture, which had already seen more death and farewell than any human being should endure, fixed on you as if you were the first light after an interminable night crossing.
You were laughing at something Michael's sister had said, your shoulders shaking slightly, your eyes shining with a joy so pure it seemed almost unreal before the melancholic gloom that Jack carried like a second skin. Your hair fell over your shoulders and back in a carefree way, your delicate hands held the dish with confidence, after all you had prepared each of those dishes with care, and when your eyes finally met those of the older man, even if for a brief instant, you did not look away.
You just smiled a little more and perhaps it was a figment of Jack's slightly fanciful mind, but he swore he saw an extra sparkle when both irises connected.
A smile so beautiful and that deep in Jack's perverse mind was perhaps just out of politeness, perhaps just for recognizing a new face amidst the familiarity of that night. But it was enough. More than enough to stir something inside him.
And when he watched you leave the dish on the large table, dry your fingers on the sides of your dress and turn toward him, your steps light like an angel coming in his direction, Jack thought the trumpets of the rapture would sound right there and take him.
"Oh hi! You must be the famous 'Jack Abbot'" you said, simulating explosion signs with your hands, emphasizing his name and making it clear that Robby had mentioned him several times. "Michael won't stop talking about you! I was curious, after all he said you were hard to convince to leave the house." You commented, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, speaking with enthusiasm. "It seems he managed to convert you this time."
Jack blinked. Once, twice, three times. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
"I..." he began, and his own voice sounded strange in his ears. Damn, he was a lived, mature man, who had seen, gained and lost things, people and now here he was, stuttering like a schoolboy. "Yes. I'm Jack, pleasure."
You let out a little laugh, extending your hand and saying your name too. Jack repeated it and savored how it sounded in his own voice, that sensation in his chest returning, like a contraction. Not painful, but strangely vivid, as if something long dormant had decided to revive on its own upon meeting you.
"Well Jack, I'm the neighbor who sometimes makes too much food and ends up offering it to Michael." You explained without losing enthusiasm, your body swaying slightly. "To be fair, I always prepare for the hospital staff too, hm, maybe you've tried something!"
"Ahm, I have... I'm sure your treats are great, but I haven't had the opportunity to try them yet" Jack heard his own voice say and wanted to slap himself, maybe you would think he didn't like the things you made with care, so he reiterated. "Seriously, that crowd is voracious like an army."
You tilted your head, a new smile blossomed on your lips and your face clothed in understanding.
"Well, then I guess I'll have to prepare something especially for you" you said with a wink, being bold enough to steal the older man's wine glass and turn away, leaving the man speechless.
And Jack? Ah, Jack stayed there, standing still, without his wine glass, watching you move between the living room and the kitchen with a lightness he hadn't seen in anyone for years. You talked with everyone, laughed with everyone, touched people's shoulders while telling some funny story, and there was something in that natural ability to simply connect with others that fascinated Jack in a way he couldn't name.
Michael appeared beside him at some point, an elbow resting on his friend's shoulder.
"See?" he said, low, just so Jack could hear. "I told you you'd like her."
"And who says I'm liking her?" Jack retorted, but with his eyes still fixed on you.
"I know you. Besides, you have the same face you make when a patient has some unknown symptom" Michael continued and upon seeing his uncomprehending face, he continued. "That 'I need to study this more deeply' face, in other words, fascination."
Jack finally averted his gaze and for the first time in a long time, found no strength to rebuff his longtime friend's teasing.
Dinner began without ceremony. Everyone sat around a long wooden table that Michael had placed on the extensive veranda, Jack found himself by some twist of fate or perhaps by divine interference from his friend, seated beside you. You to his right, where the distance between both your arms was too small to be casual and too large to be intimate, but Jack felt the warmth of your presence as if there were a lit fireplace between you.
The food was, indisputably, the best he had tasted in years. But it wasn't that which made him remain seated long after his plate was empty, nor was it that which made him accept the second glass of wine.
It was you.
You talked about simple things with a passion he no longer found in himself. You talked about an art gallery you had discovered downtown and how talented the local artists were, you talked about the book you were reading and that made you laugh by yourself on weekends, about the new cookie recipes you learned last week and that, according to you, Jack had to try.
"I only managed to get the recipe right after twenty-three attempts!" you recounted, hitting your own fist on your open palm, even with a certain pride.
"Twenty-three?" Jack asked, with a little incredulity in his voice. "You counted?"
"Yep! Of course I counted." you responded with your chest puffed out, saying it as if it were obvious. "I'm not the type who gives up without a record. I'm a woman of data, Abbott. Data and sugar, of course," you winked at him, almost conspiratorial.
He laughed.
It wasn't a loud laugh, not even a prolonged one. It was more of a sound escaping between his lips, an exhalation of air mixed with a near-smile, but it was a laugh that you noticed and ended up opening an even more radiant smile.
Dana, from the other side of the table, raised her eyebrows in his direction to Langdon, with an expression of poorly disguised shock. And Robby smiled, satisfied with that whole interaction.
Jack didn't notice any of that. His eyes were fixed on you, as they had been since the moment he arrived. There was this... thing happening inside him that he couldn't control, a crack that was transforming into an opening. And damn, he hadn't felt this since... Since he had met his late wife, after she died he had built a wall around himself, with a thick crust around it that was now crumbling every time he heard your laughter and glimpsed your sweet smile. He felt his own heart so exposed.
"Are you... always like this?" he asked quietly, almost like a secret he didn't want others to hear.
"Hm?" you furrowed your brows not understanding what the older man meant. "Like what?"
"Like..." Jack made a circular motion with his finger pointing entirely at you. "Joyful, light, and funny. It seems like..." he hesitated, searching for words that wouldn't sound rude or pathetic "...it seems like life hasn't hurt you and you're just... Enjoying the good part of it."
You didn't seem offended, after all the smile on your lips softened. You stared at him for a long moment and Jack felt as if he were being examined from the inside, as if you could see the bones and the scars and the places he tried to hide even from himself, from everyone.
"Life hurts everyone, Jack" you answered equally quietly, picking up the wine glass and taking a brief sip before continuing. Ah, it seemed like there was no one else but the two of you at that dinner. A tenderness that hurt more than any criticism. Both connected in a way that pulled you out of reality. "The difference is that I decided not to let it stop me from... Being happy or at least trying."
You pause, seeming to notice the slight wandering in the sentences, after all, everyone had their pains, fears, and losses. Your cheeks blushed slightly. "I mean, laughing is free and hurts less than crying over things that make you sad... and making others comfortable is also worth it... I... I think."
He didn't know what to answer, he absorbed your words that touched him in specific and locked places he didn't want to disturb. How could someone he had met just a few hours ago have the ability to understand him and make him reflect. Jack preferred to stay silent, his light eyes observing every detail of your face illuminated by the lights of the large veranda that extended over the table. The small signs at the corner of your mouth when you smiled, the way you gestured when speaking, your hands cutting the air as if drawing the words before saying them, and the way you looked at him as if he were an interesting question, and not a lost cause.
When dinner ended and the guests began to disperse, Jack didn't get up. Surprisingly, he deviated from the plan and remained there at the table, his fingers drumming without rhythm against the wood and when you got up to start collecting the dishes, his hand moved before he could think.
The tips of his fingers touched yours for a brief second. You looked at the older man with curiosity, your skin tingling with the contact.
"Can I help?" he asked, a little hesitant and internally collapsing, because damn, his goal wasn't even to stay the whole dinner and now there he was, offering help to gather things just to stay a little longer by your side.
You looked down, at the spot where his fingers still rested on yours and then raised your pupils again to meet his. You didn't pull away, instead, a smile appeared on your lips, it wasn't one of those you had distributed throughout the night.
Robinavitch's kitchen was a spacious and well-lit space, with light wood cabinets contrasting with the dark granite countertop. A window above the sink opened to the backyard, where leaves accumulated in the corners like small potential bonfires. There was a smell of rosemary and lemon still lingering in the air, remnants of the meal they had shared and Jack Abbott was standing beside you in front of the sink, he secretly discovered it was possible to miss a smell before even leaving the place where he found it. And of course, he wouldn't admit that it was your perfume in particular that he would miss when he returned to his empty and cold apartment.
You turned on the faucet with a practical gesture and began soaping the dishes with a yellow sponge, your hands agile and steady despite the apparent nonchalance. Jack watched for a moment, motionless, before consciousness nudged him and he took the initiative to reach for the dish towel hanging on the hook above the stove.
"I'll dry" he said, as if he needed to justify his presence there.
You nodded in agreement, handing him the first dish without ceremony and Abbot almost smiled.
The work unfolded in a calm and coordinated rhythm, like a choreography that both were learning in real time. You washed and handed to the older man. Jack dried and stored in the cabinets you had indicated, the cutlery clinked, the water ran over your smaller hands and from time to time you murmured something "this glass goes in that cabinet" "careful with the knife" but for the most part, there was only the sound of shared labor.
It was you who broke the silence first. "Michael told me about you" scrubbing a stubborn stain on an iron pan. "Not everything, of course. He's not the type who gossips. But he said you're the best emergency doctor. That you never lose your head. That you're the first to arrive and the last to leave."
Jack grunted, an evasive response that committed to nothing, but he felt his neck warm with shyness. What do you mean you talked about him with Michael.
"He also said you lost your wife... A while ago." you breathed the words, sounding so quiet that if both weren't so close to each other, maybe Jack wouldn't have even heard.
The older man's hands stopped drying the plate for a second and then continued, mechanical, as if the movement could erase the echo of those revealing words.
"I... I didn't mean to intrude, I mean, we were talking about you... Not in a weird way and.. It just slipped from him, don't be upset" you promptly justified yourself, looking at Jack's side profile, afraid of having been too invasive, but damn, you wanted so much to get to know him and know even more about him.
"It was eighteen years ago." His voice sounded so soft and flat. "Eighteen years, three months, and ten days..." Abbot laughed awkwardly. "It's silly to keep counting after so long."
"It's not silly... You count so it doesn't fall into oblivion" you said, without looking at him, now focused on the plate.
Jack raised his eyes to your face, illuminated by the yellowish light coming from above the sink. Water dripped from your hands, and there was an expression on your countenance that he couldn't decipher.
"You've been through this." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.
The now-washed plate was placed on the drainer with a soft clink, you dried your hands on the apron you wore over your dress, sighing deeply. When you turned to face him, your eyes were as bright as the water running from the faucet, but there was no sadness in them, there was only acceptance.
"I lost an important person when I was younger" you confided, leaning your back against the counter, arms crossed over your chest, as if you could protect yourself from the memories. "It was.. hm, it was an accident, with no chance of recovery. At the time it was all so... fast" your voice was quiet now, a little broken by the memory. "In three seconds I was without the person who most taught me to laugh and value life."
Jack didn't interrupt, just listened attentively, observing your countenance, seeing the shift in expression when you turned to him. Acceptance.
"For a long time I was angry. Angry at what happened, angry at God, if he even exists.... God forgive me!" you gave a weak little laugh. "It was easier to feel anger than to feel the absence. Anger burns, corrodes you and blinds. But absence poisons you little by little..."
"I understand" Abbot murmured, the phrase so low it was almost lost in the ambient sound of the kitchen.
You looked at him then, really looked, as if you were seeing not just the man in front of you, but all the versions of him that had existed before. The young soldier. The doctor in training. The husband in love. The devastated widower. All these personas coexisting under the same tired skin and the same dull eyes, but with a glint of vivacity.
"...Then one day" you proceeded, your voice softer now, a smile so light that it made the older man's chest expand full of genuine affection. "I realized that life goes on, that I was still here, alive and breathing... As hard as the pain was, it will now be part of me and I would continue here... I mean, it's not easy at all, there's never overcoming, but we have to go with the flow... Laugh more, live more and.. Enjoy each day as if it were the last."
Jack frowned, in a way he had never thought of it that way. After his wife's death, he completely shut himself off and became a workaholic, letting the days, months, and years pass by like a blur.
"Laughing. Venturing. Having fun... everything will keep happening, with or without my permission. People will cry. People will be born and die... But I can choose to laugh, you know?" your eyes were lowered now, a little broken in the words despite the firmness. "Not because the pain doesn't exist, but because the pain doesn't deserve to be the only thing that defines me."
Jack Abbott remained silent for a long time, in a thoughtful rhythm and the kitchen was almost entirely tidied now. The dishes dried and put away. You continued the work until the older man beside you called your attention back to him.
"You know what I think?" he said finally, his voice deeper than usual.
"Hm?" you encouraged him to speak.
"I think that some people already have their destiny traced... I mean, yes, I lost my wife years ago, I did therapy and even so, in a way I still live the mourning to this day, but maybe it has to be this way, so paths can meet again, new stories can form..." Jack said in wandering thought. "We are like candles, burning until the end, without even noticing the brightness until the darkness arrives." He paused, his eyes fixed on your hands that moved over the last utensils. "Other people are like... windows? They let the light in, even when it's cloudy outside, just to illuminate." Jack finished, his pupils now staring at your face, perceiving your body stiffen, turning to the doctor with false naturalness and expectation.
"And I, Jack Abbott? Am I a window or a candle?"
"You are both" he answered, without hesitation. "You burn without being consumed and you let others see the light through you, like an open window."
The silence that followed was different from the others. It wasn't uncomfortable, nor heavy. It was a silence full of unsaid things, of possibilities suspended in the air like the dust particles dancing under the light of the kitchen chandelier. You held the freshly dried glass against your chest, your fingers wrapping around the glass as if it were something precious, and for a brief moment Jack thought that maybe he had said too much. The older man opened his mouth to perhaps apologize but it was then that Michael appeared in the kitchen doorway, a mischievous smile stamped on his face.
"Am I interrupting something?" he asked, his voice laden with an irony that only a longtime friend could employ, you jumped and stepped back, feeling your cheeks flushed.
"No, of course not" Jack answered quickly, straightening his posture. "We were just washing the dishes and talking."
"Uhum, we were" you agreed now from the other side of the kitchen, but your eyes met Jack's for a second longer than necessary, and Michael didn't miss any of it.
The emergency chief doctor opened the refrigerator, grabbing a pitcher of water and while pouring a glass for himself, he spoke without looking back.
"Everyone's gone. Dana tried to say goodbye to you, Jack, but you were so focused you didn't even hear. I had to come deliver the message."
"What message?"
"She wants to put you on the surgery for the patient in unit four on Monday. She said you're the only one who can help that poor guy not collapse."
Jack nodded, mentally registering the information. But his body remained where it was, involuntarily seeking your presence on the other side of the spacious room of Robinavitch's house. Michael took a sip of water, observed the two of you over the rim of the glass, and then sighed with an air of someone who had seen that scene before.
"You know, Abbott" the friend said, placing the glass in the sink and preparing to leave the two of you alone, not caring if you would hear, in fact he wanted you to hear. "You talk so much about how you're going to die alone, but look at you, here you are, washing dishes and making friends. Almost smiling, even."
"I wasn't almost smiling" Jack retorted, with his usual gruffness.
"You were, yes!" you interjected, and your voice had a softness of amusement. "There was even the beginning of a dimple at the corner of your mouth. Very subtle." You pointed teasingly.
"I don't have dimples." The doctor said, frowning.
"Of course you do. I just saw it!" you shot back, approaching, both forgetting the existence of the house owner in the kitchen.
"It was an involuntary muscle contraction," Jack countered as if it were obvious, but of course you wouldn't accept that answer.
"Ah, of course it was. Sure it was, if that helps you sleep!" you said slightly disdainful, rolling your eyes dramatically.
Robinavitch laughed, a low and genuine sound, and left the kitchen without making much noise, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender, not wanting to burst the bubble that had enveloped both of you again.
In the kitchen, the discussion about the dimples had evolved into something Jack couldn't name. You were leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, your gaze challenging and at the same time so absurdly gentle that he needed to avert his face every few seconds to avoid doing something foolish, like smiling again and proving your point.
"I'm going to prove you have dimples" you announced, as if declaring a holy war.
"How exactly do you intend to do that?" Jack asked, arching an eyebrow. His expression lines becoming more evident.
"I don't know yet." You admitted without any shame, biting your lower lip in a thoughtful gesture. "But I'm persistent."
He shook his head, but couldn't prevent the corners of his mouth from contracting, an involuntary muscle contraction, he repeated to himself.
"You're doing it again" you whispered, triumphant, that smug expression forming on your beautiful face.
"I'm not."
"You are! Right there." You pointed at his face, and for a horrible and wonderful second, your fingers grazed Jack's cheek in a gesture that could have been accidental.
Could have been, but wasn't.
The touch was so light that the widowed doctor could have imagined it, but the heat that spread across his face was undeniable. Jack Abbot, the ice man of The Pitt's emergency room, the lonely widower, the doctor who had seen everything and was unshaken by anything... felt his cheeks burn.
You noticed. Of course you noticed! Your eyes widened for a second, and then a slow and dangerous smile spread across your face.
"Dr. Abbott," you said, your voice dripping with theatrical sweetness. "Are you... blushing?" you placed the palm of your hand over your heart in false contemplation.
"I'm warm." The answer came too fast, shit. "The kitchen is hot."
"Liar."
Jack narrowed his eyes, but there was no real threat in them. There was something closer to... amusement and it was strange, this feeling. Like wearing a garment that didn't belong to him, but that fit his body perfectly.
"You're terrible" he murmured, without any conviction.
"Hey!! I'm charming" you corrected, finally stepping away. "Well, now you owe me two dinners." You said, changing the subject, with intention and seeing the questioning hover in Abbot, you set about explaining. "You didn't come to the other dinners Michael tried to drag you to, I was here, you know."
"I didn't know there were other dinners."
"There were and I helped in all of them." You and he left the kitchen, walking to the hallway and passing in front of Michael's veranda, who, as much as he was the owner of the house, had disappeared. "I was offended, you know?"
Jack followed you to Robby's large living room, both stopping near the sofa. "In my defense I didn't even know you would be there."
"If you knew, would you come?" you questioned with that provocative and fun little manner that disarmed Jack, pointing your slender finger in his direction, but beneath the question there was a vulnerability, a small thread of hesitation that contradicted all the theatrical confidence of the previous minutes.
Jack swallowed dryly. He looked over your shoulder and then at you. "Definitely."
Your smile was so raw and true, the kind that reached your eyes and made your whole face shine, it was a reward for the older man and Jack realized, with a shiver that started in his spine and spread to his limbs, that he wanted to see that smile every day.
The thought was so overwhelming that he thought he needed to sit down for a moment. You noticed his sudden shift, the way he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and for a second, your face twisted with concern, but Jack recomposed himself before you could ask.
"I'm fine" he lied. He wasn't fine. Everything was, absolutely everything, different. And that was at the same time the best and the most terrifying thing that could happen.
You hesitated, but didn't press. Instead, you walked around to the hall, picking up your purse, the right distance between you to put your heads in place. However, you turned to Abbot, seeing him following you from a distance.
"Next time" you said, after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "I'll give you some culinary tricks."
Jack turned his face to you, confused. "What?"
"You said you know how to cook the basics." You shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "So next time, I'll help with something more elaborate... At your place."
"At my place" he repeated, his voice hollow.
"You have a house, don't you?" You looked at him sideways, a half-smile on your lips. "Or do you live at the hospital and didn't tell me?"
"I have a house." The answer came out before he could think of the implications. "It is, well, it is... empty."
"Empty how?"
"Empty of things." Jack looked at his own hands, raised them and scratched the back of his neck. "Just the essentials, since...." he gestured deliberately.
The air in the kitchen changed. The lightness of the previous minutes gave way to something denser, heavier. You didn't pull away, but you also didn't come closer. You just stayed there, present, listening.
"Then we're going to have to change that" you said finally, with a simplicity that made Jack's eyes burn. "Not everything. Just... a little. Little by little."
He didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to, but because if he opened his mouth at that moment, he didn't know what would come out and worse, or better, you seemed to understand. You started walking, reaching him, briefly adjusting the bag on your shoulder and when you were close to Jack's taller body, you placed your hand over his and squeezed lightly. Your cheeks blushing a little bit.
"When is your day off?" you asked, feeling so... warm and confident.
"Next thursday," Jack answered mechanically, looking at the size difference between both of your hands.
"Thursday it is then," you smiled at him, your thumb lightly caressing the skin of the older man's large hand. "I might even teach you some dessert. Ask Michael for my number..."
And then you let go of him and spun toward the exit. "It's more fun this way," you looked at him over your shoulders and gave a wink. "Good evening, Jack Abbott," you whispered.
And you left, shouting a farewell to Robinavitch.
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